CHAP. I. THE DECLINE OF DAY.

WHAT constitutes the happiness or unhappiness of our life? It is our character. It is the light in which we view things; in which we feel them, in which they affect us. Abundance of possession does not suffice to make a man happy—he himself must be sensible of his happiness—he must compare his [...] to that of others. Education unfolds the character—the passions establish it: It is they that give it that energy, that violence which is augmented by the fire of youth, but tempered with difficulty in riper years.

Passions are the inseparable companions of mankind, and in great cities they make the greatest havoc. Obstacles, desires, self-created wants, every thing pro­vokes, every thing creates them. Like bitumen residing in the heart of metals, they break forth with impetu­osity, as soon as they have forced the bands of infancy.

Behold a young man who was just now under the lash of his preceptor! Death bereft him of his parents: He is free; he is his own master; what a happiness! [Page 2] How will he enjoy it! Whole crowds of pleasures take his fancy: which of them will he prefer? Doubtless the most turbulent, they appear so seducing? Bustle, balls, assemblies, races by day!—great projects for the night; by night, great projects for the day! He is always busy about nothing; the pleasure he tastes to­day is nothing compared to that he will taste tomor­row: That which he has enjoyed yesterday is already forgotten. What pains does he take to amuse himself! The gaming table—the theatres—LOVE! Why do I call it love? Can I thus prostitute this word? Can I give the title of love to the inordinate appetites of the senses, which incessantly pervade his heart; that insa­tiable desire, gratified with brutality and without choice, that inconstant phrenzy, which makes him rove from belle to belle? Nay, he sacrifices all, enjoys before he thinks, and thinks at the age of enjoyment. Unfortunate he! a burden to society, to himself; at the age of thirty he may renounce life!

These, these are the fatal consequences of passions, in great cities. Let us now consider those of the hamlets—let us examine the countrymen, I mean not the countrymen in the environs of Paris. Unfortunately the contagion has spread beyond the suburbs; but him that inhabits the remote provinces of Béauce or Béarn. Behold the lad at work—in his father's eyes, his age is eighteen, yet he appears to be twenty five: His nervous limbs control the ploughshare; his callous hands thrust the spade into the bosom of the earth, dragging the harrow, or lifting the flail: They thresh the corn, and each stroke is accompanied by a hardy hah! which springs from his vigorous breast. By day he lays up a copious store of pavots for the night—by night, nothing puts him in mind of his existence, not even the slightest dream, except sometimes certain sweet illusions, which point, in a pleasing manner, the labor of the approaching day. He also thinks on his pleasures (for they are great objects to all men) but how innocent are they? A party at bowls, a dance in the environs of the village. The greatest part of the Sunday he devotes to the service of his God. He goes to church, not by constraint, or for the sake of decorum, but by habit and duty. There he sits with his hands [Page 3] joined, and his eyes fixed upon his priest, who in a decayed and rough chair, at the foot of the altar, preaches maxims, which, although they be not embel­lished by the captious beauties of oratory, are however true, and adapted to the understandings of the auditors, who listen to them with keen attention, and during the whole week make them the object of their reflections.

In this picture, which will perhaps appear flattering. I paint the countrymen at large. I am convinced that there are vicious people in the country, as well as in town; but how rare are they among rustics? They have in other respects two excellent remedies against irksomeness and disease—labor and sleep. Among us, irksomeness is productive of vices, and vices beget infirmities—Among them, labor procures rest, and rest fosters health.

It is, therefore, education, which, added to our calling, or profession, forms the character, the affec­tions and passions of men: A college education leads often to ambition, to jealousy, to turbulence, and points out what conduct a man ought to observe, in order to maintain his place in the stormy society of cities. The pupil of nature, in her rural abode, is taught by her temperance, virtue and religion.

Oh! who has not felt that tranquility of mind, that admiration of a Supreme Being, when erring solitary through the rustic path? who has not stopt with aston­ishment, before a horizon, covered with vines, woods, meadows, hamlets, and cottages? The joyful lapse of a cascade throws him into a sweet reverie! The regular noise of a neighboring mill entertains his melancholy—a religious calm reigns all around him—the sun sets, he sees laborers pass by, laden with tools, women and children carrying long faggots upon their backs; he hears at a distance the sound of the shepherd's horn, who calls back his flocks to their folds; slow and confused sounds strike his ears; a little harsh and discordant pipe is heard at intervals—he descries amidst the darkness the scintillating flame of a limekiln; he looks at it without seeing it [...] he thinks without reflecting: His spirits are in a state of suspense: He feels too much to give a detail of his sensations. Roused at last, from his extacy, every thing recalls him to his [Page 4] hermitage: He enters joyfully to see his little mansion and garden; he makes a tour round it, and remembers with delight the pleasures of the day. Nay, how would it be possible he should forget his walk; He has seen nature: He has meditated: He has enjoyed!

What a striking contrast between the silence of the country and the bustle of cities!

Let the proud citizen of Paris leave the capital and walk only to the distance of half a league; let him ascend one of these surrounding mounts, and cast his eyes upon the turbulent city: What will he see? A thick blackish fog encompassing the whole mass of its superb edifice, a mephitic horizon, which seems too heavy to emit its exhalations! Let him hear the con­fused tumult of carriages, of dogs and horses; let his ears tingle with the shrill voices of so many people who overrun the spacious districts—what will he then feel? He will fetch a sigh: Philosophical reflections will occupy his mind: He will cast a longing look upon the rustic seats which surround him. After having prolonged his excursion, he will reenter Paris with a kind of sadness, which he does not account for, and which nothing can dissipate but the hope of seeing again those peaceful scenes.

Such were the thoughts of Alexis, when he left the gates of Valence. Alone, on foot, with his little bag­gage under his arm, he turned round, and made several stops, to have another view of the walls and edifices of this fine capital of the province of Valenti­noise, where he had just left the dearest and perhaps the most perfidious friend. He continued his road, and at last nothing remained to his view, but the summits of the capital, and the aspiring towers of an abbey. Not knowing whither to repair, he arrives on the spot where the river Isere, coming from mount Isserano, in Savoy, pours into the Rhone the waters which made it swell in Dauphiny. There he turns to the left of Romano, and enters a vast plain, where fatigue engages him to take repose. He drops down at the foot of a beach, and with sighs reflects upon the motives which could induce his father to abandon him.

The day was upon the decline; nothing but the faint streaks of decreasing light twinkled from the west: [Page 5] Curtains of purple seemed to hide the father of day from the sight of mortals: He already cast his last rays upon the brow of the mountains—all ushered in the gloom of night—all united to rest.

Alexis, supporting his languishing head with his hand, let the evening gale sport with the floating ring­lets of his hair; his blue eyes, covered with the brine of woe, were lifted towards heaven: his mouth utter­ed moans and prayer to the Supreme Being! Alexis, though only fifteen, was unfortunate and distressed.

Oh! father! father! cried he, what have I done? What canst thou upbraid me with? Why reject me from thy bosom? What crime have I committed? O my father! I do not know—they are not voluntary, if they exist. They are surely the work of fate. I am the cause of thy misfortunes. Alas! couldst thou but know the heart of thy son; yes, thy poor Alexis, he would fain offer up his life to preserve thine. How didst thou love and cherish him! How often didst thou press him to thy paternal breast! How often did thy tears shower upon him, tears whose source was latent and unknown to him! It was in those delicious moments thou calledst him thy son; thy little Alexis. "Dear child," thou wouldest say, "no, thou shalt never leave me; thou shalt know thy father, know his misfortunes, and administer his comfort." Yet I am banished and cursed by thee. Have I deserved it? Must I see thee no more? No more thy arms will open to receive me; thy mouth will smile no more; thy eyes no more meet with mine. I am cursed by a father, and left alone to myself in nature. And you, Dumont, you my worthy friend, you too have abandoned and betray­ed Alexis: You have deceived me—Ah! it was well to tell me there was neither friendship nor probity on earth. All men are false, wicked and unjust: The strongest oppress the weakest, who must not look for support. Well, I will fly from mankind—I detest and abhor them. O could heaven lead me to some forest, where I may linger out this wretched existence. The wild beasts that inhabit it, are less dangerous than the perfidious serpents which lurk in society. Yes, I yield [Page 6] to this misanthropy—it pleases me, I shall sway my heart forever with sovereign control. This city which nature erected in the form of an amphitheatre,^* does also enclose men. Passions, cares, devouring ambition, all these scourges are tenants there. Now is the time when the rich shuts himself up in his closet, covetous­ness follows him, she opens his coffers, she spreads before him the treasures, which she made him amass, and points out fresh means of increasing them. Leav­ing him, this cunning foe passes by the beggar's hut, shews him for a moment her splendor, and then takes flight, with an insulting sneer, at the insatiable thirst of the former, and the vain cravings of the latter Delivered from her importunities, the lot of a man is not in the least more enviable; perfidious lust, gloomy jealousy, come to interrupt and disturb his ease. Day­light, after all, recalls him to the work, which he follows till night, then returns again to give him up to the same enemies; and thus he sustains, within the short space of twenty-four hours, all the passions with which he is obliged to struggle for life.

What do I see in the world? How vain, foolish, and ridiculous it appears! Shall I live in it? No, I will pass my days in a retreat separated from all other mortals; there will I bewail my disastrous fate; there will I invoke the Supreme Being, and prayers may perhaps restore the calm of my soul; there solitude at least will have nothing to interrupt it, but the remembrance of a father's curse, and a friend's treachery.—

Thus spoke Alexis.—Left to himself at fifteen, brought up by a man who saw every thing in a dark light, banished and cursed by a father he had scarcely known, and whose very name he had never heard; his ideas became gloomy, his mind exalted, and his soul a prey to grief. Little was he acquainted with men. and shunned and detested them as monsters! His soul was never made to be conquered by that black misan­thropy, the only result of education and misfortunes. Soon shall we see him acquire ideas more sound, more worthy of a true philosopher—We are to see him in distress, but from his own fault, from an excessive [Page 7] sensibility; and he will be convinced, at last, that since we are obliged to live amongst our fellow crea­tures, we must bear their failings as they do ours.

No sooner had Alexis finished his over strained complaints, than a soft noise, which he heard behind him, made him turn his head. What does he see? Ah! doubtless it was heaven, touched by his bitter moans, which had sent him comfort in his sufferings.

CHAP. II.
THE APPROACH TO THE COTTAGE.

A YOUTH of an interesting countenance was with his head and hands leaning against the tree, beneath which Alexis had taken rest. A little farther his horse, unbridled, was browsing the vernal pasture of the plain; near him was an old man, who carefully watched all his motions.

Alexis, surprised that an unknown youth should testify concern at his fate, was going to ask him the nature of a curiosity which rather offended him; but the young stranger prevented him by these words,—"You are distressed?"—"Distressed, you say—what has befallen you? what can it be to you?"—"Nay, be not angry—if you knew me!"—"Who are you?"—Well, he will know my secret, though he conceals his own.—"Why it is rather—how do you find me?—Such a question is natural. As for me, I cannot help telling you that I look upon you as very amiable."—"Amiable!"—"Yes, charming." This confession—"but pray who are you?"—"Can't you guess?"—"No,"—"'Tis my dress which causes your mistake; know me then: My name is Clara, I live with my father, in a forest, two leagues from hence."—"In a forest?"—"Yes, we are very happy there."—"I believe you." "The old man who stands yonder, is Germain, our trusty servant."

[Page 8] But, fair Clara, what could induce your father to banish himself thus?"—"I don't know, it is his own secret, but he will tell it you." "Tell it me?"—"Certainly, won't you come and stay with us?"—"Why do you ask me?"—"Have not I overheard all you said, Oh, would heaven lead me to some forest, where I might linger out this wretched existence.—Is not that plain enough?"—"Aye, it is so, I find town life is detestable."—"You well may, my father says so every day."—"What a singular adventure! your father?"—"Yes, he has been distressed too, come and live in his hermitage, you will console him, and I will console you."—"Clara, you begin already to make me forget my sorrows; the tone of your voice is so soothing,"—"So is your own."—"Well, you have been brought up in the woods?"—"Yes, my father has been living there these six years."—"And how old are you?"—"About fifteen."—"What a beautiful, what an interesting maid!"—"Yes, my father and Germain often told me I was handsome, and I am pleased that you think as they do."—What innocence! what simplicity! Oh, I have never been taught to hide my way of thinking, have I then met with an ingenuous and honest soul? Yes, she has been brought up in the woods! "Oh! you talk like my father; how he will like you! Come, give me your hand; rise, and we will go."—"But do you know whether your father will please to receive me?"—"Oh! he will be glad to see you, I am certain; I know him; he loves the unfortunate, he has been unfortunate himself."—"That is no reason; but what an impression your dis­course makes on me!"—"Well, there is but one thing in you that displeases me."—"What is that?"—"Are you not sometimes a little proud? I love familiarity, but come then, come along."

When Alexis was first accosted by the young stranger, he had been quite struck dumb, and even on account of his mistrust, would not believe what Clara said in the beginning, but she was so charming! candour and innocence, the smile of truth, all indicated the frank­ness of her soul; and her features, how beautiful were they; her hair, of an ash-colored fair, was negligently tied behind; a little round hat, with a ribbon only, [Page 9] discovered two large blue eyes, whose languor pene­trated to the heart; her mouth, with a smile, formed on each side two pretty dimples which love is said to have intended to soften the most obdurate heart; her cheeks glowing with health and ingenuousness, had only received the kisses of an affectionate father. A handkerchief passed slightly round her neck, and falling upon her bosom, left the eye to guess the beauties hid beneath. Her shape, veiled with a modest blue habit, was pressed closer by a broad girdle, whose ends hung negligently down her side. Clara, to so many charms, added the age of love, and her heart, attracted by nature, had made her fly, against her consent, towards a youth whom she had found sighing and melted into tears at the foot of a tree.

Alexis surveyed her, and struck with so many beau­ties, his eye over-ran them with rapture. He opens his mouth to express his surprise, but his tongue denies its office, and he utters only wild exclamations. He holds out his hand to the object he admires, a sudden blush diffuses itself over his face, a burning fire glides through his veins, he is unable to speak, but his heart beats high, it comes upon his lips; it animates his looks, which only interpret his meaning.

He recovers, however, from his rapture, his timidity still gets the better; he turns his sight from the fair object, stammers a few words, and hangs down his head with such bashful confusion as if conscious he had committed a crime. Oh! how pure are the first emo­tions of an honest love! What candor and modesty displays that heart which feels them.

Clara's quiet was disturbed in the same manner. Brought up in the woods, accustomed to see nobody but her father and Germain, the sight of this interest­ing youth had made an impression on her senses, to which she gave herself up entirely, without inquiring into the cause. She looked at Alexis, and said within herself—How well made is he! what beautiful hair! how pretty it curls! his sweet and rolling eye examines me! he finds me pretty! Oh, dear pleasure! and his mouth, it opens to speak to me;—it remains dumb—why?—but his heart.—

[Page 10] The two children remained for some time gazing on each other. At length Clara, inviting Alexis to come with her, by a significant look, and a slight motion of her head, folded her arm round his neck, and thus they walked, without uttering a word, towards the place where Germain stood waiting for them. Wait­ing for them, do I say? He could not think that his young mistress would present a stranger to him. What reception will he give him? This was all that perplex­ed Clara. Eager to make Alexis live in the cottage, she had not pondered the difficulties her design was likely to encounter, not with regard to her father, for she was sure of the reception he would give to an un­fortunate youth; but Germain was mistrustful, hard, insensible, and unfortunately enjoyed the entire confi­dence of his master. A young man banished, cursed by his parents, friendless, without shelter, all this excited suspicion. Poor Clara felt it, and was [...]ore afraid lest the old servant should treat her young friend rudely, and send him away.

Her uneasiness increased the more she advanced towards this austere Mentor. At last she comes up to him, she must accost and apprise him. What an em­barrassment! "Germain," says she, "You love my father, you know how unfortunate he has been! you comforted him, and diverted his tedious moments. Let us render the same service to this poor youth; he is as virtuous and innocent as any one; and, alas! fate pursues him as it pursued my father;"—"How do you know him, Clara?" said Germain.—"He was weeping and sighing beneath yon tree; I approached, he related to me his misfortunes, and I was happy to wipe away his tears."—"Young man, who art thou?"—"Good old man, I am nothing, unless you reckon it something to be a fellow creature."—"Of what country?"—"I cannot tell."—"Your father's name?"—"I know not."—"What is his profession?"—"Alas! I cannot tell."—"You cannot tell?"—"No, he cursed and banished me, and never let me know my crime."

Whilst Alexis was saying this Clara whispered him quite low, "Hush, why do you tell him that?" but Alexis proceeded—

[Page 11] "Till now he had me educated at a college, at Paris. He once loved me."

"Your answers," said Germain, "are so many enigmas; and you, Clara, what makes you bring this stranger to me? What is your design? What would you have me do, what does he want of me?"

Alexis, foreseeing a refusal in this question of the old man, could not restrain his indignation. "I want nothing," answered he, angrily, and sprung from them, casting a look of melancholy towards Clara, who felt its full force. "Only see," said she to Germain, "see, he goes away; the poor youth; you will not prevent him. Alexis, Alexis!"

But Alexis would not hear her, and running like a man who has committed a crime, he considered what had happened as a great insult, which ought forever to cover him with shame. "What, said he, sobbing, I believed I had found a generous heart; I condescend­ed to solicit shelter and have been refused; I ought to have expected it. The man who is prosperous in all, sees the sorrow of the wretched as he who has dined views the poor starved with hunger. Nobody will descend into the heart of the unfortunate. One always finds fault with the distressed to exempt one's self from alleviating his sorrows. I will follow my fate, I will forget this adventure; but, Clara, I shall see thee no more! Thy soul had judged mine; thy pity was sin­cere. One only being shares in my sufferings, and I cannot live near her! O God, O God!"

He could proceed no further: His heart was op­pressed with renewed grief, tears flowed from his eyes, and he gave himself up to despair.

He pursued his way, not daring to look back, lest he might meet Germain's eye, and wandered thus two hours, without knowing whither, when the prospect of a little wood offered itself to his view, and here he resolved to pass the night.

It was in the month of June; the moon shone in her full lustre; a light breeze refreshed the air, and twenty green sods presented a commodious bed to the straying traveller. Alexis did not hesitate: He addresses, as usual, a prayer to the Supreme Being, and throws him­self upon a rising turf at the entrance of a little wood.

[Page 12] There, stretched upon the grass, which he bedewed with his tears, lay poor Alexis, who, but the night before, was with his friend Dumont, received from him the most affectionate marks of the liveliest friend­ship, and flattered himself with the hope of embracing his father at the rising dawn. He had indeed seen that cruel father, but far from being caressed, suffered his angriest looks, and his malediction. Lo! what a change in his fate! Behold him alone, left to himself; fatherless, friendless, destitute; life an odious burden to him; he yields it up to the mercy of ferocious animals, of robbers, and already blesses the hand of the cruel being that will take it from him.

He had just closed his reflections, and the salutary balm of sleep was beginning to lull his senses, and make him lose the remembrance of his ills, when he was alarmed by loud shrieks, and could distinguish a voice, crying, "O heavens! will you kill me? Have pity on my tender years." Alexis jumps up, the voice affects him, he thinks he knows it, and flies to the spot from which the moans proceed. Horrible sight! Will his heart be able to bear it? A youth, covered with blood, whom a ruffian dragged by the hair, implored his assistance, 'Tis Clara, cried Alexis—rushing upon the barbarian, he rescues her. The wretch▪ foaming with rage, draws a pistol from his pocket, and is about to fire it, when Alexis, springing upon him, wrested the weapon from his hand, and shoots him dead.

Clara, who had fainted, no sooner opened her eyes than she recognised her deliverer. "Is it you? you to whom I owe my life? O unexpected happiness!"—"But, Clara," said Alexis, "where is Germain?"—"About twenty yards farther, and dangerously wounded."—"Let us fly to him."

They found the old man upon the ground weltering in his blood. "Is it you," said he, "is it you, my Clara? what deity restores you to my wishes?"—"Here he is Germain I know my defender; it is Alexis!"—"What, that young man?"—"The same."—"O generous stranger! how great are my obligations to you! I shall restore a daughter to a father; through you I shall die contented."—"You die!" replied Alexis, "let me not lose the benefit of the service I [Page 13] have been so fortunate to render you."—"Give me your hand then," said Germain, "and deign to crown this heroic seat, by accompanying us to the virtuous Candor, to whom we are equally dear."

Alexis and Clara helped Germain to rise, and stopped his blood with their handkerchiefs. His wound was not dangerous; he had only a slight contusion upon his shoulder, and a great loss of blood alone had weakened him. The two young people, with some difficulty, assisted him to mount his horse; Clara got up behind him, and thus, followed by Alexis, they proceeded to the next village, which they reached by day-break.

