The Romance of the Forest

...... hen these prodigies
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say,
These are their reasons; they are natural;
For I believe they are portentous things.

JULIUS CÆSAR.

When Adeline appeared at breakfast, her harassed and languid countenance
struck Madame La Motte, who inquired if she was ill. Adeline, forcing a
smile upon her features, said she had not rested well, for that she had
had very disturbed dreams: she was about to describe them, but a strong
and involuntary impulse prevented her. At the same time La Motte
ridiculed her concern so unmercifully, that she was almost ashamed to
have mentioned it, and tried to overcome the remembrance of its cause.

After breakfast, she endeavoured to employ her thoughts by conversing
with Madame La Motte; but they were really engaged by the incidents of
the last two days, the circumstance of her dreams, and her conjectures
concerning the information to be communicated to her by Theodore. They
had thus sat for some time, when a sound of voices arose from the great
gate of the abbey; and on going to the casement, Adeline saw the Marquis
and his attendants on the lawn below. The portal of the abbey concealed
several people from her view, and among these it was possible might be
Theodore, who had not yet appeared: she continued to look for him with
great anxiety, till the Marquis entered the hall with La Motte and some
other persons, soon after which Madame went to receive him, and Adeline
retired to her own apartment.

A message from La Motte, however, soon called her to join the party,
where she vainly hoped to find Theodore. The Marquis arose as she
approached, and, having paid her some general compliments, the
conversation took a very lively turn. Adeline, finding it impossible to
counterfeit cheerfulness while her heart was sinking with anxiety and
disappointment, took little part in it: Theodore was not once named. She
would have asked concerning him, had it been possible to inquire with
propriety; but she was obliged to content herself with hoping, first,
that he would arrive before dinner, and then before the departure of the
Marquis.

Thus the day passed in expectation and disappointment. The evening was
now approaching, and she was condemned to remain in the presence of the
Marquis, apparently listening to a conversation which, in truth, she
scarcely heard, while the opportunity was perhaps escaping that would
decide her fate. She was suddenly relieved from this state of torture,
and thrown into one, if possible, still more distressing.

The Marquis inquired for Louis, and being informed of his departure,
mentioned that Theodore Peyrou had that morning set out for his regiment
in a distant province. He lamented the loss he should sustain by his
absence; and expressed some very flattering praise of his talents. The
shock of this intelligence overpowered the long-agitated spirits of
Adeline: the blood forsook her cheeks, and a sudden faintness came over
her, from which she recovered only to a consciousness of having
discovered her emotion, and the danger of relapsing into a second fit.

She retired to her chamber, where being once more alone, her oppressed
heart found relief from tears, in which she freely indulged. Ideas
crowded so fast upon her mind, that it was long ere she could arrange
them so as to produce any thing like reasoning. She endeavoured to
account for the abrupt departure of Theodore. Is it possible, said she,
that he should take an interest in my welfare, and yet leave me exposed
to the full force of a danger which he himself foresaw? Or am I to
believe that he has trifled with my simplicity for an idle frolic, and
has now left me to the wondering apprehension he has raised? Impossible!
a countenance so noble, and a manner so amiable, could never disguise a
heart capable of forming so despicable a design. No!--whatever is
reserved for me, let me not relinquish the pleasure of believing that he
is worthy of my esteem.

She was awakened from thoughts like these by a peal of distant thunder,
and now perceived that the gloominess of evening was deepened by the
coming storm; it rolled onward, and soon after the lightning began to
flash along the chamber. Adeline was superior to the affectation of
fear, and was not apt to be terrified; but she now felt it unpleasant to
be alone, and hoping that the Marquis might have left the abby, she went
down to the sitting-room: but the threatening aspect of the heavens had
hitherto detained him, and now the evening tempest made him rejoice that
he had not quitted a shelter. The storm continued, and night came on. La
Motte pressed his guest to take a bed at the abbey, and he at length
consented; a circumstance which threw Madame La Motte into some
perplexity as to the accommodation to be afforded him. After some time
she arranged the affair to her satisfaction; resigning her own apartment
to the Marquis, and that of Louis to two of his superior attendants;
Adeline, it was further settled, should give up her room to Monsieur and
Madame La Motte, and to remove to an inner chamber, where a small bed,
usually occupied by Annette, was placed for her.

At supper the Marquis was less gay than usual; he frequently addressed
Adeline, and his look and manner seemed to express the tender interest
which her indisposition, for she still appeared pale and languid, had
excited. Adeline, as usual, made an effort to forget her anxiety and
appear happy: but the veil of assumed cheerfulness was too thin to
conceal the features of sorrow; and her feeble smiles only added a
peculiar softness to her air. The Marquis conversed with her on a
variety of subjects, and displayed an elegant mind. The observations of
Adeline, which, when called upon, she gave with reluctant modesty, in
words at once simple and forceful, seemed to excite his admiration,
which he sometimes betrayed by an inadvertent expression.

Adeline retired early to her room, which adjoined on one side to Madame
La Motte's, and on the other to the closet formerly mentioned. It was
spacious and lofty, and what little furniture it contained was falling
to decay; but perhaps the present tone of her spirits might contribute
more than these circumstances to give that air of melancholy which
seemed to reign in it. She was unwilling to go to bed, lest the dreams
that had lately pursued her should return; and determined to sit up till
she found herself oppressed by sleep, when it was probable her rest
would be profound. She placed the light on a small table, and taking a
book, continued to read for above an hour, till her mind refused any
longer to abstract itself from its own cares, and she sat for some time
leaning pensively on her arm.

The wind was high, and as it whistled through the desolate apartment,
and shook the feeble doors, she often started, and sometimes even
thought she heard sighs between the pauses of the gust; but she checked
these illusions, which the hour of the night and her own melancholy
imagination conspired to raise. As she sat musing, her eyes fixed on the
opposite wall, she perceived the arras, with which the room was hung,
wave backwards and forwards; she continued to observe it for some
minutes, and then rose to examine it further. It was moved by the wind;
and she blushed at the momentary fear it had excited; but she observed
that the tapestry was more strongly agitated in one particular place
than elsewhere, and a noise that seemed something more than that of the
wind issued thence. The old bedstead, which La Motte had found in this
apartment, had been removed to accommodate Adeline, and it was behind
the place where this had stood, that the wind seemed to rush with
particular force: curiosity prompted her to examine still further; she
felt about the tapestry, and perceiving the wall behind shake under her
hand, she lifted the arras, and discovered a small door, whose loosened
hinges admitted the wind, and occasioned the noise she had heard.

The door was held only by a bolt, having undrawn which, and brought the
light, she descended by a few steps into another chamber; she instantly
remembered her dreams. The chamber was not much like that in which she
had seen the dying chevalier, and afterwards the bier; but it gave her a
confused remembrance of one through which she had passed. Holding up the
light to examine it more fully, she was convinced by its structure that
it was part of the ancient foundation. A shattered casement, placed high
from the floor, seemed to be the only opening to admit light. She
observed a door on the opposite side of the apartment; and after some
moments of hesitation gained courage, and determined to pursue the
inquiry. A mystery seems to hang over these chambers, said she, which it
is perhaps my lot to develop; I will at least see to what that door
leads.

She stepped forward, and having unclosed it, proceeded with faltering
steps along a suite of apartments, resembling the first in style and
condition, and terminating in one exactly like that where her dream had
represented the dying person; the remembrance struck so forcibly upon
her imagination, that she was in danger of fainting; and looking round
the room, almost expected to see the phantom of her dream.

Unable to quit the place, she sat down on some old lumber to recover
herself, while her spirits were nearly overcome by a superstitious
dread, such as she had never felt before. She wondered to what part of
the abbey these chambers belonged, and that they had so long escaped
detection. The casements were all too high to afford any information
from without. When she was sufficiently composed to consider the
direction of the rooms and the situation of the abbey, there appeared
not a doubt that they formed an interior part of the original building.

As these reflections passed over her mind, a sudden gleam of moonlight
fell upon some object without the casement. Being now sufficiently
composed to wish to pursue the inquiry, and believing this object might
afford her some means of learning the situation of these rooms, she
combated her remaining terrors; and in order to distinguish it more
clearly, removed the light to an outer chamber; but before she could
return, a heavy cloud was driven over the face of the moon, and all
without was perfectly dark; she stood for some moments waiting a
returning gleam, but the obscurity continued. As she went softly back
for the light, her foot stumbled over something on the floor; and while
she stooped to examine it, the moon again shone, so that she could
distinguish through the casement, the eastern towers of the abbey. This
discovery confirmed her former conjectures concerning the interior
situation of these apartments. The obscurity of the place prevented her
discovering what it was that had impeded her steps, but having brought
the light forward, she perceived on the floor an old dagger: with a
trembling hand she took it up, and upon a closer view perceived that it
was spotted and stained with rust.