Upon the road, Clara informed her young deliverer, that she and Germain, having lost their way, and being sensible they had rode farther than the distance from Romans to their cottage, they fell in, about twenty yards from the little wood, with a robber, who de­manded their money, or their lives; that the wretch had fired a pistol at Germain, and she having told him that she was a woman, he dragged her to the place where he received the punishment due to his crimes. She added that if any thing could comfort her in this cruel accident, it was to have met with a friend so high in her esteem, and who hereafter would be the friend of her father and his old servant.

Alexis returned thanks for her concern, and our three travellers reached St. Marcellin, a pretty little town, where Germain remembered he had been many a time. They would have done better had they gone straight to La Perriere, a village on this side the town; but quite unacquainted with the road, they strayed so much from the high way, that having gained the right shore of the Iser they were obliged to travel two leagues farther in order to reach St. Marcellin.

It was there Germain had his wound dressed, and finding he had strength sufficient to ride farther, he engaged his young companions to repair instantly with him to the cottage, where Candor would probably be alarmed at their absence. Clara longed to see him. Alexis seared his presence, from his invincible timidity, for he was still dismayed at the cold reception which [Page 14] Germain had given him: He was afraid lest Clara's father should treat him in the same manner, and could not help appearing trembling before him; but Candor's daughter cheered his spirits; and having set out all three, they came in sight of a dark forest, situated between St. Marcellin, St. Etienne, and Romans. This forest, which is about ten leagues in extent, and is renowned for robbers, and the precipices dispersed throughout it, seemed to be the marked spot of celestial vengeance. Its dense and lofty trees were continually shivered by the lightning, and blasting winds spent their rage upon it without intermission. Every appear­ance denoted horror and dread.

It was, however, in the centre of this dismal place, where Candor and his daughter had chosen their abode. It was there they had erected their cottage, and forti­fied it against surprise; but I ought not to anticipate a description which will be given hereafter. Let us, for a moment, follow our three travellers, who will soon reach their mansion, and receive the embraces of a father who will become the father of my hero.

Clara, always behind the old man, held Alexis by the hand, who, like a faithful squire, walked on foot by her side. They had by this time travelled about four leagues through the bushes and hedges of the vast forest, when they descried in a dale a little fortress which Alexis surveyed with astonishment. Here Clara, gently pressing the youth's hand, with a smile, said to him—"There, do you see the cottage?"

CHAP. III.
THE COTTAGE.

"THERE, do you see the cottage?" it is there we live, and there it will depend on yourself to live with us."—"Ah! Clara," said Alexis, "What a [Page 15] delicious abode! how blest would be my lot if your father, if Germain—"

"Doubt it not, my lovely deliverer," answered Germain, "doubt it not, but before you settle there, ponder well what you are about to do; to renounce the world is the question, and at your age—"

"It is the very time I should renounce it," cried Alexis, "had I done it before, I would not have suffer­ed so much now."

"But have mankind already given you so much rea­son to detest them?" "Those who were dear to me have betrayed me; what can I expect from strangers?"

"You perhaps consider them in a prejudiced light."

"Oh! I have but too much experience."

"But if you detest the men, do you also include in your hatred that noble half of society, which assuages our sorrows, and which, by love, allays the grief caused by friendship! women! will you fly them at eighteen?"

"Ah! I see them all in Clara."

"That's right," replied she with vivacity; "as for me, I see all men in my father, my good friend, and Alexis."

"Young people," pursued Germain, "be on your guard, beware of your hearts; love in the midst of woods?"

"What do you mean," interrupted Clara, "what, should I love him? No, I am concerned at his fate because he is unfortunate, and I owe him the gratitude due to a deliverer."

"And I," said Alexis, "should be much wanting in duty, were I insensible of her generous offer, and the manner she consoled me in my afflictions."

"Without doubt!" continued the old man, shaking his head; "friendship, gratitude, they are all fine pretences; come, come, march on." Such was their conversation, when the cottage appeared before them; a fosse full of water guarded its dominion all round to the bottom of a high and strong wall, which encom­passed a spacious yard, in the middle of which the little edifice stood. A draw bridge that could be let down upon the fosse, defended the entrance against the robbers who made the forest their abode.

[Page 16] Candor, alarmed at the long absence of his two ten­ants, had mounted the walls at day break, and cast his wishful eyes upon the dreary expanse of the woods, in which he feared same accident might have befallen them. Clara's father was old and infirm, and scarce able to walk; but he no sooner descried his dear guests from a distance, than he descended from the wall, leaned upon his staff, and his heart leaping for joy, he let down the draw bridge, the levers of which were made lighter by a counterpoise. He, however, expected his friends alone: He saw three approach. He did not know the stranger who led Clara by the hand, and to whom Ger­main spoke in so affectionate a manner. They had no acquaintance; he himself in his solitude where he lived unknown had forgot all mankind, who had also forgot him. Who then was the youth they brought? His modest exterior, his sweet countenance, prepossessed him in his favor; but after all, he could by no means recollect him.

The good Candor, in the midst of those reflections, saw our two cavaliers alight before the premises. "O my father," said Clara, throwing herself into his arms; "we have been on the point of never seeing you again!"—"How, my dear daughter?"—"A villain," continued Clara, "has wounded Germain, and would have taken away my life, but for the bravery of this traveller, who delived me out of his clutches, and inflicted that punishment upon him, which he so well deserved."—"O my child: What! Germain?"

"Indeed," answered he, "we would both have been lost, without the poor Alexis, this courageous youth: He is very unfortunate, my dear master; give me leave to tell you how we met with him; and it will convince you of his virtuous disposition, and his delicacy."

Here Germain gave Clara's father a minute account of all that had happened; he mentioned first the con­versation with Alexis in the valley of Romans, and related every subsequent particular to the moment when they alighted before the draw bridge of the cottage, dwelling chiefly upon the abrupt manner in which Alexis had left them the night before, which he said, in his opinion, proceeded from a sense of conviction [Page 17] that he would not take him with him; this he men­tioned as a proof of his sensibility and his nice feelings.

Our young hero was much embarrassed during this conversation: His head hung down, his eyes were fixed upon the ground; he dared not lift them upon the old man, whose reverend appearance increased his shyness; his heart was depressed and he appeared as if ready to swoon. On the other hand, Clara made comments on every thing that Germain said, in order to add to the praise, the eagerly consulted her father's eyes to watch what impression the narrative would make upon him.

When Germain had done speaking, Candor paused a moment, and then, addressing Alexis, who now trembled more than ever, "Young man," said he, "what is your age?"—"I shall soon be eighteen."—"Eighteen, and so much virtue, such misfortunes, and such courage! Do you wish to live with us? come, you are too timid, speak, I love the unfortunate; they have a claim upon my heart."

"Generous man!" cried Alexis, "what concern he gives me!"

"Will you then renounce society and fly all social intercourse?"

"Why, are not all men false, wicked, and treach­erous?"

How well he knows them! "But, my young friend, I cannot receive you into my house, unless you give me an open and candid account of your misfor­tunes and situation: I wish also to know if your reasons for quitting society are solid and consistent?"

"They are, and shall be forever!"

"Well, people at your age are generally of a dif­ferent way of thinking: But at mine they are prudent and consistent. The man who would leave me at the first opportunity, shall have no access to my house."

"I will never leave you, my father, no, never."

Father! how he moves me! alas, my son would now have been as old as he! his frankness! I saw him expire before my eyes; unfortunate child!

Here, Candor wiped the tears which trickled from his eyes, and, resuming his former firmness—"Come, [Page 18] Alexis, come, accept a shelter offered by friendship, but remember that this gate which is going to be shut will never open for you again."

Alexis kissed the hand of his benefactor, and Clara was transported with joy, and all four passed over the draw bridge, which flew up suddenly behind them. Now our hero had a distinct view of the cottage, which the high walls that were its defence, had hitherto concealed from him.

The building was square, consisted of freestone, and was but one story high, without ornaments, without the beauties of architecture, it contained every domestic convenience. Below was a kitchen, and an oven to bake the bread, &c. The first floor contained two commodious apartments, the one inhabited by Candor, the other by Clara. Above it were two little rooms occupied by Germain, and the remainder supplied the place of a granary, where grains and pulses were drying in summer, to be the family provision in the winter. The apartments contained no other furniture than a bed, a table, and some chairs.—In that belong­ing to Clara, stood a very fine harpsichord, on which she had learned to play, as we shall find hereafter, and which diverted her leisure, and served to dissipate Candor's melancholy thoughts.

On the left hand, in the yard, was a stable for their horse, and a large box containing all the implements required for husbandry and gardening: On the right, rain water was let in from the fosse into a pond, which supplied the drink of our hermits, after they had clarified it.

Behind the building, all within the enclosure was a kitchen garden, cultivated by Germain and Clara, in which they sowed all kinds of vegetables and other garden stuff, which they purchased at St. Marcellin. They had plenty of peas, beans, potatoes, &c. which was provision for them all the year round, for they eat no other meat than fowls, which they had in plenty in their little yard, situated towards the left wing of the building. These particulars shew us that they did not want for necessaries, and from the account Candor shall give of his misfortunes, we shall see how he could procure them. Let us now return to Alexis.

[Page 19] When Clara and Candor had shown him the cottage, the old man made him step into a parlor, and re­quested him, previous to his assigning him a room, to relate the story of his infancy. "My son," said he, "be true, hide nothing, nor even palliate your faults; you have undoubtedly committed some, especially at your age; you would not else be human; I shall ex­cuse them if they do not spring from the heart. Speak and be candid."

Alexis complied, and Germain, who unsaddled the horse while they were walking round the premises, having joined them again, our young hero thus com­menced the story of his misfortunes, which will prove, especially to fathers of families, how careful they should be in the choice of a PRECEPTOR FOR THEIR CHILDREN.

"I cannot tell you," began Alexis, "the place of my birth, nor my father's name, as both have always been a secret to me. As far as I am able to recollect, I was in my tender infancy, in the arms of a good old woman, whom I used to call [...], but who, I was informed afterwards, was nowise related to me, yet she did not tell me who were my real parents. That good woman had the care of my edu­cation till I was ten, and received punctually every month, by an unknown hand, a considerable sum for my board. Under her care I learned to read, to write, to cast accounts, and the first elements of dancing and music, studies which I continued at college, where she told me one day, she had orders to conduct me; we then lived at Paris, in rus de la Chasse.

"Mrs. Delys (this was the name of my good gov­erness) was in affluent circumstances; she had been left a widow for upwards of sixteen years, by her husband, an officer of the horse, who had bequeathed to her an annual income of two thousand crowns: She had resolved to spend her life in a solitary part of the metropolis, far from company, which had become baleful to her, since the death of a beloved son, who fell in a duel, by the hands of a friend, in consequence of a quarrel. Though ten years had elapsed since his death, his mother still bewailed him daily, would receive no kind of visit, and spent her time in talking [Page 20] to me about the virtues of her poor Delys, the treachery of his friend, and the falsity of men. Thus she talked to me, a child incapable of understanding, and still less of comforting her. How she would weep! I wept with her without knowing why, and we mingled our tears. You see that the first dawn of my life spent in sadness, has not a little contribued to give me a gloomy, fretful, and anxious disposition.

"I asked her many times with regard to my parents, and blamed her for her obstinacy in concealing them from me; her answer was that she herself did not know them; that she educated me to oblige her hus­band's brother, who knew them, and kept it a secret; that all she knew was, that I ought to look upon my existence as fatality, and that the history of my birth, should it ever come to my knowledge, would inspi [...]e me with horror, and make me wretched for life. To be sure, all this was not very pleasing; on the other hand, Mrs. Delys spoke with such warmth on the subject, that I might well suppose I was related to her.

"I never went any where but to church. Thither I was always conveyed in a carriage, the glasses of which Mrs. Delys took great care to shut every time. In a word, being so much hidden from the world, and shut up as it were in a box, that nobody should see me, I conceived the whole in an ominous light, and accord­ing to my little way of arguing, I could foresee nothing but fatality on account of such a conduct.

"One day, Mrs. Delys took me privately into her apartment, telling me, with tears in her eyes, "My dear friend, you are to leave me! we must part, my sweet child."—"Must we part, madam?"—"You cry, you are sorry to part, so am I; but it must be: But I am not sufficient to complete your education. You are born, should the decrees of fate relent in your favor, to hold, some day, an important rank in so­ciety."—"I am told so," answered I, "I must yield to necessity."—"You are to go," continued Mrs. Delys, "to a college, to receive a complete university education; then, I know not how fate will dispose of you—but, come, my lovely child, submit and never forget, in your new abode, the virtuous principles which I have endeavored to inculcate in your breast; [Page 21] have never too intimate a connexion with your col­leagues, and mistrust their caresses as you would their hatred: Alas! he that bereft me of my son, was his fellow student—adieu! they are coming to fetch you. Mr. Dumont, as abbé of a respectable character, is chosen by your parents to have you under his care; he is to live with you; in a word, consider him as your preceptor, but as a faithful friend; make him your confidant; he is, I believe, a worthy man."

"I remained motionless at this discourse, and when Mrs. Delys had done, I let flow my tears, in freedom; I threw myself at her feet, and solicited to remain with her, when my new mentor entered, and by his appearance, chilled me with terror.

"Mr. Dumont was about forty, tall, slender, and lean; but his countenance, which bore the stamp of brobity and frankness, dispelled my fear, and made me approach him by degrees.

"This, sir, is he," said Mrs. Delys, "the poor child! you see how he regrets me!"—"That he ought, madam," answered Mr. Dumont, politely, "but will you not sometimes come and see him?"—Oh! very often."—"Well, you should both seek comfort in rea­son; come, my little friend, come with me: I frighten you, don't I? You may say so freely, but be assured, there is nothing dismal about me, but my dress; you inspire me with too much concern that I should not love you; I will be your friend, and believe me, should you unfortunately be kept from your father, you will find a father in me."

This speech somewhat allayed my terrors: I stam­mered some thanks, and having once more thrown myself into Mrs. Delys's arms, I followed Mr. Dumont who affectionately laid hold of my hand, squeezed it, and conducted me to the carriage. A servant whom I had never seen, put up and fastened my trunk on behind, and my tutor gave me to understand that the same man was to wait upon us at college.

The coachman drove fast, and set us down at the college of Navarre, a porter came to open the gate and shut in immediately after us. It was then I felt my heart beat, my knees tottered, and I felt indisposed. The abbé and my servant carried me to the master's [Page 22] apartment, where I recovered, and saw myself sur­rounded by pedants in black gowns, who with a super­cilious mein, and declamatory voice, said among themselves—"This is the way of all the children; how idleness and indolence work them; and then, you see, they are spoiled by their parents at home, but that will not do here; the ferula must cure them—Well, my little master, are you better now? Never mind, never mind. Today he shall have a holiday; he shall not study; is not that very pretty? But tomorrow he must go to books, and show himself very docile, very studious; won't you, my little man?"

"I made no answer; this black tribe almost fright­ened me out of my wits, and but for Mr. Dumont, who seemed less ill natured than these, I think I should have run away. I came thither like a lamb conducted to the slaughter house, without knowing what was wanted of me, I let them talk and prepared myself for all events.

My preceptor staid for a few minutes with the master, in another apartment, and I was left alone trembling before three abbés, who asked me several questions, which I did not answer. Soon they rose, and mutter­ing among themselves, I heard them say, "What a blockhead of a boy! Nay, he's bashful. Bashful, no, it is stupidity: He will give us some trouble! But we will manage him," &c.

Mr. Dumont shortly after returned to the apartment, and the master conducted us to a spacious room, which he said was to be ours; he then retired, patting me upon the cheek, and commanding me to be a very good boy. I had longed to see him gone, in order to give vent to my sorrow; Mr. Dumont consoled me; dinner was served, but I could not eat, and remained sad all day long.

Next morning Mr. Dumont put a Rudiments into my [...]and, informed me that I was to be received into a class. I performed what he bid me, although I did not well understand what he said. At one o'clock Mrs. Delys came to see me, exhorting me to assume that firmness which my new way of life would exact. Her appearance recalled my sorrow, but at last she left me, and I took a resolution to be steady.

[Page 23] "I began to accustom myself to Mr. Dumont's com­pany; he was, in other respects, gloomy and serious, and his temper bore the strictest conformity to mine. I asked him one day if he knew my father, and if it was he who had placed me under his care? He answered me with all the frankness which I had many opportu­nities to remark in him afterwards, that he was entirely ignorant of my parents; that a man, supposed about thirty-five years old, who he saw frequently at the house of a lady of his acquaintance, and who seemed to entertain the liveliest concern for me, had asked him whether he would undertake the education of the son of a friend of his, and having been answered in the affirmative, he, Mr. Dumont, had been directed by the stranger to the college of Navarre, and received the sum of twenty-five louis, with an assurance that the expenses of board, &c. should be punctually paid.—"Be it as it will," added Mr. Dumont, "I am much induced to believe that man to be your father, because you are a perfect likeness of him."—I begged him to ask of that lady, the first time he should see her again, the name and quality of the person whom he supposed to be my father. He promised to comply with my request, but unfortunately that woman, who alone could give us information, set out that very day for a long journey, from which it appears she is not yet returned, for I never heard of her afterwards.

"In a little time I made amazing progress under so worthy a preceptor, who found out the way to gain my entire confidence; but what ingratiated him most with me, was the conversation we had frequently together on subjects of morality. It is to him I owe the faculty of thinking, reflecting, and reasoning. How valuable were his lessons! I shall remember them forever.

"Men had so much deceived him that he placed no trust in them, and he gave me on that head the most wholesome advice, which I have since learned to put in practice.—Thus would he argue, pray be attentive and I have no doubt but you will agree with me, that he was not mistaken.

"There is no medium," he would say, "in society. You must deceive; you must be deceived, or cringe. To dazzle others, to give one's self titles, estates, [Page 24] qualities, or virtues which one has not, to flatter the ways of another, this I call to deceive. If you desire to gain the favor of the great, you must imitate their vices, or at least feign to imitate them. If they are libertines, you must be a libertine too; if they gamble, you must gamble; if they drink, you must drink, else you are insupportable high minded, infected with prejudice, unengaging, unsociable, &c.

"You must be deceived, when listening to the big talk of those who have done all, seen all, and are capable of all! You are allured by the bark, without examining whether the heart of the tree is not worm-eaten. You confide in them, you open your heart to them: They abuse your confidence on purpose to undo you, on purpose to draw you into their snares, from which you will frequently have to extricate yourself at the expense of your honor, your fortune, and your health.

"You find yourself obliged to cringe, when not being the dupe of the sottish pride of some, and the vices of others, you conform to a certain degree with their manner of living. It is then you create yourself a system of your own, when you regulate your conduct, and adopt sweet and polite manners, and cease to be their confidant. It is then people will observe you, for your wit, your abilities, or your fortune, and will say, Mr. such-a one is no doubt amiable, but he is a poor soul, that has no energy, no passions; it is a good thing, you may make of him what you please, else he would be insufferable in spite of all his probity.

"Necessity, pride, or indolence alone make the world cultivate your friendship. Are you above it? It will flatter you. Are you beneath it? It will protect you, as we call it. All you can expect from it is meanness and humiliation. I shall say nothing of treachery, slanders, calumny, things which make havoc in society. You must expect them, as soon as you set out in the world. What interest, therefore, can make you desire it? None. The inference is plain—fly from it."

"Thus spoke Mr. Dumont, and his principles became engraven on my mind with indelible force. Fond of solitude, and without acquaintance, we never went out. On holidays only we took a walk in the fields, for he [Page 25] did not like those gaudy places of resort, where luxury parades in idle expence, and attracts the vain admira­tion of some, and the foolish desires others. We always took a book with us, a book of morality, of the very serious, of the very sombre kind, which we got by heart, and often spent whole hours in reflecting and commenting upon a single phrase.

"How pleasing were those rural excursions! Happy times! I think I am still upon these favorite spots; often we sat on the top of a hill to see the setting sun, and struck with the sublimity of that august scene, we would say within ourselves—that almighty BEING that thus extinguishes the bright glory of the day! how great must he be! Then casting our eyes upon the capital, we only perceived the faint glimpses of the lamps that lighted it, and ruminated upon the disorders committed there by the indolent and profligate. We were charmed—though we sighed—with the happy quiet arising from the simplicity and innocence of our pleasures.

CHAP. IV.
THE MAN IN A MASK.

BY this time I had been three months at the college of Navarre, and received no other visit than that of Mrs. Delys, who came to see us sometimes. She became very intimate with Mr. Dumont, and we made a mutual exchange of books, which were our only pleasure. Uncertein if I should ever discover my parents, I armed myself with patience, and was con­tented with my lot, when one day my man Vincent informed Mr. Dumont, that a gentleman in an elegant carriage had just alighted, and wished to speak to him in private. My preceptor goes to meet him—both [Page 26] enter another apartment, and wait together about an hour. So long an interview began to make me uneasy, but Mr. Dumont joined me, and said in a whisper, with great appearance of joy, "This is the person who in­trusted me with your education, and whom I suppose to be your father. He was just given me fifty more louis d'ors for your second quarter, and desires you to take a dancing, a drawing, and music-master. Oh! he will bring you up a little prince!"