Shocked and surprised, she looked round the room for some object that
might confirm or destroy the dreadful suspicion which now rushed upon
her mind; but she saw only a great chair with broken arms, that stood in
one corner of the room, and a table in a condition equally shattered,
except that in another part lay a confused heap of things, which
appeared to be old lumber. She went up to it, and perceived a broken
bedstead, with some decayed remnants of furniture, covered with dust and
cobwebs, and which seemed indeed as if they had not been moved for many
years. Desirous, however, of examining further, she attempted to raise
what appeared to have been part of the bedstead; but it slipped from her
hand, and, rolling to the floor, brought with it some of the remaining
lumber. Adeline started aside and saved herself; and when the noise it
made had ceased, she heard a small rustling sound, and as she was about
to leave the chamber, saw something falling gently among the lumber.

It was a small roll of paper, tied with a string, and covered with dust.
Adeline took it up, and on opening it perceived a hand writing. She
attempted to read it, but the part of the manuscript she looked at was
so much obliterated, that she found this difficult, though what few
words were legible impressed her with curiosity and terror, and induced
her to return with it immediately to her chamber.

Having reached her own room, she fastened the private door, and let the
arras fall over it as before. It was now midnight. The stillness of the
hour, interrupted only at intervals by the hollow sighings of the blast,
heightened the solemnity of Adeline's feelings. She wished she was not
alone, and before she proceeded to look into the manuscript, listened
whether Madame La Motte was yet in her chamber:--not the least sound was
heard, and she gently opened the door. The profound silence within
almost convinced her that no person was there; but willing to be further
satisfied, she brought the light and found the room empty. The lateness
of the hour made her wonder that Madame La Motte was not in her chamber,
and she proceeded to the top of the tower stairs, to hearken if any
person was stirring.

She heard the sound of voices from below, and, amongst the rest, that of
La Motte speaking in his usual tone. Being now satisfied that all was
well, she turned towards her room, when she heard the Marquis pronounce
her name with very unusual emphasis. She paused. I adore her, pursued
he, and by Heaven--He was interrupted by La Motte, my Lord, remember
your promise.

I do, replied the Marquis, and I will abide by it. But we trifle.
To-morrow I will declare myself, and I shall then know both what to hope
and how to act. Adeline trembled so excessively, that she could scarcely
support herself: she wished to return to her chamber; yet she was too
much interested in the words she had heard, not to be anxious to have
them more fully explained. There was an interval of silence, after which
they conversed in a lower tone. Adeline remembered the hints of
Theodore, and determined, if possible, to be relieved from the terrible
suspense she now suffered. She stole softly down a few steps, that she
might catch the accents of the speakers, but they were so low that she
could only now and then distinguish a few words. Her father, say you?
said the Marquis. Yes, my Lord, her father. I am well informed of what I
say. Adeline shuddered at the mention of her father, a new terror seized
her, and with increasing eagerness she endeavoured to distinguish their
words, but for some time found this to be impossible. Here is no time to
be lost, said the Marquis, to-morrow then.--She heard La Motte rise, and
believing it was to leave the room, she hurried up the steps, and having
reached her chamber, sunk almost lifeless in a chair.

It was her father only of whom she thought. She doubted not that he had
pursued and discovered her retreat; and though this conduct appeared
very inconsistent with his former behaviour in abandoning her to
strangers, her fears suggested that it would terminate in some new
cruelty. She did not hesitate to pronounce this the danger of which
Theodore had warned her; but it was impossible to surmise how he had
gained his knowledge of it, or how he had become sufficiently acquainted
with her story, except through La Motte, her apparent friend and
protector, whom she was thus, though unwillingly, led to suspect of
treachery. Why, indeed, should La Motte conceal from her only his
knowledge of her father's intention, unless he designed to deliver her
into his hands? Yet it was long ere she could bring herself to believe
this conclusion possible. To discover depravity in those whom we have
loved, is one of the most exquisite tortures to a virtuous mind, and the
conviction is often rejected before it is finally admitted.