"Ah, sir," interrupted I, "cannot I see him?"—"This is what I asked," answered he, "but he much objected against that favor; at last he complied, on condition of his putting on a mask before he enters: No doubt he does it to hide that striking resemblance, which, as I have already observed, there is between you."

"Oh!" cried I, "let him appear as he likes—let me but see him! Let me bathe his feet with my tears."

"Stop, stop," said Dumont, "be moderate, and save appearances."

Mr. Dumont left me, and returned a moment after with the stranger, who had actually masked his face.

"You must grant, my amiable friends, that I was much disconcerted at such a moment. What counte­nance could I keep! No doubt I was to wait till he should speak to me first. Nevertheless, I could hardly forbear throwing myself into his arms—and you shall hear the whole account of a scene so interesting to me, and which, as long as I live, shall be engraved on my memory. I saluted the unknown person with respect, and he beckoned me to be seated. Vincent gave us chairs, and left the apartment, I perceived that the man in a mask was tottering, and agitated by a trouble, which it was in vain for him to conceal. At last he sat down, and began to examine me; I could collect from the heaving of his breast that his heart was beating, and that he could scarcely fetch breath. All these tokens served to confirm my doubts, but, far more trembling and moved than he, I dared not to look at him, or make the smallest gesture. This dumb scene had lasted long, when Mr. Dumont, sensible that it affected us too much, hastened to interrupt it with addressing himself to me.

[Page 27] "Alexis," said he, "this is the gentleman who is so good as to supply your wants, and to have you educated."—"Ah! sir, how kind in you."—"Deserve it by your docility and a close attention to Mr. Dumont's lessons."—"Yes, sir, nothing could have been a more convincing proof of the kindness of my parents than a choice of so worthy a preceptor,'—"Who told you," said the stranger, "that Mr. Dumont has been chosen by your parents!"—"Why, sir, have I no parents?"—"Unfortunate boy! mayest thou never know them!"—"O heaven! you know them well, you know them, sir?"—"No questions, if you please."—"Ah! should you see my father, tell him—tell him that his little Alexis cannot live without embracing him, without falling at his feet! he seeks him through nature ever since he was born; he calls aloud to him; he scrutinizes every eye, every face—but, alas! nobody has heard his cries."—"unreasonable boy! what wouldest thou have?"—"I'll see my father! I'll press him to my heart!"—"He cannot show himself to you, he cannot indeed!"—"Is he, then, barbarous, hard-hearted, inflexible? Ah, does not the voice of nature appeal to his paternal breast? He is obliged to stifle her voice; nay, can he who loves so well do it?"—"You move me!"—"You shed tears; ah, let me see them from your respectable face. Throw away, pray throw away this deceitful mask; it does not become the man of feeling; sir, here I lie at your feet; in pity no longer conceal my father; I conjure you by your own, if he yet be living; I can see your perplexity! Well, if you love him, if he is dear to you, you cannot reprove my filial emotions! Alas, behold my tears, they fall; they overflow your hand! you push my hand away; cruel, sir, what have I done to you? O my God! all forsake me: Ah, all forsake me!"

Here I dropt upon the floor in an agony of grief. Mr. Dumont, moved by my appearance, exhorted and entreated the stranger to put an end to my suffer­ings, whilst the latter, who, with the liveliest emotions, was struggling, sobbing, and looking at me, li [...]ted up his hands to heaven, and exclaimed, in a piercing [...]one, "Oh! 'tis my fault! I would not—Why have I seen him? Unfortunate child!"

[Page 28] "But he relapsed again into silence, and when I saw that nothing could move him, I became furious; in a moment my eyes were dry, and with a noble firmness I made an effort to triumph over myself. In a tone of respect and assurance, I said—"Well, sir, I see you are fully bent on my despair. I know what resolution is left for me. Since I have no parents who love me, I have nothing to tie me to nature. What should I do? what fate awaits me? Shame, misfortune, and igno­miny. But I am resolved to die, and rid my family of a burden, which I am sorry to see they find too heavy for them. Farewel, sir, farewel Dumont, an everlasting farewel.

"Whither would you?" cried the stranger, holding out his hand to me, "Do you know that your death would cause the death of your father?—"Ah! it is you," I exclaimed, throwing myself into his arms. "What does he say?"—"It is you, yes, it is you, I am sure: Nature hath spoke, you are my father."—"Leave me, my son—O! how could I utter this word?"—"My son! Welcome, charming name, that for the first time salutes my ears, how sweet art thou to my heart!"

Here my father took off his mask, presenting to me a noble, interesting countenance, overflowing with tears. He takes me into his arms, presses his ardent lips to mine, and retains me in his embrace for some minutes. Sweet pressure of paternal tenderness! I had never [...]elt you before! how dear were these embraces! I wept, laughed, and committed a thousand extrava­gances, and we were all three like distracted persons. I say all three, for Mr. Dumont, whom this scene had moved to tears, who shared our sadness, now shared out joy; in a word, we were in a manner electrified at the same instant by various sentiments, which glided through our frame with the greatest rapidity.

After my father had given vent to his sensibility, he made us again sit down, and addressed me thus: "My son, I have had the strongest motives to remain un­known to you, and still preserve them. You have just torn from me a secret which ought to have died with me. But I shall not repent if you promise to obey the laws I am now to prescribe to you. In the first place, [Page 29] I forbid you to ask me the least question respecting my name and quality. It may suffice you to know that you are born a nobleman, in order to prevent you from committing an action unworthy of your descent: But I cannot tell you who I am—my life and your own would soon be at stake. In the second place, I forbid you to follow me, or express the smallest curiosity to know me farther. Should I find you guilty of this. I shall abandon and never see you again. These laws astonish you, I can believe; but I am compelled to prescribe them. Alas! you have made my life the summit of human wretchedness. It is your birth that has made me commit a crime the most—do not urge me to proceed; you would punish my imprudence! I will visit you—I will write to you, but never, never, shall you know my name! As for you, Mr. Dumont, I need not exact of you the same circumspection of conduct. You are an honest man: I am sure of it. The person at whose house I became acquainted with you has given me an account of your misfortunes. They do you credit. Adieu, my son; be assured that I shall never forsake you, and shall ever watch over you and your education."

Mr. Dumont and I gazed on this astonishing man, who laid upon us such singular injunctions; and, un­acquainted with his misfortunes which inspired us with the most lively concern, we judged them to be of the most afflicting kind, as he had deprived himself so long of the sight of a son, who seemed to engross his tender­ness, and to whom, even when caressing him, he dared not to reveal either his name or his rank.

At length he rose to leave us, and after bestowing upon me fresh caresses and tokens of tenderness, he pulled out of his fob a most valuable watch, ornament­ed with diamonds; "Here," said he, "my Alexis, let this put you in mind of our first interview,"—"O heaven! what do you propose? I do not want so rich a gift."—"Take it, I say, think on me when the clock strikes ten!"—"What do you mean?"—"Tremble to hear one day the explanation of this mystery."

With these words he left us, struck dumb with this second trait of his character; but at last the pleasure [Page 30] of having found my father made me forget every thing else, and I only wished to prove my submission to him, by making rapid advances in the path of knowledge under the auspices of Mr. Dumont. It was lucky Vincent had not seen this scene; we were resolved to conceal it from him, to prevent his making such in­quiries to know my father, as we would not have attempted ourselves, so much did we wish to comply with the orders he had given me.

Mr. Dumont was not mistaken in having been told that I was so much like my father: I was indeed his very portrait, and upon recollection, I remember to have seen him many times next me when I went to church with Mrs. Delys. There being always a great number of people in our seat, I took no particular notice of him, though undoubtedly he came there on purpose to see me. Mrs. Delys did not, or feigned not to know him, for I never saw her speak to him.

The notion he had to enter my apartment in a mask was not very fit to remove all suspicions from my mind; for supposing the scene had not terminated as it did, it is plain I would have asked him why he appeared before me in disguise. Perhaps he then would have been much at a loss for an answer; but in my confusion I did not think of it.

The valuable jewel which I had received from my father, as a present, was so fine, so new to me, that I spent the whole day in examining and making my repeater sound; Mr. Dumont all the while chiding me for my puerile conduct, though he could not help admiring the size and brilliance of the diamonds, which were very large. This confirmed us more and more in the idea that my father was a great lord. When I opened the case to examine the work, we were much surprised to find these words on the back plate—THE GIFT OF LOVE, A. D. 1730. But what encreased our astonishment was, to see that the words had been scratched out on purpose, so that it was rather difficult to read them. I did not know what to make of it then, but Mr. Dumout drew some very probable inferences from it, which may probably occur to your minds, if you are pleased to reflect.

[Page 31] Winding up my watch at night, I observed in was ten. That very moment my father's words returned to my mind; Think on me when the clock strikes ten! I felt a cold sweat all over my body; my heart was depressed, I knew not why; I went to bed, my eyes swimming in tears. During the night, I was tormented by ominous dreams. I saw my father pierced with stabs, stretching out his hand to me, &c. All these phantoms, the crea­tures of the suspicions I entertained when I went to bed, vanished when I awoke. I informed my tutor of them, who railed at my credulity, and wholly dissipated my terrors. Nevertheless, every night when I wound up my watch, if unluckily I perceived the hour of ten, I felt an involuntary emotion which I could not account for. These mysterious expressions of my father had indeed some meaning. The manner in which he dwelt upon them when he uttered them, his tone of voice, in short, every thing proved it; but I never could comprehend their meaning, and am still ignorant of it. Perhaps one day if I am able to unravel my adventures. I may comprehend them and the misfor­tune I have to dread.

In compliance with my father's desire, next day I hired proper masters to teach me drawing, music, and dancing, and cultivated these arts, I may say, with some success.

Three months elapsed before my father returned to see me. What joy did I feel when Mr. Dumont brought me the news! I flew to meet him, and pressed him in my arms. He embraced me closely, called me his dear, his little Alexis; then made me repeat the lessons I had received since his absence, and was charmed with my progress. Every moment he would say—He will resemble his mother, he will inherit all her accomplishments. I had too much respect to ask him any questions about his secret, questions which might have grieved him, and I saw with pleasure that he judged me worthy of the care he took of my educa­tion.

He made another payment of fifty louis d'ors to Mr. Dumont, requesting him to entertain me with theatrical performances, to bring me into the world, and above all never to speak of the secret of my birth. [Page 32] He also made me several useful and valuable presents, for which I returned him my sincerest thanks. He was about to leave me, when I pulled out my watch, to tell him it was not late, and persuaded him to stay a little longer; on this he took my hand, and said to me, in a tender voice, "My dear son, you cannot think too much upon me when the clock strikes ten." For this time I could hardly refrain my curiosity. I was bold enough to ask him, what happened to him at that hour?—"I work for thee, my dear Alexis—alas, what was I going to say?—My son, I once begged of you—Let this be your last question."

I made a thousand apologies for my imprudence. My good father forgave me, pressed me to his heart, and promised to come and see me again in three months' time.

What a singular character! Are you not surprised, my worthy friends, at so extraordinary a conduct? It surprised Mr. Dumont and me highly, but we were obliged to keep silence. It was enough of happiness for me to see my father, and receive his tender caresses.

Five years elapsed, during which I made considera­ble improvement in my classics, and in the fine arts. My father came regularly to the college every three months, and always left us money and presents; being himself an excellent scholar, he sometimes would con­descend to examine me upon the sciences, and seemed always charmed with my answers. He would then congratulate Mr. Dumo [...]t, and intreat him to persevere in his zeal. He, however, never omitted exhorting him to procure me amusement, and to introduce me to the polite world: He found in me, he said, a gloomy temper, an awkward air, and little of the fine manners. My tutor promised to do every thing, but he performed little or nothing at all. Pleasures and company were quite averse to his character, and he was scrupulous in meddling with them. I shall soon relate the history of my setting out for the circles of the fine world. I have now to impart to you an odd prediction, to which I gave no credit, though it would much astonish me, were it to turn out a true one. My father had so often told me to think on him when the clock struck ten, that one day I was resolved to [Page 33] try to find out, if possible, the sense of this enigma.

There was at the college gate a poor beggar, about forty years of age, all in rags, but with a handsome face, who passed for a conjurer. All the students had consulted him, and all had left him, surprised at his talents of divining the past, and foretelling the future. The master of the college had ordered him to be driv­en away twenty times, but he always returned, and found a livelihood in the presents made to him by the curious. While Mr. Dumont was walking one day in the yard with some of the professors, I seized this occasion to bring the pauper into my room. The great iron gate was open; and the porter, busy with something or other, had not seen him come in; every thing crowned my wishes.

Having closeted myself with him, I began to ask him, "what countryman are you?"—"From Bour­gen Bresse."—"What business did you follow?"—"A very dangerous and ungrateful one, that of a soldier."—"Have you served?"—"Yes, and honora­bly, my good gentleman; I have here eight wounds, which will prove it."—"And you must now go a begging?"—"Why, it is not the man who fights for his country that grows rich; it is he that keeps it down."—"Very true."—"Don't you see that the little ones have the greatest trouble, and the great earn the largest benefits."—"Thou art a clever, ju­dicious fellow."—"Good sense is a gift of nature, and judgment the result of experience."—"Very good! pray how did you learn to tell fortunes?"—"This is our business in garrisons; there we find people who have been all over the world, who have seen all nations on earth, and one picks up instruction by another."—"Well, a person dear to me, when he gave me this watch, said, and has repeated the same words since, Think on me when the clock strikes ten! Could you now tell me what he does at that hour?"—"To be sure, my kind gentleman; lend me this jewel."

"I trusted the watch into his hands. He suddenly began to be pensive, to write, to make calculations, and at the expiration of one hour, with a prophetic voice, which upon any other occasion would have made me laugh, said to me, "This watch you have [Page 34] received from a man, who received it from a woman, and that man is in confinement every night at ten o'clock, in a prison, which he does not quit till next morning."

Though similar divinations received no great belief from me, I could not help trembling at these dreadful words; and such was my rage that I was very near ill treating the beggar, for having pronounced a sen­tence so unwelcome to me. I composed myself, however, and entreated him to discover how he had been able to guess that? The man, anxious to find an opportunity of making a brilliant display of his knowledge, made the following harangue:

"To us every thing is cabalistical: A watch, a pocket book, a ring, every thing has signs which are always the same, and upon which we lay various and different constructions, according to the circumstances. A watch is the symbol of life. One o'clock is the instant of birth, and always implies blind­ness, suffering, joy mixed with pains, insensibility, fickleness, &c. Two o'clock marks the age of six. It is carelessness, levity, caprice, contempt of the great, oblivion of troubles, and content. Three o'clock refers to the age of nine. It means thinking, troubles, tears, uneasiness, labor, &c. I could thus explain all the hours, one after another, but I should confine myself to the sign of ten o'clock, which is the age of three score and three. It signifies heaviness, ice, prison, fetters, &c. Or, every hour has another wherewith it forms a contrast. The opposite to ten is six, which is the age of eighteen, the age when we break the bands of childhood, and where the passions appear with impetu­osity. That signifies elopement, delivery, transitory happiness, lively pleasure, but of short duration, and poisoned by remorse or the fear of futurity.

"From this explanation, you may collect, that had you known my secret, you would have guessed this enigma as well as myself. Divide the hours into three years each, and thus proceed to midnight, which is the period, or death. Make them refer to the moral actions of every epoch of life, and you will guess all. Your man is in affliction at ten at night: I mean, he [Page 35] is restrained, fettered, imprisoned: And as every crisis has a period, and every hour a contrast, thus he leaves his confinement at six in the morning."

I could not help laughing at this strange fustian of my prophet, and seeing me so merry, he was on the point of being angry, and would give me another specimen of his abilities. He made some grimaces, examined my hands, my eyes, my features, and finished with telling me, that I should one day become very rich, very powerful, very happy, &c. that I should be married to a fine woman whom I had loved a very long time, but that all this was not to come to pass before I had undergone a great deal of adversity.—"Well, my friend," answered I, "I receive your prediction; go, and if ever I am happy, thou shalt be happy too."—"You think I am in joke," pursued the diviner, "but be sure if I am so fortunate as to discover the truth of my augury, you shall see me at your door."

I sent him away laughing, and upbraiding myself for my foolish curiosity.

CHAP. V.
SENTIMENTAL WALKS.

IN the mean time I grew up, and every day added something to my accomplishments; but of what use were they to me? Music, in which I was a tolera­ble adept, far from having those charms which every other person finds in it tired and wearied me. I had no opportunity to display it. I went to no concert, not even to a play, and was reduced to sing such solitary airs as Mr. Dumont chose to place before me.

He painted society in such odious colours, that I was far from begging him to introduce me any where; our sole amusement was to walk in the country. We always reaped some advantage from these excursions; nothing to us was an object of indifference, and we [Page 36] made comments upon every little incident that pre­sented itself.

One day we returned from Belleville, by a path leading through the fields; the sun was sunk beneath the horizon, and the disk of the moon proclaimed the empire of night. We perceived a young man behind a bush at some distance from our path, sighing and uttering such loud complaints as reached our ears. We could plainly see him hold a pistol, which he loaded with apparent haste, and applied it repeatedly to his mouth. At first we were apprehensive for ourselves, but finding that the stranger did not perceive us, and was apparently struggling in deep despair, we yielded to compassion. We approached the hedge slowly, and could hear him utter these words, in a distracted man­ner, with a low voice, interrupted with sighs—"Let me finish! Let this moment terminate my sufferings! I have lost my all! Death is but a slumber, I will sleep then, and suffer no more."

These expressions roused the indignation of my Men­tor: He plainly saw that the man was a materialist, and he detested that impious sect. Yet pity, and a desire of reclaiming him to reason, determined him to con­vince him of his error, if possible, and save his life. "Ah! sir, what are you doing?" cried he, discover­ing himself; can you entertain so bad an opinion of yourself and of the Being that made you?"

The stranger, surprised at the sudden apparition of a priest and a young man, was struck, but composing himself, answered Mr. Dumont—"What is my way of thinking to you? Are you, sir, to answer for me? Let us be short, I have no time to dispute with you, I must get rid of my life, I must." "What prompts you to so rash a deed?"—Every thing; distress and a total want of resources."—"At your age do you despair of providence."—"Mere words."—"Very efficacious words. But what impels you to a deed so unworthy of a man of courage? Your exterior shows that it is not distress?"—"It is nothing else, I assure you."—"Young man, be calm, disclose your heart. My profession shall be the pledge of my discretion and probity. Relate your misfortunes."

[Page 37] "What can it avail?"—"I may, perhaps, be of some service to you; hear me, you are unfortunate, I have been the same, and the boy whom you see here has been unfortunate, and his situation perhaps is worse than yours! Come, my dear friend, give me the pistol, and take my hand: Sit down by your two friends upon this rising turf! I am concerned for you; how happy should I be if I could—but—this is the murdering weapon. Away with the instrument of celestial wrath, I will have you to live."

Dumont, with this, threw away the pistol which the young man had given him, and both sat down on the turf: I followed them shivering, and within myself taxed my preceptor with imprudence. Acquainted as I was with his mistrustful disposition, he now surprised me, and his humanity alone pleaded for him."

The stranger related a series of adverse incidents, which I shall not recapitulate, and concluded, that having been secretary to one count D'Ereville, he had been dismissed in a disgraceful way through the treach­ery of a friend, and was of course without shelter or resources. Mr. Dumont, quite moved at his story, consoled him, made a tender of his services, and gave him from his purse a louis d'or. The stranger thanked him in the warmest manner. This gratitude touched me, and I was preparing to bestow the same favor upon him: But, judge my surprise! At the sight of the gold, which seemed to dazzle his eyes, the villain turned quite pale, and in the rudest manner cried, "What, do you confine your liberality to so trifling a gift? Why, have you not more money? I insist upon having all."—"O heavens, thou wretch!"—"I am a wretch, and capable of—this instant give me what you have, or your life!"

Fear, surprise, and indignation overwhelmed our senses. We rose and looked around, if any person could assist us; but the darkness of the place prevented our seeing any thing, and we were defenceless. The wretch produced another pistol, which he had no doubt provided for the purpose. What a situation was ours! After having loaded him with reproaches we consented to give him our all, but the ruffian seeing our watch [Page 38] chains demanded them also. Mine was too dear for me to consent to lose it. This enraged me, I pulled out my knife, and stepping backwards, "Traitor!" cried I, "thou shalt not have it, without my life." Mr. Dumont, encouraged by my behaviour, rushed upon the robber, wrested from his hands the pistol with which he threatened to blow out my brains. But I know not how the matter would have ended, but for the unforeseen assistance which heaven sent us in that extremity. A waggoner's whip, and the distant rat­tling of a carriage suddenly struck our ears. This, which revived hope in our breasts, gave such terror and dismay to our enemy, that he flew from us across the plain, and thus delivered us from the danger we were in.