The words of Theodore, which told her he was fearful she was deceived,
confirmed this most painful apprehension of La Motte, with another yet
more distressing, that Madame La Motte was also united against her. This
thought, for a moment, subdued terror and left her only grief; she wept
bitterly. Is this human nature? cried she. Am I doomed to find every
body deceitful? An unexpected discovery of vice in those whom we have
admired, inclines us to extend our censure of the individual to the
species; we henceforth contemn appearances, and too hastily conclude
that no person is to be trusted.

Adeline determined to throw herself at the feet of La Motte on the
following morning, and implore his pity and protection. Her mind was now
too much agitated by her own interests to permit her to examine the
manuscripts, and she sat musing in her chair till she heard the steps of
Madame La Motte, when she retired to bed. La Motte soon after came up to
his chamber; and Adeline, the mild, persecuted Adeline, who had now
passed two days of torturing anxiety, and one night of terrific visions,
endeavoured to compose her mind to sleep. In the present state of her
spirits she quickly caught alarm, and she had scarcely fallen into a
slumber when she was roused by a loud and uncommon noise. She listened,
and thought the sound came from the apartments below, but in a few
minutes there was a hasty knocking at the door of La Motte's chamber.

La Motte, who had just fallen asleep, was not easily to be roused; but
the knocking increased with such violence, that Adeline, extremely
terrified, arose and went to the door that opened from her chamber into
his, with a design to call him. She was stopped by the voice of the
Marquis, which she now clearly distinguished at the door. He called to
La Motte to rise immediately; and Madame La Motte endeavoured at the
same time to rouse her husband, who at length awoke in much alarm, and
soon after joining the Marquis, they went down stairs together. Adeline
now dressed herself, as well as her trembling hands would permit, and
went into the adjoining chamber, where she found Madame La Motte
extremely surprised and terrified.

The Marquis in the mean time told La Motte, with great agitation, that
he recollected having appointed some persons to meet him upon business
of importance early in the morning, and it was therefore necessary for
him to set off for his chateau immediately. As he said this, and desired
that his servants might be called, La Motte could not help observing the
ashy paleness of his countenance, or expressing some apprehension that
his Lordship was ill. The Marquis assured him he was perfectly well, but
desired that he might set out immediately. Peter was now ordered to call
the other servants, and the Marquis having refused to take any
refreshment, bade La Motte a hasty adieu, and as soon as his people were
ready left the abbey.

La Motte returned to his chamber, musing on the abrupt departure of his
guest, whose emotion appeared much too strong to proceed from the cause
assigned. He appeased the anxiety of Madame La Motte, and at the same
time excited her surprise by acquainting her with the occasion of the
late disturbance. Adeline, who had retired from the chamber on the
approach of La Motte, looked out from her window on hearing the
trampling of horses. It was the Marquis and his people, who just then
passed at a little distance. Unable to distinguish who the persons were,
she was alarmed at observing such a party about the abbey at that hour,
and calling to inform La Motte of the circumstance, was made acquainted
with what had passed.

At length she retired to her bed, and her slumbers were this night
undisturbed by dreams.

When she arose in the morning, she observed La Motte walking alone in
the avenue below, and she hastened to seize the opportunity which now
offered of pleading her cause. She approached him with faltering steps,
while the paleness and timidity of her countenance discovered the
disorder of her mind. Her first words, without entering upon any
explanation, implored his compassion. La Motte stopped, and looking
earnestly in her face, inquired whether any part of his conduct towards
her merited the suspicion which her request implied. Adeline for a
moment blushed that she had doubted his integrity, but the words she had
overheard returned to her memory.

Your behaviour, Sir, said she, I acknowledge to have been kind and
generous, beyond what I had a right to expect, but--and she paused. She
knew not how to mention what she blushed to believe. La Motte continued
to gaze on her in silent expectation, and at length desired her to
proceed and explain her meaning. She entreated that he would protect her
from her father. La Motte looked surprised and confused. Your father!
said he. Yes, Sir, replied Adeline; I am not ignorant that he has
discovered my retreat: I have every thing to dread from a parent who has
treated me with such cruelty as you was witness of; and I again implore
that you will save me from his hands.