We now looked at one another for some time unable to utter a word; and in this situation the waggoner found us. He looked at us, and, frightened at the [...]ight of the pistol which Mr. Dumont still held in his hand, asked us what we were doing? "Ah, my friend," cried my tutor, "to you we owe our lives; a wretch had just robbed us; I was strong enough to attack him and he made off on your approach." The waggoner asked for the pistol, and endeavored to fire it in the air, but to the surprise of us all it was not loaded. We then told him our adventure, and entreated his company and protection until we should reach the porte St. Antoine. This he readily complied with, and we set out together, but not without a mixture of uneasiness; for we were so disconcerted by the treachery of the stranger, as every now and then to look around us, believing him at our heels.

Having reached the port St. Antoine, we had it not in [...]ur power to reward our guide as we could have wished, having now not a farthing lest. Mr. Dumont gave him our address, and desired him to come and see us next day; but whether from modesty or disinterestedness, he never came, nor did we over afterwards hear of him.

When arrived at the college, Dumont said, "What a lesson! what a sad lesson, my dear disciple! Such are men! Such are those traitors, those monsters of in­gratitude; they plunge a dagger in your breast the very moment you give them assistance. After such conduct, [Page 39] oblige them! be humane, feeling, generous! You see how they acknowledge our kindness!"—"But, sir, are they all of that disposition"—"All, my dear youth; they do not positively attack you, pistol in hand, as this ruffian has done, but they will slander you, they will asperse your character, and defame you privately. One will without pity assassinate you in one sense. This has no principle, no character, and of course no grati­tude. That is all warmth, all zeal, all heart: But by due inference, he has passions which will break the tie that unites them to you.

"There are some who love you sincerely, who profess a real attachment to your interest; with your friends they are your friends, but with your enemies they will act as enemies. In company with the latter, they, by a motive of zeal will defend you, but they gradually yield, and at length grant all that your enemies have to say against you.

"Such is the return for obligations conferred. I am, however, of opinion, that the generous heart should not be dismayed, if it meets with ingratitude; and should make an effort of noble perseverance, and be an its guard. As for my own part I ought not to have confided in the traitor who has thus [...] deceived us. The first words I heard him utter were blasphe­mous. I ought to have foreseen his villainy, for men without religion are not susceptible of virtuous senti­ments."—"The pistol with which he threatened us was, however, not loaded: He surely must have known that; it must have been the sight of our gold alone that made him break through all bounds,"

"This is another fatal vice: The sordid passion hatched in an abject, indelicate heart."—"But, sir, extreme want? may it not sometimes—"—"Ex­treme want! No, my dear friend, never. An honest man suffers, sighs, and is satisfied with the casual relief afforded by humanity and generosity. We may also speak of society in regard to this vice. Be you ever so rich, ever so liberal to the indigent who surround you they are never satisfied. They will have you to strip yourself to serve them, or at least wish to be your equal. Covetousness, ambition and avarice prey upon them; they become insatiable by fresh favors confer­red. [Page 40] You can scarcely expect from them the least gratitude."

All the advice given me by Mr. Dumont, was, like this, wise and tempered by reflection. It crept into my mind and strengthened my resolution of shunning all mankind, whom I considered in the worst possible light.

Here Alexis suspended his narrative in order to partake of the nourishment so much wanted by the three travellers. Clara served up some boiled vegeta­bles, fruit, and a little milk, and the four sat down to a meal which health and appetite rendered exquisite. When the meal was over Candor begged his young guest to proceed with his story, which seemed great [...]y to interest him. They all resumed their former places, and Alexis, after signifying that his adventures were drawing to a conclusion, continued with such a grace and winning address, as totally conquered the hearts of those who made him so kindly welcome.

Mr. Dumont conceived a project which he commu­nicated to me. He was determined to obtain every particular respecting the character of the man who frightened us in the plains of Belleville; and his end for doing it, he said, was to illustrate the better by exam­ple the moral lessons he had given me.

The stranger, in relating his history, had discovered that he had been formerly secretary to count Ereville. This count had then his son at college, and of all my fellow students, the young count was the only one with whom I was intimate. I remarked in him no essen­tial qualities, but he appeared less degenerate than the rest. As I was a proficient in music, he had repeat­edly invited me to his father's house to hear his sister, who, he said, was a capital performer on the piano forte. Mr. Dumont, feeling averse to my going into company, had always rejected the polite offer of my young friend, but curious to dive into our adventure at Belleville, he finally yielded to young Ereville's soli­citations, and we engaged ourselves for the first holiday: I took with me some pieces of music, and with Mr. Dumont set out from the college.

It was about four o'clock when we arrived at the count's house. The servant gave in our names, and [Page 41] introduced us to a hall sumptuously furnished, where, in a circle of eight or ten cavaliers, we found it dif­ficult to distinguish the master of the house. The young count, however, presented us to his father and mother, and the reception they gave us was certain­ly flattering. Soon after my friend having informed them that I was a performer, they expressed a cu­riosity to hear me. I objected for some time, and beg­ged Miss D'Ereville to give us a display of her tal­ents, but as she refused I was obliged to comply. I sat down and sung to my own accompaniment a kind of song, the words and music of which I had compo­sed. At the end of my song, the whole company be­stowed on me such compliments as I certainly did not deserve, and begged for a copy of my song, which I promised. Miss D'Ereville, in her turn, performed, with a most ungraceful air, a sonata of my master's composition, which the badness of her performance could hardly make me distinguish. Notwithstanding, the whole company clapped their hands, feigned great rapture, and bestowed the most exaggerated praise on Miss D'Ereville; the little creature received them with an air of self sufficiency, always preceeding from those vain and high notions which people conceive of their own merit.

The instruments were now laid aside, the visitors formed a circle, and the conversation became general. "Is it not long," madame D'Ereville asked a young officer, with a mean and haughty countenance, "Is it not long since you have seen the chevalier D'A***?" "Long indeed," answered the officer, "I do not know what becomes of him. He forsakes all his friends, which is shameful." "Love decoys him from the bosom of friendship," replied a person who appeared the president of the circle. "Well," answered a lusty abbé, "has he left his fille D'Opera?" "O no!" continues an old baroness, quite loaded with diamonds: "they live still together,. Is it not a most degenerate taste? He should at least have paid his addresses to some woman of quality."—"By the bye," says the abbè "he is fit for the best company. "We know him better," answered the officer.—"How do you make that out?" asked [Page 42] madame D'Ereville. "How, do you not know it," "No, I don't, pray tell me."—"He is a bastard, he is, indeed, he is the son of count D'A*** and a woman whose name has never been known."—"What, are you sure of this, abbé?"—"Very sure, he imparted it in confidence to me."—"How then came he by the title of chevalier?"—O! his is a title one may easily take." "Softly, abbè" replied the sparkling baroness, "he is legitimated, his father took care of that."—"He says so, perhaps."—"O! this is very true, I have been intimate for six months with the chevalier D'A *** and have seen his diploma more than once."—"Why, diplomas may be now got easily."—I cannot believe it, pursued madame D'Ereville! "The chevalier a bas­tard! how could such a man be admitted into com­pany! "Never mind that," answered the Dowager, "the ladies like him."—"To be sure," answered the countess, with a malicious sneer, "Those ladies that are plenty,"—"Why, he makes his choice: that is something, however."—"He does not take the love­liest."—"Oh, said the president, with a bitter smile, "He always takes care that Plutus indemnifies him for the ill favor of nature." At this vulgar bon mot, the whole company burst into laughter. The baroness only seemed to be enraged, she rose, saluted the company, and departed. One after another left the room in the same manner, and ill natured reflec­tions were passed at the expense of every one of them.

We carried away from this house ample matter for reflection, and began to philosophize as soon as we reached the college.

"My dear disciple" said Mr. Dumont, "you have now seen company, and how do you like it?—"It ap­pears so odious to me that I never wish to see it again." "I shall forbear advising you on that head. The example which chance has furnished you with, ought to make a sufficient impression upon your mind. I shall only reflect upon the conduct of the young man, who used us so perfidiously on the road to Belville, what do you think of him?" When I gave him my opinion, he added a number of reflections on the subject, and advised me against keeping company with young D' Ereville, of whom he had reasons now to form a very bad opinion.

CHAP. VI.
LUXEMBOURG GARDENS, AND THE DUNGEON.

THUS the sage lessons of my master took firm root in my heart, and I, no doubt for my welfare, acquired a reserved gloomy temper, which gave him the highest satisfaction. He conceived so strong an at­tachment for me, as to promise to be for life the com­panion of his dear Alexis, if irresistable fate should not dispose otherwise.

My father came to see us regularly every three months, and let us want for nothing. Mrs. Delys died several years before: I gave tears to her memory, but at last regretted her no farther than a respectable friend, who had served me as a mother in my infancy.

I was as happy as man can be, and hoped to enjoy my good fortune much longer, when fate, jealous of my peaceful days, begun the series of my misfortunes, by an event whose consequences seemed at first less ter­rible to me, than they really proved afterwards.

I was fifteen, and had soon to study philosophy, when one day Mr. Dumont received a note, which, to my terror, he read to me:

Judge of my surprize! What could they want [...] Mr. Dumont? He had no acquaintance. Who could be the writer of the note? What could be the urgent business to be communicated to him? Was it my father, who—but he could come himself! What uneasiness! What cruel perplexity!

We waited with the greatest impatience for the end of the day, and although the unknown person required Mr. Dumont to come by himself, I begged the latter to permit me to accompany him, promising, to walk [Page 44] upon the terrace during the time of their interview▪ but he was so delicate, so scrupulous, that he could not consent to my proposal. In consequence, I let him depart, and waited for his return, in an agitation which I could not suppress, and like a man that waits for his doom.

He returned about nine o'clock, and the change I perceived in his countenance made me utter a pierc­ing cry. The tears he endeavored to withhold rolled down his eyes, whose redness indicated that he had shed more; his voice was altered, he fixed his eyes upon me with an emotion of tenderness, was going to speak, but his tongue denied its office, and he could only press me in his arms. "Well, sir," said I, "what tidings do you bring for me." "None that will vex you," an­swered he, striving to conceal his grief. "Be of good cheer, if I shed tears, it is only because your father is absent, and we must miss him for some time." "What, my father?"—"It was he; I have seen him! Mr. Du­mont, said he, I am obliged to go upon a very long journey—take care of my poor Alexis! I entrust him to you: Restore him to me at my return. Let me find him prudent, modest, clever, and grateful! I set out, I tell you, upon a journey that will last perhaps—I cannot fix the period. I shall provide for you and him, but [...] insist upon his giving up his studies; let him quit the college of Navarre, and keep yourself con­cealed in some obscure quarter of Paris, until I return. And here your father could go no farther; he gave me this large sum, and departed, recommending me the precious deposit with which he entrusted me."

Thus spoke Mr. Dumont, and I could not perceive in his countenance that air of assurance so peculiar to him, which was always a sure token of truth. "You deceive me," said I, "my dear preceptor, you conceal my misfortune! My father abandons me forever!"—"There again, always extreme, and never confiding, a characteristic trait of yours! Why should he abandon you, have you deserved it?—Alas!—Well, my Alex­is, believe a friend who speaks to you, a friend who cherishes and will never suffer to be parted from you—no—never!"

[Page 45] He uttered these last words with such an emotion of sensibility, that I threw myself into his arms, and be­dewed his breast with my tears. I could however see, that he hid something from me, but I would impor­tune him no farther, persuaded that all his views tend­ed to my happiness, and it required powerful motives to make him feign.

The very next day we left the college, which I quitt­ed without regret, and rented an apartment in a house near the royal botanical garden. That lodging was neither fine nor convenient; and Mr. Dumont observ­ed that we ought to be frugal, as my father, when at a distance, would not always find such easy means to send us remittances. I asked if he had promised to write. No doubt, answered he, can a father deny him­self that comfort?

Mr. Dumont seemed always to dissemble, while my uneasiness became greater still. Nevertheless I kept silence, and was determined to yield to the power of fate.

From that very instant we changed our way of living: Vincent got his discharge, and we hired a fe­male servant who was to look after our domestic con­cerns, and to dress our victuals. I also paid off and thanked my master; so great, in short, was the change, that I firmly believed my father had abandoned me. I made often this observation to Mr. Dumont, who would then be angry, and always shewed me certain sums of money, which he said were brought him by some unknown person

This a whole year elapsed, during which I continu­ed my studies under Mr. Dumont, who was an excel­lent scholar. I begun to be a little easier; I had the same occupation and the same pleasures as before; that is to say, we took frequent wal [...]s in the fields, and visited almost daily the royal botanical garden in our neighborhood, which we sound very pleasant. The little wood in the centre and the marshes which en­compass the walls, reaching as far as the river, gave it such a rural and solitary aspect, as made it, in my opi­nion, the finest garden in Paris.

During the second year of our residence in the same lodgings, Mr. Dumont began to cause me a most cruel [Page 46] uneasiness. He went out for the whole day, and only came to see me at meal hours, and at night, which time he employed to correct my exercises. He still conti­nued tender and friendly, but his confidence and assidu­ity were much lessened; for my own part, I did not know where he went, as he seemed to make it a mys­tery, I dared not to venture the least question.

I perceived that his means were very low, that our domestic parsimony augmented, and that our expendi­ture diminished from day to day. I was very well dressed, when his clothes were in a shabby condition, and he almost denied himself the common necessaries. I received no intelligence from my father. All this threw me into a state of langour, which brought on a very serious malady, of which I had like to have died.

It was then I had an opportunity to see all the af­fection and attachment Mr. Dumont professed for me: He would not leave the room, for a minute, and sat up by me night and day, for the long space of three weeks, during which my illness lasted. How often did I entreat him to explain himself! He always answered I was much in the wrong, for creating myself a chim­erical misery. All affairs had taken a much better turn; in short, I was upon the point of receiving a letter from my father; his wise counsels, his consola­tions, instilled, as it were, a precious [...] into my senses, and I recovered completely.

I was scarcely out of danger, but he continued his late odd way of living. He even became less seden­tary, and at last I missed him for whole days together. In order to encrease my alarm, the servant maid thought to ingratiate herself with me, by informing me that my preceptor left the house regularly every night, that as soon as he saw me asleep he would rise, and leave the house and not return until five in the morn­ing, and then go to bed.

Matters being come to such a crisis, I could no long­er forbear my inquietude, and one day determined to bring him to an account for a conduct, as unnatural as irregular. Having fixed a day to make the over­ture of so delicate an affair, I waited for his return, when the same servant came to me, quite frightened, and addressed me in these dreadful words: "Ah!— [Page 47] sir!—your preceptor!—pray run after him!—he has been arrested—he is in prison!"—"Heaven! and what has he done?"—"I don't know, people say it is for debt."—"For debt! ah, my God!"

I hastily waited upon the commissaire, or justice of the district, and by him was informed, that the unfor­tunate Dumont had been dragged into a black dun­geon for a note of hand of five louis d'ors, which he had not been able to pay.

Judge of my grief at these sad tidings. I went im­mediately to the prison, and requested the jailor to open the dungeon in which my friend had been thrown, perhaps for my own sake.

What felt I at this sight! pale, bewildered, stretched over a mat, with no other light than that of a small spiracle!—O God! I cannot retrace the picture with­out horror.

I flew to his arms, and we mixed our tears—"Well," said I, sobbing, "cruel man, I see at last the fatal se­cret unravelled! We have lost all assistance, and you have involved yourself in ruin for me!"

"Ah! my worthy Alexis," exclaimed he, clasping me in his arms, "I endeavored to conceal it long; but adverse fate has baffled my design. I will have you hear, and know the whole affair, but your lot is more to be pitied than mine.

The day I received the anonymous note, I repaired to the garden of Luxembourg, to the appointed spot. I had no sooner arrived, than a man, in great haste, came up to me. I knew him, it was your father; Mr. Dumont, said he, in a time of grief, it is all over!—I am forced to it—I must abandon him." "Whom. sir, that child, yoor son?"—"He is not my son! he causes all my misfortunes, and those of the most amiable, and most perfidious woman! In short, I will see him no more, neither ought, nor can I! My dear Mr. Du­mont, I know you are his friend, make him take the resolution to learn some trade; make him leave this country; in short, put him in a v [...]y of getting his livelihood, which to me would be the heaviest of bur­dens! Farewel, you shall see me no more! Never speak of me. Let him keep the secret of his birth; for a word may nigh cost him his life!"—"What, my dear [Page 48] sir," cried I, prostrating myself, "can you be so hard hearted? Unfortunate boy!—Will you then have him die? He will die, he will surely die! Be his father, for he deems it his happiness to be your son!—Assist him—protect him.—Alas!—he is so amiable, so virtu­ous!—Ah, sir, I embrace your knees, I bedew them with my tears; listen to compassion, to tenderness, and stifle not in your heart the cries of nature!"—"Du­mont, you touch me, but I cannot—he is not my son! Did you but know!—Oh! how I am to be pitied! Farewel! Let him take care of his life, and do you the same; for my destiny is so dreadful as to make me the ruin of all those who come near me!"

These words made me shudder; I was going to answer; but he quickly put a purse into my hand, and vanished like a flash of lightning.

Judge of my astonishment and grief. I ruminated most seriously upon what resolution I should take, and determined to conceal this cruel event, and live with you as long as possible, on the savings of your father's kindness, and the fruits of my own industry. Fifty louis d'ors contained in the purse, and nearly that sum which we had saved, helped me to pay your quarter at college, to rent an apartment, to furnish it decently. I discharged Vincent, hired a maid, and prevailed up­on you to pay off and quit your masters. Alas! in spite of all my parsimony, I found that, after a twelve­month, I could only command twelve louis d'ors.

Foreseeing that we should soon be reduced to want, I resolved to give lessons in town, in writing and La­tin; but of what service could it be? I had but a few pupils, and even those did not pay me! When you are on the brink of an abyss, every one takes delight in pushing you into it. Your disorder and the care which it demanded of me, made me lose all my scholars, and I was obliged to borrow the sum of five louis d'ors, which I obtained upon my note of hand; since that time I had done all in my power to discharge that obligation, but the necessity of a subsistence, hindred me from accomplishing my good purpose. I was, however, more industrious than before, for I worked night and day at a printer's, but earned so little, as would hardly fetch the common necessaries of life and [Page 49] hinder you from being aware of my miserable condition.

Now, my amiable Alexis, now I am deprived of liberty for a long time to come, what will become of you? Who is to take care of you? Who is to give you bread? Oh, lovely child, who has neither parents nor friends in this world, what will become of you?"

"O thou most worthy pattern of friendship," ex­claimed I. "O thou boast of men! do you think I shall suffer you to remain in irons, with which I my­self have loaded the best of friends?—No, think not that I shall have recourse to the vain pity of man­kind! I am humbled by their generosity; and their favors, courted by baseness, would make me blush. Still, I have one resource left, a dear, a precious re­source, but it will become still dearer and more pre­cious, as it is to atone for the injuries I have done to you.—O my worthy tutor, I shall only quit you, to return and take you from this abode of horror."

Dumont, who understood that I meant the gold re­peater enriched with diamonds, which my father had given me, strove though in vain, to detain me. I ha­stened to a watchmaker's, who after much talk, paid me twenty-five louis d'ors for a watch, that ought to have fetched twice that sum, and I came back to dis­charge my friend's debt, and to break his irons! Think of the joy I felt when we returned to our apartment! I was almost out of my senses; I took Dumont in my arms, and thanked heaven for the resource it left me in such an exigency.

Nevertheless my joy was followed by uneasiness, there was left no more than fifteen louis d'ors. What could we do with a sum so moderate? How could we subsist much longer? My Dumont would not make me any proposal to work, for fear of hurting my deli­cacy. I was sensible of his generous reserve. I inti­mated to him my having conceived a project of teach­ing music in town, which he sealed with his approba­tion. Music, said he, is an art one may teach with­out derogating; but my dear Alexis, how unpleasant will you find it! you must prepare to put up with the caprice, haughtiness, and ill humors of a thousand [Page 50] people, who, destitute of every shadow of genius or parts, always blame their masters for their own stupi­dity: Since they pay, they fancy that science and dex­terity must be acquired without either trouble or ap­plication. Often they will tell you: But, sir, I have now learned so many months, and know nothing, while Mrs. N—is already a complete musician!—It will be in vain for you to tell them Mrs. N—has stuck closer to the art, and that her utmost attention and docility have been always concerted to do honor to the lessons of her master. Ah! my Alexis, what a patience, what a politeness, what a gentleness is re­quired of those who are desirous of instructing mankind in what science or art soever! I pity you for being re­duced to recur to a similar expedient; but still, it is decent, genteel, and not unworthy of your education, make therefore the best use of it you can.

I promised to profit by his lessons, and we looked out on all sides for pupils; but our searches were fruit­less; we both had not the least acquaintance; we had always avoided society, and it was in the bosom of it alone, we could have found the object of our eager pursuit.

Our money being gone, we saw ourselves brought to the most dreadful misery. It was then, the most sad and distrasting ideas seized our mind. Death seemed to be the only remedy to our ills, we called it loudly, and it would finally have come to relieve us, had not a cruel event extricated us from our forlorn condition to plunge us in a state, a thousand times more deplorable.

In one of our morning walks in the royal botanical garden, a venerable grey head rushed by us, attend­ed by a young man of about thirty, in whose counte­nance were painted gloominess and sorrow. The lat­ter cast his eyes on me, and exclaimed with an irre [...]sti­ble transport: "It is he; my father! there he is! oh, it is he! these are the marquis's features."—"You dont say so," replied the old man.—"I would lay any thing," said the other, adding in a whisper, "there, we have him at last, that wretch whom we sought so long! He shall perish."

Hereupon the two strangers lest us quite stupified at [Page 51] this adventure, and so singular a retreat. "Dear Du­mont," exclaimed I, shedding a torrent of tears, "I am lost, now my fate is determinated!" "Softly A­lexis, despair not, my dear child; astonishing as this adventure is, it ought not to alarm you so much; peo­ple will not be killed in that manner. Never [...]ear, they will not cut your throat at home"

"But sir what have I done to those cruel men? O heaven! who will apprize me of my crimes?"

Mr. Dumont was as much terrified as I. These strangers must therefore, have been some secret ene­mies who have conspired my ruin. It was from them I was to hide myself, but why? What a cruel enigma.

We went home, where Mr. Dumont was of opin­ion that it would be necessary to decamp immediate­ly from our lodgings, lest we should be discovered: But there was one difficulty: We had neither money nor means to procure us wherewithal to pay our rent. Only judge of our anxiety.

We spent the day in deadly fright; we projected twenty different expedients, rejected them successively, and night surprized us without having taken any re­solution.

About midnight we heard several hard knocks a­gainst our street door: how our hearts beat then!—I fell senseless in Mr. Dumont's arms who was him­self no less afraid. A lodger opened the street-door, and informed us through the key hole of our apart­ment that we were wanted.

Shall we open? shall we answer? What is to be done? At last Dumout shews a noble resoluteness, and is determined either to stand or fall in my cause, if a­ny violence should be offered to me. He opens to let in the stranger: It was a servant, who, in a humble and respectful manner, begged us to be of good cheer, and said to us in a whisper: Quick, gentlemen, peruse this, and follow me.

O happiness! O unexpected favor! It is my fa­ther's, I know his hand writing.

"Imprudent Alexis! your father is still inclined to save your life, perhaps at this very moment you have [Page 52] disposed of his own. Follow this sturdy servant!—Come, you will find me at Valence; and you, Mr. Dumont, leave not your pupil: I am in great want of you.

"A way with scruples, depart instantly, or you are both undone."

This was no snare; we plainly knew my father's writing.—"Whether shall we," asked I of the ser­vant.—"You shall soon see, only follow me."

This man having delivered a considerable sum with his message, we paid our landlord, and set out that ve­ry moment; a post chaise was waiting for us at a lit­tle distance, we got into it, and took the road to Va­lence.

Judge of the thoughts which revolved in our minds! My father waited for us at Valence. We were going to see him again: His letter denoted either anger or hatred [...] Complete happiness sparkled in our eyes;—what a change, what a good fortune! But what could he mean by the epithet imprudent? He said I had per­haps just been disposing of his own life. Alas! if I did, how can he accuse me?

This was the uneasiness which perplexed us all the way to Valence. We were suspended between fear and hope. Our guide was silent, nor could we get from him the least idea of what we wanted to know.

We reached the city of Valence about eight o'clock in the evening▪ after a journey of three days. Our guide conducted us to a fine inn, where he inquired whether or not a gentleman of such a discription was arrived. A post boy then present, answered in the ne­gative, adding, that, to all appearance, it was the same gentleman whom he had left at Lyons, and as he could be but one post farther, he would arrive either that night or in the morning.

Hearing this we resolved to go to supper, and then rest ourselves, till Aurora should return with my fa­ther, and crown all my wishes. I don't know what a happy presentment agitated our breasts. My. Dumont embraced me, and took me in his arms, saying con­tinually, "Courage, my Alexis, we shall see him again." What a seducing picture offered itself to my senses, [Page 53] "We shall be all one heart, one family! O my Alexis, receive my most sacred oath, I will never abandon you. Grant me always your confidence; and may I be equal­ly fortunate to deserve that of your father."

I pressed him to my heart without giving any answer. Such were the flattering images which amused us un­til four o'clock in the morning, when the sudden rat­tling of a post chaise, which stopped before the inn, roused us from our sweet reverie.

"It is he," exclaimed I, and we both ran down stairs to receive him; but O surprise! the moment I wa [...] fly­ing to his arms, my father—O heaven! my father frowns at me most terribly, pushes me from him, bids us walk up stairs to a remote apartment of the house, and addressed me with the following horrible speech, which shall remain in my memory, to the last breath of my wretched being.

"You are not my son, sir, I told you so. I was weak enough to entertain that flattering error; but the blind is thrown off. To my misfortune you are born; and as such you have answered your end. Get thee far from me, unhappy lad—I reject thee from my bo­som—I disclaim, I forsake, and curse thee forever."

I trembled at these words, my spirits fled, and I dropped down senseless upon the floor. Far from giv­ing me the smallest succor, the barbarous men—shall I proceed in this dismal story? O amiable hosts, you will be as much surprised as I was in that cruel mo­ment! Suffer me, ah! suffer me to dry my tears: I feel they hinder me from going farther.

I remained in that condition for an hour; judge of my surprise, when I recovered my senses! My father and Dumont have left me; I see them not—where be they?

A woman, to whom I was indebted for the misfor­tune of opening again my eyes to light, stands by me; she endeavors to comfort me. "Where are they, where are they?" "Alas, my dear child, they set out about three quarters of an hour ago."—"And gone! good God! and Dumont, Dumont too."

I shall not attempt to describe [...] situation: You may easily conceive it if your hearts are feeling and [Page 54] humane.—"Dumont! what he! traitor! has he for­saken me?"

I run down stairs, and made the whole house re­echo with my woful lamentations. Every body as­sures me that Dumont and my father set out together in the same chaise, which had stopped with the latter before the inn. What a blow—a terrible blow!

Soon my grief ceded to a sullen and settled des­pair; fits of rage succeeded to it, and, in spite of the assiduous care and consolation of those who surround­ed me, I dropped down upon the floor, and rolled my­self upon it; I swallowed the dust, and put forth the most dismal cries; cries that would have moved the most flinty heart.

In this cruel state I remained until three o'clock in the afternoon; bereft of my senses, I could hardly see what was doing about me. "The poor lad," said they, "don't you see that it was his father and his preceptor; they have forsaken him. Oh, had we known it, they should not have got off so easy—But no, they go: Take care of him! they may come back. How barbarous! What a pity at such an age, &c."

My situation seemed to touch every body, and all offered to relieve me, but I was far from accepting any succor. The master of the inn invited me to stay at his house: I will give you some employment, my good friend; you shall not want for what is necessary. To be sure you wont be so well off as you was at your father's, for there is nothing like home, after all, &c. &c." Every word he said thrust dag­gers into my heart. I resolved to rid myself of his importunities, and taking my baggage upon my back took leave of them all.

I left Valence, perplexed with the most dreadful thoughts, but making God and religion my shield, I soon repulsed those enemies which preyed upon all my senses, and I saw myself before the town of Ro­mans at the decline of day.

Thus Alexis ended the history of his misfortunes, and Candour, Germain, and Clara, embraced and shew him every token of the most exquisite sensibility. A frugal repast was served up, and the remaining [Page 55] part of the day past in visiting the cottage and its pre­mises, of which we shall give a more ample detail hereafter.

CHAP. I.
A NIGHT SCENE.

THE narrative of our hero's misfortunes operated, in a singular manner, upon Candor, Germain, and Clara. Candor, above all could not be tired on looking at him for the whole time the supper lasted. He had placed Alexis next to him, and from time to time would exclaim, "What, my son—so young and such a knowledge of mankind;—How, you know them well;—Your philosophy, your courage, all in thee interest me to a point. O my Alexis, I depend upon your steadiness with the most consolatory expect­ations. I will disclose them some day, you shall help me. But stay, I will try you for a twelvemonth. Be my son, you have no father; let me supply his place. Alexis, promise me as much submission and docility as you would for a father!"—"Yes, father, I promise every thing." "Upon your honor?" "Heaven be my witness." "Give me thy hand, and remember one day the sacred engagement you have entered into with Candor." Your favors will never make me forget it." "I was happy and powerful in the world, my closest bosom friends have thrown me into the abyss of ills; Germain alone stood by me, Germain, my good and honest friend, love him as I do: what a treasure is a trusty, faithful servant. Behold Clara; my only daughter, my every thing—be her tutor; teach her all the sciences, all the accomplishments you are master of: May she profit by your lessons, and above all may she take [Page 56] your sage advice, that prudence, that mistrust in man­kind, qualities so requisite for a being destined to live some day in the bosom of society. For I am old and hoary, my good children, I cannot always be with you, and when I am once gone, perhaps you may have the most ardent desire of living in towns, of launching into the whirlpool." "Ah, never, never," answered Alexis and Clara, in conjunction with each other.

Alexis was transported with joy. Clara squeezed his hand, embraced her father and Germain, and en­raptured with the happy prospect that glowed in her beauteous eyes, she could not conceal her satisfaction.

They soon arose from their frugal repast, and Can­dor would have Alexis to take an exact view of the hermitage, in which the old man thought he would remain for life.

Clara laid hold immediately of the youth's arm, Candor, supported himself on Germain's shoulder, and all four went to visit the several parts of this re­treat. Let us follow their traces, and get acquainted with an abode where we shall, for some time, dwell with them.

They first entered a yard, ninety feet square, its cen­tre is occupied by the cottage. The lateral extent of the edifice is thirty, and the height fifty feet.

They ascend four steps, enter a small vestibule; where Alexis perceives at the bottom of the stairs, two doors, the one on the right and the other on the left. The first conducts to the kitchen, and the second to a hall fifteen feet high, furnished with a chimney, a table, chairs, and a considerable library.

He leaves the hall, and goes up some winding stairs to the first floor; on this side is Candor's bed chamber. A bed, a large chest of drawers, two portraits, half a dozen of fowling pieces, and some chairs are the only furniture he sees in it.

Clara's chamber is not better decorated, excepting a fine harpsicord which takes up the greatest part of the room.

In the second story he enters two little rooms, with­out a chimney, but very snug and decent.

Above them is a large garret, which supplies the place of a hay loft, and granary.

[Page 57] Every ceiling is vaulted, and built of stone: Every window of the apartments is grated with iron bars, and does not exceed six feet in height. Below stairs is a door leading to a cellar, to which no body but Can­dor and Germain, had access. This cave or cellar contains neither wine nor liquors, (our hermits had long since left off to make use of them) there is nothing pent in it but—This is a mystery we shall certainly discover hereafter, but now it must remain concealed. Let us therefore follow our hero to the garden.

It is an inclosure of about an acre and an half, the third part planted with peas, beans, potatoes, oats, &c. &c. and the remainder a meadow yielding hay for the horse. There were also several fruit trees, and at the garden's end, a very lofty poplar, which appeared to have been left since the ground was first cleared to build the cottage and its premises. At the foot of the poplar, a limpid rivulet springing from a remote part of the woods, streams over a layer of pebbles, and eases itself in a frightful precipice, at the distance of two leagues from the cottage.

The rivulet, crossing the little garden, is hemmed in its career by a dike of shell work, which it surmounts, and forms a cascade, whose waters, fall into a bason near the meadow, hewn, as it were, by the hand of na­ture, in the heart of a rock.

A little bridge leading to a grove, the work of Can­dor, invites the philosopher to taste the sweets of the evening, and rest from the toils of the day: the whole of this rural and tranquil residence breathes calm tho't and solitude.

Alexis surveying with admiration those wonders of art and nature, lifted up his hand to heaven, to return thanks to the sublime Author, for having brought him to this delightful abode, where he can at least enjoy repose in the arms of the only beings, in whose hearts he had found generosity, sympathy and virtue.

Clara, who was leading him before her father, eager to shew him all the beauties of her garden, did not fail to expatiate upon its charms. "Do you see," said she, "yonder that field? I alone have cultivate it; but now, as you are my partner, my labor will be changed [Page 58] into mere pleasure: It is in this rivulet we shall quench our thirst; you will offer me this limped water, and I will receive it at your hands: here you will smile; there you will seek shelter from the heat of day: I will press one of those fruits upon your burning lips, and its nect­ar will refresh your blood. Oh! how often shall we at the decline of day, go to take rest in the grove. It is there, unknown to all the world far from the bustling and noise of cities, we shall bless and endear our being. The sun goes down, the moon plays, here and there, her silver beams through the foliage of the thicket. The bosom of the earth opens and and exhales a thou­sand perfumes. We fit by one another; the gentle purling of this rivulet, which glides beneath our feet, throws us into the sweets of thought; you press my hand to your heart, it beats, we give up all thinking; yet we gaze and enjoy! O Alexis, Alexis, belive thy Clara, "HERE SHALT THOU FIND HAPPINESS."

In vain Alexis endeavored to reply, his feelings would not suffer him to express his thoughts; he contented himself with squeezing Clara's hand, and holding her with that expression of sentiment which is more obvious to the pencil than to the eloquence. "O yes," said he, with a low voice, "yes I am already as happy as mortal can be."

Candor and Germain who came soon after, found the young couple in the extacy of delight. Germain shook his head, Candor smiled, and his children were put to the blush.

By this time the night began to lower upon nature. The birds perched in the wood, waited the retreat of the [...], to suspend their warbling, and to rest upon the hospitable branch. The nightingale alone enchanted the woods with her sweet melodies, and the moping owl, in deferrence to her, forebore her funeral howlings. All invited our anchorets to return to the cottage, to enjoy a repose, claimed by the emotions which they felt that day, and the fatigue the preceding night.

They had no convenience to substitute artificial light to that of day; the sun shut their eyes, and aurora re­opened them. Thus they retired to their respective a­partments, not to meet till day break.

[Page 59] Alexis, having received the tender embrace of the three hosts went up stairs to his room situated on the se­cond floor; he was determined to reject the calls of sleep, to reflect freely upon his present situation, and upon what conduct he should observe towards his new friends, so as to convince them of his gratitude and tenderness.

He had already forgot his misanthropy and mis­trust, when a very particular event revived them, bolted in his mind, and perplexed his senses.

He had hardly commenced his meditations, than he heard a noise at the door: He listens, hears the rattling of keys, one is put in the lock of his door, he asks who is there? no answer, in a moment the door is lock­ed, and the jailor disappears! What means this unex­pected precaution? why will they shut him up? what do they want of him? O heaven! should it be treachery? the house where he was received with open arms, should it be a den of ruffians? what, Candor, Germain, Clara, Clara! it is impossible. Perfidiousness cannot conceal itself so well under the mask of virtue: A look a ges­ture, the least motions detect it. They are not traitors, but why is he locked up? they have not apprised him of this detention; nor even did his jailor give him an answer. Ah! they surely will undo him! he has been too confident, too indiscreet: He should not have exposed himself; In a word, people, that inhabit a for­tified retreat, in a forest notorious for its robbers and banditti. All becomes suspicion to him: he recollects the conversation of the day, an expression of Candor's chills him with terror; O my Alexis! I depend upon your steadiness with the most consolatory expectation. I will disclose them some day; you shall help me. Great God! will they constrain a virtuous and well principled youth to become a robber! after all, what do they mean by this? should not the cellar which they would not let him see, conceal the murdered victims and the spoil? sure­ly this discourse, and mysterious cellar conceal crimes. Alexis doubts no longer, his head becomes light, his imagination works, ghastly spectres appear to him, hor­rid phantoms, from all sides cross his chamber, his hair stands at an end, his tongue becomes heavy, he [Page 60] remains motionless, and resolves upon some violent measure.

The window of his room was on the garden side, he runs to it, he will elope from the fatal house where the most dreadful omens trouble his reason. But an unforeseen obstacle is in his way, and sanctions his sus­picions by certainty. Large iron bars oppose his de­sign: It is all over, he is imprisoned, betrayed, un­done.

As the timid bird who falls into the net, and is af­terwards put in a cage, beats the hostile wire with its wings, and passing his bill across, pants for the tree, which he perceives, and on which he was perched a little before; thus our hero applies his mouth to the fatal bars, beholding across the garden, and the vast extent of the forest, whose gloomy abode appears to him preferable to the odious prison, where he presumes he will be obliged to remain all his life time.

In spite of all this, his sensible soul was still to un­dergo another shock. Will he have strength sufficient to bear the frightful spectacle that will present itself to his fight? At first he hears somebody shut the door of the cellar, that object of his terror, with a terrible noise, soon after Candor, and Germain come forth, carrying each a lighted flambeaux in their hands. A kind of a coffin covered with a pall, is seen on their shoulders: They silently cross the garden, and ad­vance to the foot of the poplar tree, near the borders of the limpid rivulet: Here they take off their bur­den, and the distance only hinders Alexis from hearing or seeing what they do.

Meanwhile Candor appears to open the coffin: He lays down upon it, he rises again, a fire is kindled, the flame blazes, rises, and on a sudden becomes ex­tinct: the tree is glanced, the leaves tremble, and the birds sitting on its branches flee with dismal shrieks: the flambeaux are exstinguished, all vanishes.

It is an illusion? is it a phantom? the moon ren­dered obscure by the pale light of the torches spread alone her mystic beams: the birds return to their wonted tree, Candor and Germain appear again, they [Page 61] cross the garden, return to set by the coffin in the se­cret cave, the door is shut, the rattling of keys, and the hollow sound of bolts are heard again.

Let now the reader place himself in the situation of my Alexis. He knows his fearful, suspicions, and mistrusting temper! Let him have an idea of his em­barrassment, his apprehensions, his shuddering! How agitated his mind! That coffin, that flame! what can have been that ceremony he could not distinguish: It is perhaps the body of some strayed traveller, which they burnt, after having stripped it. He doubts no more: To morrow the same fate awaits him: But where are his riches? why should they kill him? his spoil is not brilliant enough: No matter, he has all to fear. Perhaps Candor, deceived by the world, has sworn to sacrifice all such as will fall in his hands, to gratify his vengeance. Alexis is perhaps to augment the number of his victims: all confirm him in that idea. Alas! what has he done, that fate should have brought him to this detestable den! He regrets not life, it is a burden to him! but to fall by so base a treachery, af­ter having trusted to the good faith and humanity of his butchers. This, this alone, causes his despair, and makes him wish for the approach of day, in order to take a resolution: He will not suffer himself to be slaughtered thus patiently; he will sell his life as dear as he can. Tremble assassins, you shall not give him the mortal blow without having stood most vigorous in his own defence against Candor, Germain, and—Clara! what, is Clara guilty too?

CHAP. II.
THE LESSON OF MUSIC.

AURORA had dispelled night, and the sun began to gild the tops of the trees, a cloudless azure sky proclaimed a serene day, and soon the balmy fresh­ness, [Page 62] instilled by Zephyr in the brilliant pearls of the dew, was going to yield to the ardent [...]res of the me­ridian; all nature was beauteous and tranquil; but the heart of Alexis was not.

Pale, trembling, bewildered, he waited the fatal doom of death; already had he recommended himself to the mercy of the supreme Being▪ Prayer, in some manner, restored the calm of his senses; he just rose from his knees, when a gentle voice call him; "A­lexis, are you awake?"—"Yes," exclaimed he, "yes, I am, and prepared for all events!"—"It is Candor," replied the voice, "he comes to open your door and to embrace you!"

To embrace you!—Alexis was quite astonished: Was this a new snare? Did his judgment deceive him? he made a thousand conjectures, when Candor opens the door, enters, and is struck with the perplexity of his friend. He looks at him, lays hold of his hand, and, with such an air of penetration and truth, that Alexis cannot help listening to him, and makes him blush at his errors; he says, "What have you, my son—what means the trouble in which I see you?—Is it because I have kept you last night in a kind of captivity?—My friend, you would have wronged me, not to confide in your Candor?—I cannot believe it:—I would be a­shamed to think—compose yourself, hear your father, and conquer that childish fear which cannot but grieve me.