La Motte stood fixed in thought, and Adeline continued her endeavours to
interest his pity. What reason have you to suppose, or rather how have
you learned, that your father pursues you? The question confused
Adeline, who blushed to acknowledge that she had overheard his
discourse, and disdained to invent or utter a falsity: at length she
confessed the truth. The countenance of La Motte instantly changed to a
savage fierceness, and, sharply rebuking her for a conduct to which she
had been rather tempted by chance than prompted by design, he inquired
what she had overheard that could so much alarm her. She faithfully
repeated the substance of the incoherent sentences that had met her
ear;--while she spoke, he regarded her with a fixed attention. And was
this all you heard? Is it from these few words that you draw such a
positive conclusion? Examine them, and you will find they do not justify
it.

She now perceived, what the fervour of her fears had not permitted her
to observe before, that the words, unconnectedly as she heard them,
imported little, and that her imagination had filled up the void in the
sentences, so as to suggest the evil apprehended. Notwithstanding this,
her fears were little abated. Your apprehensions are, doubtless, now
removed, resumed La Motte; but to give you a proof of the sincerity
which you have ventured to question, I will tell you they were just. You
seem alarmed, and with reason. Your father has discovered your
residence, and has already demanded you. It is true, that from a motive
of compassion I have refused to resign you, but I have neither authority
to withhold nor means to defend you. When he comes to enforce his
demand, you will perceive this. Prepare yourself, therefore, for the
evil, which you see is inevitable.

Adeline for some time could speak only by her tears. At length, with a
fortitude which despair had roused, she said, I resign myself to the
will of Heaven! La Motte gazed on her in silence, and a strong emotion
appeared in his countenance. He forbore, however, to renew the
discourse, and withdrew to the abbey, leaving Adeline in the avenue,
absorbed in grief.

A summons to breakfast hastened her to the parlour, where she passed the
morning in conversation with Madame La Motte, to whom she told all her
apprehensions, and expressed all her sorrow. Pity and superficial
consolation were all that Madame La Motte could offer, though apparently
much affected by Adeline's discourse. Thus the hours passed heavily
away, while the anxiety of Adeline continued to increase, and the moment
of her fate seemed fast approaching. Dinner was scarcely over, when
Adeline was surprised to see the Marquis arrive. He entered the room
with his usual ease, and apologizing for the disturbance he had
occasioned on the preceding night, repeated what he had before told La
Motte.

The remembrance of the conversation she had overheard at first gave
Adeline some confusion, and withdrew her mind from a sense of the evils
to be apprehended from her father. The Marquis, who was, as usual,
attentive to Adeline, seemed affected by her apparent indisposition, and
expressed much concern for that dejection of spirits which,
notwithstanding every effort, her manner betrayed. When Madame La Motte
withdrew, Adeline would have followed her; but the Marquis entreated a
few moments' attention, and led her back to her seat. La Motte
immediately disappeared.

Adeline knew too well what would be the purport of the Marquis's
discourse, and his words soon increased the confusion which her fears
had occasioned. While he was declaring the ardour of his passion in such
terms as but too often make vehemence pass for sincerity, Adeline, to
whom this declaration, if honourable, was distressing, and if
dishonourable, was shocking, interrupted him and thanked him for the
offer of a distinction which, with a modest but determined air, she said
she must refuse. She rose to withdraw. Stay, too lovely Adeline! said
he, and if compassion for my sufferings will not interest you in my
favour, allow a consideration of your own dangers to do so. Monsieur La
Motte has informed me of your misfortunes, and of the evil that now
threatens you; accept from me the protection which he cannot afford.

Adeline continued to move towards the door, when the Marquis threw
himself at her feet, and seizing her hand, impressed it with kisses. She
struggled to disengage herself. Hear me, charming Adeline! hear me,
cried the Marquis; I exist but for you. Listen to my entreaties, and my
fortune shall be yours. Do not drive me to despair by ill-judged rigour,
or, because--

My Lord, interrupted Adeline with an air of ineffable dignity, and still
affecting to believe his proposal honourable, I am sensible of the
generosity of your conduct, and also flattered by the distinction you
offer me; I will therefore say something more than is necessary to a
bare expression of the denial which I must continue to give. I can not
bestow my heart. You can not obtain more than my esteem, to which,
indeed, nothing can so much contribute as a forbearance from any similar
offers in future.