"You were looked up last night, and every future night I must observe the same precaution, which is more essential to me than you imagine. It ought not to alarm you, because, the whole day I shall give you a thousand proofs of my sincere, friendship; but I insist upon your not endeavoring to penetrate into that fatal secret. It is all I cherish, it is all I possess, do not tear it from me! My Alexis, did you but know!—Deserve my confidence, be always submissive, tender, and re­gardful; and soon I will disclose you my condition and misfortunes. Make yourself worthy of that confession!—I will not conceal it from you; nay, I expect of you a most signal service—but a service [...]ounded upon jus­tice and gratitude, which, if you love me, will never [Page 63] affect your delicacy. I am old. Alexis, I have been inhumanly betrayed; I was deprived of what I held most dear on earth. You shall be mine avenger.—You shall deserve the charming recompense, which I have de [...]lined for you; the charming recompense which will be dear to your heart!—Urge me not to say more—I conjure you, let me keep my secret for a while—one day I will deposit it in your bosom—you will know me then; but as yet, I am compelled to restrain your curiosity; I do not construe it into a crime, it is natural to your age. Every night permit me to look you up, I beg it as a favor! On these terms live with us, dispel all cares and anxiety, and be truly per­suaded that your innocence is in no kind of danger in this solitary abode; we all cherish religion, wisdom and virtue!"

This discourse, and the venerable appearance of the old man, rid Alexis of all perplexity. The balm of consolation descended into his heart, and serenity en­livened again his countenance. His soul was frank and honest; he communicated his foolish panic to Candor, smiled and embraced him. Clara's father was some time confused when he heard that Alexis had seen his nocturnal ceremony; but soon he recovered himself, laid hold of his arm, and both went below to Clara, who had just risen, and had as bad a night as her young friend, but from a cause of a quite opposite na­ture. Love, which began to enter her heart, the hap­piness which awaited her, and her own flattering no­tions, had kept her awake all night long; but it only served to add new energy to her charms; her eyes betrayed an air of langor, for which her father chid her, and she blushed with so much grace, as made Alexis quite contrite for having doubted a single mi­nute the sincerity of that lovely child.

Soon after, Germain joined them, and they all three requested their new guest to give them a specimen of his abilities on the harpsichord. Alexis, with eager compliance, sung his romance, and the audience could not forbear shedding tears.

Clara performed after him, and though her skill was not equal in point of perfection to that of Alexis, he [Page 64] was enraptured with her performance, especially with a song she added to it. She had composed it during night, and the music was so sweet and melodious, as to leave Candor much in doubt of its being of her own composing.

Thus the day was spent in pleasing amusement. At night Alexis was locked up, but felt no uneasiness, and enjoyed a sound sleep.

It had been determined that Alexis should begin his lessons with Clara on the day following; he of course went to her apartment. Candor and Germain went to cultivate their garden, and did what was necessary to be done in the house, while our young master was left [...] with his pupil. The reader will judge, from [Page 65] a sketch I shall give of this lesson, all those▪ which Candor's daughter received afterwards. Let us enter the music room, and hear without interrupting.

Clara, I find the song you sung yesterday very pretty; have you composed it for me?

For whom else? Is there more than one Alexis in the world?

You are just like me: I have seen many wo­men, yet never but one Clara.

You joke. I have no charms, no dress!

Dress is the result of art, charms are the gift of nature; you possess those, and join to them a soul, a heart!

[...] I have a heart, I have only perceived it two days since; when I saw you, it is quite natural.

What, did it never beat for your father?

Yes, it did, but that is a quite different sensa­tion! Now I will ask him to explain me those two sentiments.

Will you ask your father?

Yes, I will. Why should I conceal from him what I feel? I want no other confidant than [...] Now mind, Alexis, we walk or repose together in the grove, or say a hundred times a day, we love one ano­ther, I'll tell him our conversation every night.

Ah heaven! take care!

What makes you be so much surprised? my father is very glad to see me content; if I am pleased with you, why should he be angry?

Did he never enter into any discourse with you about love?

Yes, that he did, and very often too! He told me a hundred times that love is a fatal passion, which confounds reason and sense, and makes people jealous, uneasy, raving! Oh! you cannot imagine how he forbade me to give way to that cruel sentiment.

Well, Clara, do you think he will approve of ours?

Of ours!—you are mistaken: it is not love I feel for you. I feel nothing of what my father hath told me! Oh! I should be very sorry if ever I did.

What innocence! O my Clara, preserve then that pure sentiment, and always be upon your guard [...] not falling in love, or at least if you do, don't disco­ver it to Candor!

Nay, Alexis, I shall like you no more, if you hinder me from placing my confidence in so respectable a father. He shall always know not only the most secret thoughts of my heart, but I will even commu­nicate them to his old friend Germain.

Oh, oh, to all the world if you please. Clara, Clara, how unhappy should I be, if—

Only see, you take the alarm at every thing Well, let us drop that subject, and take a lesson.

You do not understand me. Did you but know people—

People! my father is not people:

He certainly is so kind. so generous—But pray do you know his misfortunes?

No, but Germain does.

Have you known your mother?

Yes; oh how she loved me—how I loved her.

What is become of her?

I can't tell. I was brought up in a convent till I was eight years old; my mother came often to see me. During the latter part of my stay, I could hear no more of her, and my father made me come hither, where he since told me a hundred times, that his spouse and son (my brot [...]er whom I never saw) were both near us; that he saw them every day, and I should see and embrace them too when I should be a few years older. They must be very unfortunate too, because Candor and Germain never speak of them without tears.

Did you never ask any farther questions?

It is my a her's secret, and I respected it too much, to force it from him, ye I know that he goes every night into the cave below, and takes Germain with him: There they remain about an hour, and then return to their apartment.

They fix, every year, a certain day, in which they perform a kind of ceremony, quite strange to me, at [Page 67] the bottom of the great poplar, in the garden. I could never follow them, because every night I am locked up, like you.

This very ceremony frightened me much the other night. I can guess part of his misfortunes. Alas his son, his spouse fell victims to treachery.

Do you believe they are dead?

Can you doubt it?

Why, I am to see them one day—what can that be?

In me he will find an avenger! I will espouse his cause, he shall know his Alexis,

Ah, my sweet friend! he loves you.

He is a wonderful father.

He told me already: My daughter, if your heart is to feel, if you are to love, place your affections in Alexis, who I believe is worthy of you: But let him deserve you first. Be you the recompense of the great service I expect him to do me. If he loves you he will accompish all my wishes.

O heaven! did he say this?

They are his very words? Don't you think it would be horrible to betray his confidence.

Ah, what a man!—Let us love each other, my dear creature, let us love, and may a father, by his blessing, [...], bands as sacred as those in which we might be joined at the altar, did our mansion not deny us that sacred ceremony.

The whole time allotted for the lesson was almost spent in amorous topics and confidences. But Alexis, anxious for the progress of his pupil, was more rea­dy afterwards, and Clara, in a litte time became a real adept in music, and drawing; she got even proficient in the abstract sciences, such as the mathematics, phy­sic, and astronomy.

CHAP. III.
(Some part of the Manuscript is wanting.)
THE VOICE IN THE FOREST.

ALEXIS, happy and cherished in the cottage, had forgot his misfortunes. Music, agriculture, and sometimes the sport of the chase in the forest took up all his time, and left him no leisure to be disgusted.

How sweet and innocent we [...]e the pleasures of our sour hermits! They had every thing they wanted; de­sired no more, and all nature seemed to respect their re­treat, and to co-operate in their happiness. The thun­der which struck incessantly the loftiest trees of the for­est, had never descended on their premises; the robbers, who were heard all day long, crying and shouting about its walls, had never formed the design, perhaps impracticable, to scale them. Germain le [...]t the cot­tage only once a year to go to St. Marcellin, to buy corn, and doubtless by a visible protection of heaven, he had never been attacked, except the last time, when he was relieved by Alexis▪ Candor had expressly enjoined Clara not to tell her young friend where she had been on the day she had met with him in the valley of Ro­mans, because he himself intended to give one day every detail of it to Alexis, and exact from his hand a most terrible revenge, which he wished to take of his ene­mies before he should go down to the grave.

In consequence of this intent, he studied daily the character and temper of Alexis, and flattered himself to see him always steady and courageous; he thanked heaven, for having sent him in his ills a being perhaps the only one on earth, capable to execute his projects. It was with complacency he beheld the love subsisting between the young couple; he protected▪ and [...]ven strengthened it, in [...] it would one day turn [...]o [...]is advantage. His daughter kept no [...] from [...]im; he calculated the progress of this passion, and [Page 69] waited till it had reached its highest pitch, to disclose his secrets to Alexis. In the mean time he command­ed Clara not to suffer her lover to take the smallest liberty with her: He followed them wheresoever they went▪ watched them carefully, and apprehending their innocence might be in danger in the little grove, he al­ways joined them there, brought them back to the cottage, and, not sufficiently confident of his own vigi­lance, he made choice of Germain to assist him.

All these precautions were to no purpose; Alexis was too delicate, too virtuous to infringe upon the laws of hospitality▪ and Clara endowed with too much pru­dence and respect to disobey her father, and commit a fault, which she would never have been able to own. On the other hand, their passion was protected, and they had the promise to be united. They were at liberty to love and declare their mutual passion before Candor. This freedom banished the very idea of crime; and if love sometimes ventured to put the blind upon their eyes, the light of truth soon shook it off, with offering to their sight the abyss in which they would plu [...]ge themselves, and a sense of shame and remorse ever rea­dy to assail them upon leaving the grove.

Thus the two children loved one another; but their love was pure, decent, grounded upon virtue, upon self-esteem, and the voluntary consent of a father.

Sweet sympathy of the soul, unsullied by the mean impulse of sensuality, satisfied with calm sentiment and reflection, a stranger to sore remorse, to guilty secresy, to guilty diffidence, and sanctioned by paternal autho­rity—ah! how few are the hearts destined to feel thy delights!

Alexis, who by this time perceived the scrupulous vigilance of Candor and Germain, deemed it an af­front upon his principles. The sole idea of being sus­pected of treachery, sapped the happiness he enjoyed. Often when returned from a walk, where Candor had interrupted a delicious tête-à-tête, he would go to his room, regardless of the tokens of love and affection which the old man continually lavished upon him▪ shed a torrent of tears. What should, would he exclaim, I be capable of? and can they think it?—I am dogged [Page 70] and watched as if there was any occasion to apprehend that I could so far forget myself, as to betray the con­fidence I enjoy, and to seduce an innocent child! It seems they cannot read in my heart! no, they will never know it; that feeling heart, fraught with grat­itude and delicacy, is torn by the most outrageous sus­picion!—Alas! will men never do me justice! O Candor, Candor▪ how you grieve me!

Candor often surprised him in these accesses of a gloomy temper; he inquired for the cause of his trou­ble, but Alexis remained silent; the remembrance of his misfortunes was his excuse; and the old man, who knew him to be candid and sincere, believed, comfort­ed and engaged him to a walk in the garden, and, part­ly by his caresses, partly by dint of argument, dissipat­ed the melancholy of his young friend.

[Here a matter of twenty pages is wanting in the original manuscript. Some leaves half torn prove, however, that this deficiency, in other respects, little interesting, was fill [...]d with the pleasures and occupations of our sour hermits, in the cottage; also, with an account of the increasing passion between the young couple I thought it useless to make suppliments of my own, as thos [...] passages which are w [...]nting lessen by no means the merit of the work. I will therefore simply begin where the narrative is continued in a successive and regular order.]

In this manner, Candor, Clara, Alexis and Germain, passed their life at the Cottage. They always termina­ted the business of the day by a rural walk; they all four sat down in the right grove on the borders of the limpid rivulet, they returned, enjoyed a frugal meal▪ and tasted the sweets of a quiet sleep, from which no­thing could rouse them but the rising of Aurora, and the concerts of birds.

At the expiration of a twelvemonth, our young couple loved no more, but adored each other. It was a violent passion which nothing could keep within bounds but the hope of a speedy union. They were determined to speak of it to Candor, and to crave upon their knees his parental blessing, as a tie as sacred [Page 71] in their eyes, as the august ceremony of wedlock, which they had no opportunity to obtain; but the old man; equally cunning and vindictive, had waited for that instant, to lay open his projects to Alexis. He had himself fostered in his breast the flames of love, and suffered the passion of Alexis to attain the very pitch of violence, only with a view to be convinced of his fidel­ity to serve him. He was, however, unacquainted with the firmness and spirit of our young hero; he intended putting them to trial, in order to be sure of his inviola­ble attachment, as to defer, a little longer, the story of his misfortunes, which he had promised to re [...]ate.

Alexis, for his own part, always mistrusting and susceptible, was alarmed at the delays of Candor. He had repeatedly entreated h [...]m [...] unite with him the object of his love, and the old man would a ways answer, "My son, is it not enough for me, that you love my daughter, and have her welfare at heart; but it is also necessary that your friendship for her fa­ther be equal to your love to her. Clara can there­fore, not be yours, unless I have real proofs of your attachment.—Alexis, with tears in his eyes, asked which were those proofs that would be required of him. Candor made no reply, squeezed his hand, and left him, with a sigh and a woeful countenance.

Wh [...]t a situatio [...] for our hero; It was then that his first misfortunes retraced themselves in his mind, and he sighed.

One day, going to fell some wood at the entrance of the forrest, he was struck with astonishment, upon perceiving his name engraven on the bark of a lofty tree. He approaches, he discovers some other charac­ters, and trembling, reads these few lines: Alexis, fly from Candor, fly from the perfidy of the cottage, where the most enormous crime is expected of you.

Cruel wretch! exclaimed he, with indignation, who­ever thou be, thou art an impostor!—Candor is virtu­ous; Candor is the most respectable of men; and this is the value I set on thy infamous calumny! so say [...]ng, he lays hold of his are and with several blows effaces the odious inscription. Though he gave it not the least credit, a sensation of sadness remained in his soul he strives to dissipate it, but without success.

[Page 72] What hand inimical to my rest, said he to himself; what traitor could give me such insidious advice! Un­known as I am to all the world, I am known to live in this forest.—Why should I leave it? Why destroy my peace by unjust suspicion? What do I say? I have no suspicion. Avaunt, guilty mistrust! O my father! O my father! shouldst thou design me to be crimin­al, thou the most wise, the most generous of men! O! why is it not in my power to extirpate the base accuser who dared to outrage a virtuous man! but who is he? what interest can he find to give me such dangerous advice? Does he know me? Is it my father, or Du­mont? who—O God! I have not well enough exam­ined the characters! I might perhaps have discovered—could it be you, unfortunate beings, whom I cherish­ed so much? Could your tenderness reclaim Alexis, and wish him back to your arms? Yes, I know the characters; how unreasonable was I to efface them so soon! My father! Dumont! could it be you? But what appearance is there? Where strays my reason?—No, I reject this too flattering idea! It is a stranger, I doubt not; I must not doubt, it is is even a wretch, a ruffian, who seeks to ensnare me. Ah! I will shun him, and never leave this dear abode—I will love and respect my generous hosts, and deem a crime, the cruel calumny which I discovered upon this tree. Blush, Alexis, thou art become an accessary to guilt, in having re [...]d it.

Alexis returned to the cottage, where Candor, who saw his trouble, chid him for his melancholy: the youth stammered, and excused himself as well as he could, his soul longed for solitude, and he took a walk by him­self in the remotest part of the garden, on the borders of the rivulet. Quite lost in thought, he approached the wall, which separated the premises from the for­est; he thought he heard a sweet voice uttering his name. He looks, he listens, and soon a person in the wood, on the brink of the ditch of the habitation, ad­dresses him in these words; "Alexis, thy sufferings are at an end. Turn thy eyes upon the rivulet which streams at thy feet, and read."

[Page 73] Alexis, quite motionless, looks into the stream, and his astonishment increases upon seeing, tied to a branch of a bush, a letter which the unknown person had thrown on his side, and which past through the open­ing that was made in the wall. He seizes the branch, [...]nties the letter, and eagerly reads the following lines, which moved him to the highest degree:

"Heaven, my dear Alexis, is finally appeased: your father acknowledges you for his son. Leave the cot­tage and the woods of Chamborau: Come to meet him at St. Etienna, where he, with your friend Dumont, is waiting for you. To receive you, his arms are open. When to-morrow's sun shall hide itself in the water, come, alone, to the spot where the forest forms a star marked with six martlets. It is there you will find a faithful guide, who is to conduct you to the most unfor­tunate and most tender of fathers."

What a perusal for Alexis! He questions the stran­ger, but is not answered. To all appearance he is gone. His father waits for him, his father acknowledges him for his son! Heaven, in what moment does he hear tidings, which, at other times, he would have con­sidered as the greatest of blessings! But how is he to act now? shall he renounce love for nature? Shall he betray gratitude for filial tenderness? shall he fly from the arms of a generous friend to those of a father? What an embarrassment! what a cruel embarrass­ment!

Clara's lover remains some time in the deepest gloom of reflection: He takes this adventure for an illusion; he cannot believe that what he s [...]es and reads is real!—His father calls him; how could he find out his re­treat? who could have directed him here? As he knows it, why does not he himself come to fetch him, in order to see and thank the good old man who received his son in his house? Why does he fear to appear before Can­dor? Justice, gratitude, all, makes it his duty! But does he know of the passion of Alexis for Clara? does he fear the effects of that passion? Well, if he does, the greater reason has he to prevent them by his presence. But the letter he has received is not of his father's writing: he might well have wrote himself. That [Page 74] mysteriousness, the stranger, the guide who waits for him, all looks very suspicious. Should it be a contriv­ance of the calumniator, of whom he received once a perfidious advice, engraved on the bark of the tree? Yes, yes, it must be some stratagem: He has certain secret enemies who conspired his ruin, who will tear him from this abode of peace, to devote him to destruction! All mankind is against him, and were he at the ex­tremity of the pole, still there would be traitors, bent to persecute him?—But, after all, if it were true!—If his father and Dumont were waiting for him in the village of St▪ Etienne!—Who knows!—They indeed lest him at Valence; but they may have discovered which way he went; people may have been set to fol­low him even as far as the cottage.—All this is possible. What shall he do? What resolution ought he to take?—Here nature chides him: Can you fly the caresses of thy father? Here love and gratitude are combined to detain him. Which of either shall he obey? Which of either is the most imperative voice that appeals to his heart? Which of either will prove victorious?—O A­lexis, Alexis, what wilt thou do! unfortunate youth, what wilt thou do!

CHAP. IV.
THE SUBTERRANEOUS TEMPLE.

THE dawn of gay morning had risen from the east, the feathered tribe saluted it with the most melodious concert; all nature brilliant and displayed, seemed to rejoice at the beneficent rays of the sun. Alexis, who used every morning to contemplate and adore this magnificent scene, paid not the smallest at­tention to it. All night a prey to the most painful re­flections, he no sooner perceived Aurora, than, running to the window, he surveyed, with a countenance ex­pressive of grief, the vast expanse of the forest. Sighs heaved his bosom, his vein, beat precipitately; his over­burdened [Page 75] heart seemed to be willing to force its way through his breast, to repair to the spot where he knew his father waited for him. Alexis could not see the village of St. Etienne, but he guessed its situation, and said to himself: Romans lies to the south; St. Mar­cellin on this side; and St. Etienne facing the moun­tain covered with woods. Yes, St. Etienne lies there, my father and Dumont are near me! O why cannot my eyes pierce through the obstacles which part us! Why not see and examine them!—What do I say? Their image is in my soul.—There they are, sitting by one another: They sigh, and say, Will Alexis come to join us?—Will Alexis prefer his father to his mis­tress?—Will nature have greater command over his heart than love? Will it be in vain for me to hold out my arms to him and to call him aloud!—Ah! my son! come, come, my mouth smiles at you; my eyes only wait for your bosom, to pour in it a flood of tears; my heart longs to feel the beating of your's. Will you come my Alexis, will you come?—Yes, I will, my fa­ther; yes I'll embrace your knees; my soul shall be united with your's—O Alexis! O most ungrateful of all men! Could'st thou hesitate, could'st thou waver? descend into your heart, it will prescribe your duty, and tell you what is a lover, what is a benefactor. Are they above a father? Can friendship, can gratitude, equal paternal fondness! O sacred names of a father, of a son, are you not holier than those of a lover and a friend!—I am resolved; this evening, I will leave the cottage, I will quit forever Candor and Clara.—For ever!—great God!—for ever!—beings so generous, so virtuous!—O my father, what a sacrifice do you exact of me!—it is above my power; yes, I feel it will be impossible for me to consummate it.—But cruel parent, why did not you come yourself? Why did you write by a hand not your own? That letter, that stran­ger, that guide, who is to conduct me—yet, that guide!—should it be yourself—yes, my father, it is you—I shall meet you in the forest: My heart tells me so; it cannot deceive me! O sun, hasten thy career, behold what happiness awaits me when it is completed! re­store a son to his father, and thy setting will be more beautiful for Alexis than thy meridian glory.