She again attempted to go, but the Marquis prevented her; and, after
some hesitation, again urged his suit, though in terms that would no
longer allow her to misunderstand him. Tears swelled into her eyes, but
she endeavoured to check them; and with a look in which grief and
indignation seemed to struggle for pre-eminence, she said, My Lord, this
is unworthy of reply; let me pass.

For a moment he was awed by the dignity of her manner, and he threw
himself at her feet to implore forgiveness. But she waved her hand in
silence, and hurried from the room. When she reached her chamber she
locked the door, and, sinking into a chair, yielded to the sorrow that
pressed at her heart. And it was not the least of her sorrow to suspect
that La Motte was unworthy of her confidence; for it was almost
impossible that he could be ignorant of the real designs of the Marquis.
Madame La Motte, she believed, was imposed upon by a specious pretence
of honourable attachment; and thus was she spared the pang which a doubt
of her integrity would have added.

She threw a trembling glance upon the prospect around her. On one side
was her father, whose cruelty had already been but too plainly
manifested; and on the other, the Marquis pursuing her with insult and
vicious passion. She resolved to acquaint Madame La Motte with the
purport of the late conversation; and, in the hope of her protection and
sympathy, she wiped away her tears, and was leaving the room just as
Madame La Motte entered it. While Adeline related what had passed, her
friend wept, and appeared to suffer great agitation. She endeavoured to
comfort her, and promised to use her influence in persuading La Motte to
prohibit the addressee of the Marquis. You know, my dear, added Madame,
that our present circumstances oblige us to preserve terms with the
Marquis, and you will therefore suffer as little resentment to appear in
your manner towards him as possible; conduct yourself with your usual
ease in his presence, and I doubt not this affair will pass over without
subjecting you to further solicitation.

Ah, Madam! said Adeline, how hard is the task you assign me! I entreat
you that I may never more be subjected to the humiliation of being in
his presence,--that, whenever he visits the abbey, I may be suffered to
remain in my chamber.

This, said Madame La Motte, I would most readily consent to, would our
situation permit it. But you well know our asylum in this abbey depends
upon the good-will of the Marquis, which we must not wantonly lose; and
surely such a conduct as you propose would endanger this. Let us use
milder measures, and we shall preserve his friendship without subjecting
you to any serious evil. Appear with your usual complaisance: the task
is not so difficult as you imagine.

Adeline sighed. I obey you, Madam, said she; it is my duty to do so: but
I may be pardoned for saying--it is with extreme reluctance. Madame La
Motte promised to go immediately to her husband; and Adeline departed,
though not convinced of her safety, yet somewhat more at ease.

She soon after saw the Marquis depart; and as there now appeared to be
no obstacle to the return of Madame La Motte, she expected her with
extreme impatience. After thus waiting near an hour in her chamber, she
was at length summoned to the parlour, and there found Monsieur La Motte
alone. He arose upon her entrance, and for some minutes paced the room
in silence. He then seated himself, and addressed her: What you have
mentioned to Madame La Motte, said he, would give me much concern, did I
consider the behaviour of the Marquis in a light so serious as she does.
I know that young ladies are apt to misconstrue the unmeaning gallantry
of fashionable manners; and you, Adeline, can never be too cautious in
distinguishing between a levity of this kind and a more serious address.

Adeline was surprised and offended that La Motte should think so lightly
both of her understanding and disposition as his speech implied. Is it
possible, Sir, said she, that you have been apprized of the Marquis's
conduct?

It is very possible, and very certain, replied La Motte with some
asperity; and very possible, also, that I may see this affair with a
judgment less discoloured by prejudice than you do. But, however, I
shall not dispute this point; I shall only request that, since you are
acquainted with the emergency of my circumstances, you will conform to
them, and not, by an ill-timed resentment, expose me to the enmity of
the Marquis. He is now my friend, and it is necessary to my safety that
he should continue such; but if I suffer any part of my family to treat
him with rudeness, I must expect to see him my enemy. You may surely
treat him with complaisance. Adeline thought the term rudeness a harsh
one as La Motte applied it, but she forbore from any expression of
displeasure. I could have wished, Sir, said she, for the privilege of
retiring whenever the Marquis appeared; but since you believe this
conduct would affect your interest, I ought to submit.

This prudence and good-will delights me, said La Motte; and since you
wish to serve me, know that you cannot more effectually do it than by
treating the Marquis as a friend. The word friend, as it stood
connected with the Marquis, sounded dissonantly to Adeline's ear; she
hesitated, and looked at La Motte. As your friend, Sir, said she, I
will endeavour to--treat him as mine, she would have said, but she found
it impossible to finish the sentence. She entreated his protection from
the power of her father.

What protection I can afford is yours, said La Motte; but you know how
destitute I am both of the right and the means of resisting him, and
also how much I require protection myself. Since he has discovered your
retreat, he is probably not ignorant of the circumstances which detain
me here; and if I oppose him, he may betray me to the officers of the
law, as the surest method of obtaining possession of you. We are
encompassed with dangers, continued La Motte; would I could see any
method of extricating ourselves!

Quit this abbey, said Adeline, and seek an asylum in Switzerland or
Germany; you will then be freed from further obligation to the Marquis,
and from the persecution you dread. Pardon me for thus offering advice,
which is certainly in some degree prompted by a sense of my own safety,
but which, at the same time, seems to afford the only means of ensuring
yours.

Your plan is reasonable, said La Motte, had I money to execute it. As it
is, I must be contented to remain here as little known as possible, and
defend myself by making those who know me my friends. Chiefly I must
endeavour to preserve the favour of the Marquis: he may do much, should
your father even pursue desperate measures. But why do I talk thus? your
father may ere this have commenced these measures, and the effects of
his vengeance may now be hanging over my head. My regard for you,
Adeline, has exposed me to this; had I resigned you to his will, I
should have remained secure.

Adeline was so much affected by this instance of La Motte's kindness,
which she could not doubt, that she was unable to express her sense of
it. When she could speak, she uttered her gratitude in the most lively
terms.--Are you sincere in these expressions? said La Motte.

Is it possible I can be less than sincere? replied Adeline, weeping at
the idea of ingratitude.--Sentiments are easily pronounced, said La
Motte, though they may have no connection with the heart; I believe them
to be sincere so far only as they influence our actions.

What mean you, Sir? said Adeline with surprise.

I mean to inquire whether, if an opportunity should ever offer of thus
proving your gratitude, you would adhere to your sentiments?

Name one that I shall refuse, said Adeline with energy.

If, for instance, the Marquis should hereafter avow a serious passion
for you, and offer you his hand, would no petty resentment, no lurking
prepossession for some more happy lover prompt you to refuse it?

Adeline blushed, and fixed her eyes on the ground. You have, indeed,
Sir, named the only means I should reject of evincing my sincerity. The
Marquis I can never love, nor, to speak sincerely, ever esteem. I
confess the peace of one's whole life is too much to sacrifice even to
gratitude.--La Motte looked displeased. 'Tis as I thought, said he;
these delicate sentiments make a fine appearance in speech, and render
the person who utters them infinitely amiable; but bring them to the
test of action, and they dissolve into air, leaving only the wreck of
vanity behind.

This unjust sarcasm brought tears to her eyes. Since your safety, Sir,
depends upon my conduct, said she, resign me to my father: I am willing
to return to him, since my stay here must involve you in new misfortune:
let me not prove myself unworthy of the protection I have hitherto
experienced, by preferring my own welfare to yours. When I am gone, you
will have no reason to apprehend the Marquis's displeasure, which you
may probably incur if I stay here; for I feel it impossible that I could
even consent to receive his addresses, however honourable were his
views.

La Motte seemed hurt and alarmed. This must not be, said he; let us not
harass ourselves by stating possible evils, and then, to avoid them,
fly to those which are certain. No, Adeline, though you are ready to
sacrifice yourself to my safety, I will not suffer you to do so;--I will
not yield you to your father but upon compulsion. Be satisfied,
therefore, upon this point. The only return I ask, is a civil deportment
towards the Marquis.

I will endeavour to obey you, Sir, said Adeline.--Madame La Motte now
entered the room, and this conversation ceased. Adeline passed the
evening in melancholy thoughts, and retired as soon as possible to her
chamber, eager to seek in sleep a refuge from sorrow.