[Page 76] Alexis, enlivened by the idea of meeting his father [...] the guide of the forest, was shedding tears of joy. Soon calm cheered his soul, and serenity animated his coun­tenance. He went down to Clara, gave her a [...] of music; they repaired to Candor, of whom he begged leave to go a hunting in the afternoon; the lat­ter granted it, embraced him closely, and called him his dear son, which entirely disconcerted our hero▪ His firmness failed him, his resolution vanished, his heart was distressed, and he fell into his former state of irre­solution.

Clara, whom he joined▪ finished putting him into the most anxious perplexity an [...] confusion: Alexis, said she, rejoice, my father is going to grant thee thy wishes; he said to me just n [...]w, to-night you and I shall know his se [...]rets. O my God! how I long for that blessed moment!—But what ails you? It seems as if you was sorry at these tidings?—Don't you love my father? Don't you love—me? how often have you declared and sworn you did?—In faith, Alexis, could I but think you ungrateful, I would esteem you no more.—Oh, how you look at me!—you weep now—No, sir, no, be not sorry, I believe there is nothing bad in what I told you—

Alexis endeavored to answer, but his grief would not permit him: He only pressed her hand and then retir­ed. Clara, who had never seen him so downcast, saw him go; her beautiful eyes were filled with tears: She mechanically, followed as it were, the traces of her young friend, and stopping on the banks of the rivulet, near the bridge that leads to the grove, she was highly amazed to see Alexis write some characters upon the bark of the great [...]plar. She hid herself behind an antique willow, and watched attentively every motion of her lover, intending, as soon as he should be gone, to read the inscription he made on the tree. Alexis, at certain times interrupted his task, lifted his hands to­wards heaven, and uttered the most woful moans. Soon after, he kissed the characters which he had traced, and with a slow pace returned to the cottage, not without turning round, and coming back upon his footsteps.

[Page 77] No sooner Clara saw him at too great a distance to be perceived by him, than she ran trembling to the great poplar. What became of her, when upon it she read these words?

"O you tender friends, objects of my thoughts, that ought to expect a more grateful return, accuse not my heart of a forcible flight! one day you will see me again."

Clara attempts to read the fatal lines again; but her eyes cannot see; a cloud of darkness covers them; her tongue denies its office, she drops down senseless upon the turf and remains in that condition, which nobody could guess, without the smallest succour. She howe­ver gradually recovered her senses, and her unfaithful remembrance hides from her the cause of her perturba­tion; she rises, sees herself, with astonishment, open her eyes again to light: Soon the happy darkness which covered her soul vanished; she repents not having fol­lowed the traces of her lover, and quickly enters the cottage, where she cries with a loud voice, Alexis! Alexis! ungrateful man, it is Clara who calls you! answer me, oh, answer me!—Alexis could hear no more, in consequence of Candor's having given him leave to go a hunting; he had just left the cottage; he was in the forest, he looked at the drawbridge which had just shut itself behind him, and doubting whether he should have it let down again, he could neither ad­vance, nor return. What a situation for his feeling heart! What, exclaimed he, Candor, the respectable Candor, who does not suspect my project, and has just given me tokens of the most tender friendship—should I leave him!—Oh God! how ungrateful!—And Cla­ra, poor Clara! what will she become, if she reads my last farewel upon the great poplar? She will see that I was forced to go, she will see that I am to return one day.—Yes, I will return, my generous friends, you will see me again; and will to-morrow hinder me from coming here with my father and Dumont?—Oh! they will not be able to disapprove of my project; they will follow me; to-morrow I shall embrace Candor, he will pardon me; I will go, I will proceed on my journey, embrace my father who waits for me at a little distance▪ Heaven be praised for this favor, it baffles all expression!

[Page 78] Alexis turned his face towards the cottage, he shed tears, then took his road as he was directed by the letter: He had now walked half a league in the forrest, when the sky was imperceptibly overcast with clouds, the lightning rent the air, the thunder roared, whole cata­racts of water poured down from the irritated elements, and the blackest darkness covered all nature. Alexis, moved at the dreadful scene, felt his knees tottering; terror seized his soul he was almost convinced that heaven, provoked at his ingratitude, would shiver him into atoms, he had almost succumbed under the weight of his grief, when a spacious cavern presents itself to his sight. He enters, to avoid the heavenly wrath; he ventures to step a little forward; all of a sud­den an involuntary horror makes him tremble; his hair stands at an end, he thinks to see spectres that pursue and stop him; he believes he hears the voice of Clara and Candor; it is they, it is their voice; they load him with reproaches and curses. Heavens where is he to seek refuge? The phantoms pursue him wherever he goes; on all sides sighs and shrieks resound in his ears. Let us for a moment leave him in this critical situation, and see what passes in the cottage.

Clara, after she had read the words, written on the great poplar, ran back to the cottage in hopes to find Alexis; but what was her surprize when her father informs her that he is not there, but went a hunting in the sorest—"A hunting!" cried Clara; "ah, my father, he flies from you, he leaves you forever!"—"What do you say, my daughter?"—"Yes, the ungrateful Alexis is gone!—We shall see him no more."—"But how do you know this?"—"Listen, my father, listen to me and know all his treachery."

Here Clara told Candor and Germain the adven­ture of the poplar tree, and begged her father to send Germain after him, not to bring him back, but to up­braid him in the blackest terms, for his ingratitude.—Candor heard patiently Clara's report, and shewed her that the project she had conceived was quite imprac­ticable. Which way indeed could he send in pursuit of him? Which way did he go? A whole hour at least [Page 79] had elapsed since his departure.—Besides, in such wea­ther! would it be worth while to brave the tempest and lightning to run after a traitor? No, my dear Clara, continued he, it is useless to give ourselves any trouble, you shall see your Alexis, you shall see him a­gain: but he shall pay dear for the torments he causes Clara!—Withdraw for a while to your apartment, and leave me to consult with Germain upon what can be done.

Clara kissed her father's hand, and repaired to her apartment where she wept bitterly. Thus she spent the best part of the evening and night, without seeing either Candor or Germain! The latter came finally to open her prison (for she had been under key;) "Cla­ra, (said he) follow me, you will see him again."—"Who? Alexis?"—"Himself, he is here."—"O heaven! shall I—yes, I will—let us go, Germain, con­duct me to the traitor!—will he be able to stand in my presence?"

Thus she spoke—Germain immediately laid hold of her hand, and made her go down to the place where she had never been before; but let us not dwell on a descrip­tion of it, which we shall give hereafter; but let us see how Alexis was conducted to it.

We left him in a cavern of the forest, haunted by remorse and fantastic apparitions. He was now an hour in it, when he thought he heard a voice at the bottom of the subterranean; He listens, the voice ut­ters his name; it is no vision, a feeble light glimmers at a distance before him. Is it a snare? shall he go and follow that voice which may make him tumble into some abyss? Yes, Alexis, promoted by a supernat­ural courage; risks the adventure. Whosoever you be, (calls he out to the man who carried the light, whose features he could not distinguish) whosoever you be, I will follow you boldly; but what do you want of me? No answer is given. He advances, and the light dis­appears before him. What intrepidity in a young man of eighteen; to be sure so extraordinary an ad­venture was worth his notice: Alexis thought he saw spectres—he trembled—now he followed a man, and [Page 80] his firmness returned: frightful illusions often deceive more than credulity.

He therefore walked before his guide, and distance always hindered him from recognizing his face. His passage took up about another hour; he remarked a thousand beauties in this grotto; now a supurb petri­faction offered itself to his sight, then a little rivulet running over layers of pebbles presented Itself to him, and all on a sudden lest him to lose itself in the hol­low of a rock. In short, this vast grotto appeared ra­ther the work of nature than of art.

At the end of the cavern the guide opened a door, and disappeared. Alexis, by the light which he per­ceived across the door, pursued his way, and his aston­ishment became so great as not to permit him to think. At last he saw himself in a splendid temple, whose door shut itself after him. The floor and columns were of black marble, and on the ceiling hung a lamp which cast a deadly gleam. In the centre of the tem­ple, several steps led to a magnificent tomb; above it he saw a picture representing a woman with a child in her lap. Alexis, struck with all these things, had no doubt of the portraits being those of the persons laid in the tomb. But what place could it be? Who was he that conducted him to it? His guide had disap­peared, he was alone, shut up, and nobody came to let him out.—Alexis began to repent of his too great con­fidence, when, lo, a door opens—a venerable old man appears—Heaven! can he believes his own eyes?—it is Candor—Candor himself! O earth open, and let the unhappy Alexis hide his remorse in thy bosom!

Ungrateful, said the old man to him, ungrateful A­lexis! where are your promises? Where are your oaths? you was to have lived and died with us, and you fly, you forsake us!—I see but too well the trial was above your strength! I suspected the instability of your resolutions.—You look at me; I can read in your eyes the surprise which my discourse causes. Let your astonishment cease: Know, that the inscription upon the trees of the forest, the stranger, the letter the guide, in short, the whole intelligence you receiv­ed, was an ar [...]ful contrivance of mine to sound your [Page 81] sentiments, and to measure what degree of confidence I should repose in you. Now I am ready to fulfil your wishes; I know you, I know how much your friendship may be depended on. O treacherous Alex­is! you have opened my eyes but too much!—I see I have lost all in this world, as there is not one single friend left to me.—Ah! my father, cried Alexis, throwing himself at his feet, ah! my generous bene­factor! yes, you speak the truth, it was a trial too hard for my heart.—But did you know what conflicts and torments I endured! Ah! pardon me, and be persuaded that it wanted nothing less than filial ten­derness that could balance that you have inspired me with.

Candor was going to reply, when a door opened—it is Germain, it is Clara, who came to load the un­fortunate Alexis with their reproaches, already morti­fied with those of the old man. The youth, sensible of his error, embraces their knees, bedews them with his tears, detests his faults, and expresses his repent­ance with such a sense of contrite feeling, that the fa­ther and daughter are forced to pity, to indulge and to do him justice; for be it as it will, they were sen­sible that Alexis had done but his duty in following the instinct of nature, that he lest them in hopes to see his father again. An excess of virtue had made him guilty of ingratitude, and nature was his apology, Candor could not tell him his real way of thinking, sensible that the trial he had put him to was too ardu­ous, and that his very transgression made his eulogi­um; he embraced him therefore, and promised to forget all. He then bade him to be seated on the steps of the tomb, and gave the same order to his daughter and Germain, and began the following dis­course, which was an introduction to relate his ad­ventures:

"Alexis, if I sent Germain to fetch you into the cavern of the forest; if he has been your guide hither without your being able to know him; in short, if I receive you for the first time in this dismal place, it is merely to disclose a great design which I have conceiv­ed, and to exact from your arm a vengeance, which [Page 82] my own, withered by age, cannot take upon the cru­el enemy who has caused all my misfortunes. Be­hold this mysterious cave, which I have concealed from you▪ till now, and in which lays deposited what makes both my despair and the treasure of my heart! Here lies my spouse— [...]he was guilty, but—my poor son! permit me to let slow my tears! Here you see his image; this is his portrait▪ alas! a barbarous monster has murdered them both—would you believe it my son, that monster stands before you? I am the monster!—yes, I am he who sacrificed them! O shame! O remorse! O despair! must my old age be haunted by the remembrance of so attrocious a crime?—No, I will have no comfort, my children; my tears will never wash off the blood with which I have sullied my hands!"

The old man wept for a while, became calm by degrees, and commenced the history of his misfortunes, which Clara herself heard now for the first time.

CHAP. V.
THE HUSBAND A CONFIDANT OF HIS RIVAL.

MY name is Dorance: my father was president of the Parliament of Grenoble, a sacred body, a most honorable body, which has at all times given proof of firmness and justice. An infant yet he sent me to Paris, to make my studies under the tuition of a governor, as prudent as enlightened. It was in the collage of Bea [...]vais, where I unfortunately made the acquaintance of a traitor, the chevalier Duverly. Like me, young, brisk, and fiery, his temper bore so much resemblance to mine, that, in a little time, we became so intimate, that we could hardly be separated for one moment. He was an orphan, and his education en­trusted to the care of a guardian, who was to restore him his whole property when he should come to be of age.

[Page 83] I shall not expatiate upon the particulars of our in­timacy, nor the circumstances which cemented it: it will be sufficient for you to know, that upon leaving the college, where we had studied the humanities toge­ther, I requested him to come and spend some time with me at Grenoble at my father's house, to whom I had many times wrote in a very flattering manner, about my friend's conduct, and also expressed a de­sire of getting more particular knowledge of him. Duverly at that time complied with an invitation, that quite charmed him: he loved me, or I had at least no reason to think to the contrary: but his passions were soon to operate a change in his perfidious heart, and to infect it with the sperm of all vices.

My father, who was kind and generous, received Duverly with great cordiality, and made him the of­fer to make his house his home as long as he pleased. Duverly gratefully accepted his proposal, and I return­ed thanks to my father. The latter soon became so fond of my friend as to blazen forth his merits with­out reserve, and to make him, in every thing, the pat­tern of my conduct: we both studied the profession of the law, for which Duverly manifested more disposi­tion and taste than myself. He became also daily more grave and serious. He had no more for me that confidence, nor made those friendly effusions which I so often experienced from him in his youth; in a word, I found him more reserved and deliberate. Whatever alarmed me in his conduct; whatever I con­sidered as an evident change in his friendship to me, my father looked upon as an energy of mind, and a discretion of character entitled to his admiration. Be­hold, said he, often to me, behold your friend! he shows not that levity so conspicuous in your character; he is grave, reasonable, thinking, and solid. Endeavor to preserve always his friendship, and to follow his advice, for I am certain he wishes you well. I listened to my father, and it being congenial to me, that he could not mislead me with regard to Duverly my esteem for the latter heightened, and I tried every thing in my power to re-obtain his confidence, which I thought I had forfeited by my sailings.

[Page 84] My father was very intimate with an old baroness, whose name was Myrsange: she was the widow of an officer of horse, and a few years since came to live at Grenoble with her only child, an adorable charming young lady, whom I could not see without emotion. My father, my friend and I, were used to spend the evening at the baroness's house, and the too lovely Adela made every day so great a progress in my af­fections, that I soon was able to discern the nature of my sentiments. I made this confidence to Duverly, who, surprised and astonished, received my avowal with such a kind of indignation as intimidated me from making further confidence. What, said he, do you love Miss Myrsange? You—only think, Dorance? Think that she is but a sort of adventurer, whose fam­ily and property are equally unknown to every body. She and her mother, I grant you, make a tolerable figure in this town; but whence come they? Who are they? it is three years since they have resided here; is that enough to know well persons, who perhaps have been banished or expudiated? Open your eyes, Do­rance, acknowledge your folly; your father will never consent to it, believe me. No, he will never consent: I know him. He will, I suppose, make enquiries, and should they not prove satisfactory, you know yourself the consequence; in other respects he reposes great trust in me: and if he asks my advice, in faith, I will be candid with you, re [...]ent it if you choose, yet, I shall never give my opinion in favor of such a match. O heaven, what, Duverly—no; depend upon it: I pro­fess too much attachment to your well being, not to suffer you to throw yourself blindly and headlong into a precipice; the day would come, when you would reproach me with having promoted your ruin. My ruin, by all means; have not you dived into the cha­racter of that little body? Oh, I know her better than you, I can swear; first of all I believe she is a haughty, imperious, slandering coquet. She has wit, I won't deny her that; but a deceitful, malicious, and sarcastic wit, you yourself know it. My dear Dorance is it possible; ah, did you know how painful this confession▪ of your's is to me, painful on your account; for were [Page 85] you not my friend, it would be very indifferent to me, whether you have her or another. Come, promise me to follow my advice, and to conquer a foolish passion, which should never have rose in your heart.

The discourse of Duverly astonished me to such a degree that I was at a loss to make a reply—I re­mained motionless, my heart was heavy; I was going, I believe, to shed tears, when my father by his entering the apartment, interrupted our conversation, and took us with him to the court, where a cause highly inter­esting was to be pleaded; it was a couple who had married by inclination and without the consent of their parents: six months having past, they became equally odious to one another, and sued for a divorce. They made use of as many invectives as they formerly had made of tender and pious expressions, and adduced in their behalf facts so attrocious, as would have provok­ed the most indelicate ear.

This suit struck me with horror, and Duverly, who perceived it, was pleased to add to my confusion, by pushing me at every quotation made by the counsellors, and expatiating with a low voice, upon the dangers of an ill-concerted marriage, which each of the couple depicted with equal energy.

Upon my return, I made the most cruel reflections I did not suspect my friend of any secret motive to op­pose my passion: moreover, my father esteemed him much, and entertained the most flattering notions of his spirit and judgment: this was a sufficient reason for me to respect him blindly.

Of all the fears Duverly had caused me, none seem­ed to me well founded; they were confined to vague suspicions, without proofs, and of no alarming nature. What could I think of Duverly; He had appeared much moved at the confidence I made him of my passion: was it his concern for me, which—Oh yes, it was doubtless his concern, his friendship alone, which made him speak to me. He was perhaps too timid, too prying into futurity; but all this reflects honor upon his heart; he was attached to me: he loved and respected my father, and was afraid lest he should see unfortunate, some day, the family he cherished.

[Page 86] I did abide by these reflections, and intended to study Miss Myrsange's character, and to renounce her hand, if ever I should discover in it the faults he had pointed out.

My father, however, frequently asked what I thought of Adela? I dared not to disclose to him my real sen­timents on that head, lest they should kindle his wrath. One day he explained h [...]mself to me in a more distinct manner. Dorance, said he, I perceive the daughter of the baroness is not indifferent to you; answer me, my son; open your heart, and thou wilt perhaps not re­pent.—My father—you love her; come, out with the word—Yes, my father, I do love the charming Ade­la; yes, I do adore her, were you even to load me with all the weight of—O load you!—what means that, my son? You accomplish my wishes, and those of her mother;—know that we both desire to see love rise in your breast!—how!—Adelia is your's, Adelia shall be your spouse upon condition. What condition? speak father. What condition? That you go to Paris to study law, to receive instructions, and enable your­self to take the function of my charge, which I shall not resign but in favor of that marriage. To go to Paris, my father! Could not I study here as well as in Paris? Undoubtedly, but there is no place like Paris for young people to get instructed. Besides, I will recommend you to my best friend, Mr. de Calenzieux; he is a counsellor of parliament, and will perhaps take better care of your education than I can do; he is an old senator, replete with genius and knowledge: go to him, my son, go to draw from him his advice, that prudence and wisdom so necessary to him who is to be the judge of his equals: and as you are to succeed in office, give me the satisfaction to think, when I descend to [...]he grave, that I leave my fellow citizens a virtuous and equitable magistrate. You shall set off to-morrow with Duverly, who, I have no doubt (for Mr. de Calenzieux will receive you both with equal pleasure, and he tells me so in his answer) will accompany you; then re­turn in a twelve month; yes, in a twelve month you shall possess, Adela, and fulfil the hopes of my old age!

[Page 87] I embraced my father, and retired with the greatest joy. I was however determined not to mention any thing about the project of my marriage to Duverly, fearing he may try to alter my father's mind, and I only infor­med him of our intended journey to Paris. I perceived that this news was highly vexatious to him; he turned pale, opposed the measure for some time, and when he made me perceive [...] he began to feel the weight of the links of our friendship, my father, much occupi­ed that day, had only time to say a few words to him▪ he requested him to accompany me to Paris, and to be my Mentor. My dear Duverly, said he▪ you are a man of sound and solid parts, be vigilant over my son, grant him always your friendship and your advice, which I command him to follow and to respect as mine own. Let him pay attention to you, and he will accomplish all my wishes. Duverly answered only stammering; I observed him to be downcast that whole day. At night we went to take our leaves of the baroness and her daughter: the latter gave me a very cold reception, cast down her eyes, and I thought she had been weeping. I paid her a compliment which she did not return: I pressed her hand without her seeming to be moved. Her coldness affected me; I could easily discover that she did not love me; an involuntary blush diffused itself over my face, and I let drop some tears. The mother, who perceived my perplexity, endeavored to allay it: she opened her arms, and called me her son. I obtain­ed leave of her to embrace her daughter; but seeing the latter averse to grant the parting kiss, she was or­dered to comply. Well! my daughter said the baron­ess, well! that may be granted to a person who takes his leave—come, comfort him, that poor traveller: he is, you see, sorry to leave us! Adela obeyed with seem­ing reluctance, and I embraced her trembling. With regard to Duverly, the baroness was much more reserv­ed; but the perfidious Adela had not the least objection to embrace him; she made half the advance [...] it: I was not surprised: shyness might have made her more moderate with me and having suffere [...] me to take that liberty, it would have been the grossest ins [...]lt to my friend, not to grant him the same indulgence. We set [Page 88] out early on the next morning, and, during the who [...]e journey, Duverly was sad, uneasy, grieved, and even snappish; he sometimes sighed, looked up to heaven, and exclaimed, I am very unfortunate! What is the matter, dear friend, asked I? Why nothing, answered he, my health, which I see decline daily, gives me some uneasiness—I feel such depressions and palpitations of heart, which robs me of rest both day and night. Aye, it is the vapours. The vapours, sir! you [...] it the va­pours, you are very inhuman, very hard.—I beg your pardon my friend, I did not with [...]—you are happy▪ every body smiles at you! you are always successful▪ what, you! you are as hardy as Hercules! you enjoy the caresses of a father! of a most excellent father! but I, who have no parents, nobody in the world. I am left alone to myself!—Alone—to yourself—when you have friends!

Duverly made no answer to this: he had a relapse of his melancholy, and I was sorry to see him in such a situation; as for his health, having been worse for some time, it was true he had no sleep, he could not eat, and fell into a state of languor, which would bring on a dangerous disorder.

It was not long before it happened. We had now been two months at the house of the counsellor, when Duverly was taken ill. The physicians who were con­sulted upon this case gave it as their opinion, that the young man had some inward grief which preyed upon him, and if it was possible to remedy its influence, his life might easily be saved. Judge what impression this report made upon me. I who loved Duverly, believed to possess his confidence! he concealed his grief from me. Ah! my feeling heart could not bear that idea; I was determined to try all possible means to get from him that fatal secret, and to restore him to health, even at the risk of my life. As I sat up by him regularly every night, I took the opportunity of a moment when he was calm and settled, to address him as follows. Duverly, you will die; you will conceal from me the cause of your death—ah! what an outrage to my heart could you pry into it: could you but see! entrust me with your sorrrows, my dear Duverly; entrust me with [Page 89] them—if it was in my power to redeem your life, doubt no [...] I will do every thing! yes, Dorance, it is in your power: yet—speak, in the name of heaven, speak—your friend does conjure you! I am afraid the service which I require of you will hurt your feelings.—No matter: if I can do it without trespassing the laws of honor, cost what it will I am prepared for all. O my friend! were I sure of you; but—Duverly! Duverly! how can you thus grieve me? Well, I will make an entire con­fession—but how can I? Ah! hear me, and pardon if I conceal certain particulars, which—You must disguise nothing! I should not for my own sake, but for—the person I love.—You love! you! O heaven! do you re­ally love?—Yes I do love! I do burn! attend to me; pray, attend▪

Duverly upon this, prepared to digest in his head the little fable he was going to relate. Alas, my friends, had he then unravelled to me the truth, all would have been over: I would have made him welcome to Adela's hand; I would have made that effort, and not have suf­fered a series of misfortunes, of which he was the sole author, and which never will cease but with my death.

Know then, said he, that the first day of our arrival at Grenoble, I paid a visit to a relation of the name of Mrs. des Roches. I never mentioned that lady before, because she is the only source of my unfortunate adven­ture, and I—hesitated to let you into any fatal secret. I met at her house with a respectable old man, who came there upon a visit wi [...]h his daughter, a girl of about six­teen: no, my friend, thou hast never seen so much al­lurement, brown (observe, my children, that Adela was fair) brown, sprightly, replete with wit, graces, and accomplishments; I could not see her without falling desperately in love. When she had left the house, I made bold to tell my relation what impression [...]he young lady had made upon my heart. Beware, Duverly, an­swered she, of harbo [...]ing such a passion. Ro [...]na's sole dependance is on a wealthy and very amiable father. A young colonel, now in town, has solicited her hand, and promise was made on both sides.—O heaven! and does Rosina love him? Alas! no, the poor child has fits quite the reverse to that marriage; but the will of a fa­ther [Page 90] is a law! How soon is her marriage to take place?—I don't know: the colonel expects the consent of his family may arrive to-morrow.

Mrs. des Roches made me also the confidant of many other circumstances: the most pleasing to me was to hear that Rosina came every day quite alone to see her, and staid for whole hours. The father, pursued she, has every possible friendship for me, and is never more pleas­ed than when he knows his daughter is at my house.

I begged leave of Mrs. des Roches to permit me to see beautiful Rosina at her house, to which she at first tho't proper to refuse: but when she saw that I persisted in my intreaties, and dropping down on my knees, and a torrent of tears gushed from mine eyes, she was at last finally prevailed upon to comply. Thus I had the good fortune to see fair Rosina every day, to declare my pas­sion to her, and to find her soon moved with pity for her distracted lover. What a difference (continued the traitorous Duverly) what a difference between my Ro­sina and your Adela!—Ah! If I were as free as you, I would marry her without delay? If her mother, her father, I say, would give their consent, as the baroness does you her daughter! but, no—the father, a hard and cruel father, is so over fond of this colonel, that will make Rosina a sacrifice to interest and rank! Oh! my friend, you see my disastrous fate! I must re­nounce the most beauteous, the most amiable young lady!—Oh! how I am to be pitied!

CHAP. VI.

ON the night previous to our departure from Gre­noble, a departure, which you will easily con­ceive, has grieved me much—I saw her. "My dear Duverly," said she, melting in tears, "all is over, we are wretched for ever!—My father has given me formal notice, that I must resolve to be the colonel's in a twelvemonth—that very man whom I detest, [Page 91] whom I abhor!"—"In a twelvemonth!" "Yes, be­cause the young man is gone to make a campaign, and is to be married to me upon his return." "Ah my Rosina, what a blow!"—"Cruel indeed, Duverly, but I am under the controul of a mother, and she must be obeyed." She must be obeyed! Conceive Dorance, only conceive my grief! Your father then requested me to accompany you to Paris: I could not resist his desire; I set out, but I leave you to think, whether I would not have preferred staying at Grenoble! my rival was not there; I might have been a whole year with my charming Rosina, I would have been at liber­ty to see her every day at Mrs. des Roches'; Ah how happy would have been my lot!" Duverly was silent for a moment, though the confidence he had just made, really wounded my feelings, and made me consider Mrs. des Roches as a vile, despicable woman. I I would not, by delivering my true sentiments, aggra­vate my friend's suffering condition. He then con­tinued as follows:

"At my departure from Grenoble, Rosina promised to write to me and I have actually received a letter of her's a fortnight ago. It is this letter, Dorance which has given me a mortal blow. Here it is: I shall read it to you▪ and from it you will judge all the extent of my misery."

I did not, my children, know Adela's hand writing. Duverly who was sure of that, risked nothing to shew it me: but he took care not to let me peruse it, as he had a mind to change some expressions, which would have otherwise undeceived me.^* He began, there­fore, to peruse it very slowly, for fear of making a blunder:

"Pardon me, my dear Duverly, for not having written sooner. My father is teazing me continually; and since the Colonel's departure, he does hardly give me a minute's time to see Mrs. des Roches. But, O fresh misfortune! did you only know what sacrifice is exacted from poor Rosina! My father is absolutely de­termined [Page 92] to put me into a convent, till the return of the Colonel! Alas, I have put off, as long as I could, the moment of that fatal captivity—but he plagues, he persecutes me, and I shall at last be forced into compli­ance. Oh, let me often hear of you, my gentle friend, there is no other comfort on earth for Rosina."

"This letter, (continued Duverly) this cruel letter, which informs me that my dear Rosina is to be shut up, for a twelvemonth in an obscure retreat, where I find it will be impossible for me, if the event takes place, to write to her; this fatal letter has troubled my senses, the ague has inflamed my blood, and a furious phren­sy quite shook my brains; this, Dorance, this is the real cause of my disease."

When he had done speaking, I remarked such fire in his eyes, as made me sensible that it was not seasonable then to give him advice. Nevertheless he stood in need of the best of advice; for, what could be the aim of his passion for an object which was unknown to me? and that Mrs. des Roches, who made themselves sub­servient to so shameful an intrigue; Oh, that charac­ter was odious and indignant to me. Nay, had I known that my Adela was the object in question; that the letter which had been read to me was from Adela; that the colonel and pretended rival was myself—great God, what would have become of me! but his fable was so well conceived, so well disguised; and as yet, he had spoke so ill of Miss Myrsange, that I thought she could not be the person. I had even not the least idea of it in my mind; and, had I not explained it, my children, you would not have guessed better than I did then. As to Mrs. des Roches, she was no rela­tion of Duverly, as he gave out, but one of these v [...]olent go betweens, whose only pleasure is to hatch plots, and with whom we meet with every where to promote disorder. And yet, I will not have you be­lieve that her house was a place of debauchery, but [...]n­ly a place most convenient for lovers whose business is short. Mrs. des Roches was a woman of second hand principles, willing to serve in all intrigues the intent of which did not, to a certain point affect her delicacy. My father and the baroness were perfectly ignorant of [Page 93] [...]he acquaintance Adela had contracted with that wo­man. It was Duverly who had appointed her that rendezvous, whither she made it convenient to repair, to enjoy the company of her gallant.

All these particulars, my children, I unluckily heard but long afterwards; but I was obliged to expose them to you, in order to shew how much I have been deceived. Grant me your whole attention, you shall see the most perfidious, and as well framed a plot as ever entered the head of man, to betray the good faith of his equals.

"My friend," said I to Duverly, "your situation is very cruel! you are now sensible that love is not easi­ly controuled, and you can no longer blame me for harboring that passion, for adoring, I say, the charm­ing Adela, in spite of your wife persuasions, and the faults you find in her." "Do you love her still?" said he, with a kind of emphasis—"Yes, you do, I feel it but too well! and, although this objection of your af­fection would never have made any impression upon me, yet, as you observe, love knows no controul! My dear friend, you see I am not in a condition to write; will you favor me to write the answer to this letter? I will dictate it: take pen and ink—oblige me in this! you cannot refuse a dying friend!" I hesitated for some time how I was to act: but his entreaties—he was dying—what could I do? I placed a table close to his bed-side, and he dictated to me the following let­ter:

Duverly used his utmost endeavors to sign his name in a legible manner: I then folded up and sealed the letter, when he desired me to put upon it the following direction:

"A Madame, Madam des Roches, Rue Perrierre, Grenoble."

One might have said the balm of comfort had been poured into his breast: his eyes became a little serene, his cheeks flushed with the blooming tokens of health, and he pressed my hand in a manner expressive of sentiment. "My friend," said he, "This is not the only favor I have to beg of you. It is in your power to restore me to life; but you must pledge your word of honor to perform what I shall require. Suffer me to return to Grenoble: I shall hide myself; I shall see my Rosina and be happy! You will therefore write to your father, to let him know that I am much bet­ter; that we will always do business as usual, &c. &c. I will even send letters for him, and which you will enclose in your own. My friend, restore me to life, as it will cost so little.

This project excited my indignation, which I expres­sed by a plain refusal. Had you but seen the traitor weep sigh and supplicate! he even fainted; and I was afraid it would be his last. "Wretch!" said I with­in myself, what a passion! what a phrenzy! Alas! [Page 95] he is a madman who must be taken care of against his own self! But were my father to discover him at Grenoble! were he to detect me as an impostor!—I expose myself to his anger! well, I will fall down at his feet, and describe the condition my friend was in: I shall confess my weakness, and he will grant me his pardon. Besides, Duverly is not my slave, he has a right to act as he pleases!—And what right have I to hinder him? Well, imprudent as it will be of me, my imprudence will save his life, it will restore my friend! Yes, Duverly," exclaimed I "Yes, I will do all to serve you; only live, and let this be my re­ward."

Here the patient embraced me; he wept, laughed, was moved, and fell asleep. I left him at day break, and jealous of keeping my word, went immediately to carry the letter to the post-office.

Don't you admire my complaisance? Oh! we are not come to the point yet; you will see me act a part—a part that will make me blush all my life time: it proves my imprudence and my foolishness:—but I must go on.

The chevalier got well in about a week. It is use­less for me to tell you how often, during that time he talked of his love, and the pleasures he was going to enjoy at Grenoble! At last, impatient to wait for his full and perfect recovery, he embraced me and de­parted, informing the counsellor, that he was to take possession of a considerable estate in Auvergne, to which he had succeeded by a legal right of inherit­ance; and that his absence should not exceed two months at furthest.

"It would be to no purpose," said he "for you to inform Mr. Dorance, the father, of my departure; for he, having entrusted me with the conduct of his son, might be offended at my losing sight of him for some time; but he is no longer a child; and moreo­ver, in what house, sir,—in what house more respec­tible than your's could he be? Are you not a real fa­ther to him?—Ah! with you he wants no Mentor?"

The counsell [...]r, whose self-love was interested, pro­mised not to write to my father; and Duverly set out [Page 96] promising to let me frequently know his sufferings or his success, and requesting me to answer his letters un­der cover, and direct them to Mrs. des Roches.

A long period of time passed, before I heard of him; I received at last the following letter two months after his departure:

"Can you believe it, my friend! I am the happiest of mortals! Rosina loves me still! she has shown so much repugnance to the convent, that her father would not persist any longer in his former decree. Yet, there is another old Cerberus, the colonel's father, [...]ho follows her like his own shadow—Cupid, however, discomfits secretly the Arguses of Minerva—Rosina comes occasionally to visit Mrs. des Roches, where I have been lodged [...]ver since my arrival. Not a soul has seen me yet in this town; the house of my relation is a real hermitage, and is richly provided with all the sweets of life.—Here I may enjoy the pleasure of a walk, in a delightful garden adorned with little woods, and most delicious groves.—Groves; can I utter this word without retracing to my mind the happiness I enjoyed yesterday!—Durst I make this avowal to my friend? will his delicacy not be offended? O no, he loves, he must excuse the errors which love makes one apt to commit! Yesterday, Rosina and I being in one of those groves—they are so dangerous!—Love put his blind over the eyes of reason; it vanquished the resistance of Rosina, and I obtained a victory—alas! a cruel victory, as it cost her tears, and me regret! O my friend! lend me all your eloquence to console the fair I have seduced! Restore me my innocence to bring back the alarmed modesty which I have dispelled and to re plant a flower which I have nipt in her first bloom, in her first freshness; Alas! Rosina accuses me of her misfortune!—How will she dare to offer her hand to a husband! with what countenance will she kindle the torch of Hymen, having yielded her all to love! This causes her despair, this brings upon me, on her part, the keenest reproaches!—Dorance, my dear Dorance, oh! pity me, write, I crave your advice!—

[Page 97] "I cannot conclude this without speaking of your Adela. They say she changes every day in the most singular manner; and is torn by a grief whose source is unknown. Her physical parts are as much affect­ed as her moral ones. She becomes sluttish, pouting, even ill-natured: she scolds at every body. There are such scenes passing between her and her mother! My friend! I cannot blame you for being in love; but if you were not to meet with equal return, oh! how unfortunate would you be! Adieu,—reflect."

The perusal of this epistle put me to the blush, for the part I had acted in this intrigue. "Yes," said I "it is I who am the author of that crime! it is I; had I not consented to Duverly's secret departure, would he have seen Rosina, would he have been able to seduce her youth and virtue? O imprudent! What have I done?—Would to God, I knew the colonel who is to be her husband!—I would confess my fault, dis­cover the blow which his honor has received; in short hinder an honest man from being so basely deceived! I shall know him; I shall tell him; he shall hear all, I will have nothing to reproach myself with, as having been the instrument of the misery of his life.—What do I say!—Vile agent of the most shameful intrigue, I had rather be silent. It behoves me to bury it in the deepest oblivion, and repent all my life of a conduct equally disgraceful to the dictates of honor and virtue."

I answered Duverly's letter, but in the most serious manner; I made him sensible of his wrongs, and the baseness of the part he had made me act. I desired him to look out for another confidant, and concluded with conjuring him never to mention again an intrigue in which I was ashamed to have been instrumental.

What effect this severe letter had upon him I shall not decide. During four months I never heard of him, and at the expiration of that time, I had the mis­fortune to receive a letter from the baroness, bringing the bad tidings of my father's death.

I made the utmost dispatch to Grenoble, where I found every body belonging to my father's family in mourning and consternation.

[Page 98] I had only some very distant relations in that town, and was resolved to leave it, as soon as I should have obtained Adela's hand, which her mother, jealous of the promise she had made my father, was always dis­posed to grant me.

I hoped to find Duverly prepared to console me, and to share my grief! Judge of my astonishment when I could not get the least intelligence of him. I went to Rue Perrierre, to that Mrs. des Roches, where I knew he lodged, and to my utmost surprize, was informed that Mrs. des Roches had left town a week ago, and that the place she had chosen for her residence was un­known. I had not the least doubt of Duverly and his infamous accomplices having carried off the unfor­tunate Rosina, and that the former would not let me know the matter, for fear of incurring my father's dis­pleasure. But, what often puzzled me was, that nobody at Grenoble had known Rosina or her father. Indeed, not knowing the old man's name, I could not make proper inquiries about the family.

Thus my friend was gone: he had forsaken me; he had broken the first ties of our friendship! I for some time regretted him, but soon after considering his perverse morals, I made an effort to forget him, and succeeded; so true is it that vice must be hateful to honest and virtuous hearts, and that with them it out­weighs all other considerations.

In the mean while, I saw every day my Adela, who was faithful to the portrait Duverly had drawn of her in his last; her mother, however, before whom she constrained herself, insisted on her giving me her hand; it was my father's last will; I was determined to receive it; yet without—love! This passion weak­ened in me every day, and I acted barely with passive obedience to the baroness, because I foresaw the abyss which threatened my ruin. I often attempted to try Adela's sentiments towards me, and I found, that though she had no liking to me, she was not against accepting my hand. At last, being persuaded to mar­riage on all sides, when the fatal day fixed for the ceremony was come, I conducted miss to the alter, and brought her back without joy as without sadness; [Page 99] but with a sentiment of inquietude which I could not account for. Arrived at home, my spouse demanded to speak in private with me and her mother; we com­plied with her request, and saw her with surprise throw herself at our feet, and make the following singular speech: "Mother, you have forced me to marry this gentleman! you know the struggles I went through, and how often you have rejected me from your bosom; give me, for heaven sake, time to know him, to ac­knowledge his real merit, and to render myself wor­thy of the tenderness he condescends to have for me! I only beg leave for two months to retire to Mrs. Reig­ny's, my aunt, at St. Marcellin. There I shall have leisure to deliberate better; there I will do every en­deavor to deserve the affection and love of the man who merits to find more gratitude in me; Oh, my mother, and you, sir, grant me this favor! I beg it on my knees! Alas, can you deny me?"

The baroness was going to load her daughter with reproaches and threats; but I was so moved, the voice of candor appealed so loud to my heart, that I thought it would be cruelty to refuse so singular a de­mand, which was nigh to have affected the life of the unfortunate Adela. Joining therefore my entreaties to her own, we at last obtained the mother's consent. At the same time, she loaded her with curses and impre­cations, and swore never to see her again. "Sir," added she, "I have no farther rights upon her: do with her what you advise best: for my own part, I will no more hear of her; no, no more:—She is the scourge of my old age.

The baroness suddenly left the room, and would not even so much as give her a letter for Mrs. Reigny. I was as much perplexed as my spouse: I sent a trus­ty servant with her, she stept quickly into the carriage with her woman, and arrived that very day at St. Marcellin. My servant returned the next day, with a letter from Adela, in which she thanked me for the permission I had granted her, assuring me that a trait so generous would never be erased from her memory, and that she could already promise me the possession of her heart.

CHAP. VII.

THUS left a widower on the first day of my mar­riage, I staid another month at Grenoble, where I had the misfortune to lose the baroness my mother in law. Her daughter's conduct, whose notoriety was partly known to her, and perhaps the regret of having forced her to a compliance against her inclination, brought upon her a violent illness of which she died; neither permitting my spouse to see her, nor forgiving her in her last moments. Being then tired of Grenoble, I determined to go to settle in Paris; but would first go to St. Marcellin to see my spouse, and to persuade her if possible to accompany me. In consequence of this, I informed her by a letter of her mother's death, of the design I had formed, and concluded with beg­ging her kindly to receive my visit and to give me her consent to accompany me to Paris

Having sent this letter, I settled some affairs at Grenoble, and set out for St. Marcellin. It is time, my children, to make you acquainted with the conduct of my spouse, and the perfidious Duversy.

He had no sooner heard of my return to Grenoble, than he determined to leave the town that very instant, lest he should excite my suspicion. Moreover, my pre­sence was a check to the frequent visits he paid to the culpable Adela. Much would he have been at a loss also to convince me of his intrigue with the pretended Rosina. Adela, therefore, with Mrs. des Roches and Duverly, having conjointly taken their measures, it was agreed that the latter should go to reside at St. Marcellin, near Mrs. Reigny, a sister of the the baron­ess, and that Adela should adopt the above conduct with her mother and me. Mrs. des Roches an insinu­ating artful woman, having, at her arrival at St. Mar­celin, changed her name, and gave out Duverly for her son, and both of them became so connected with Mrs. Reigny, that they spent whole days in company of each other, and almost slept under the same roof. A­dela came to increase that company, and told her aunt [Page 101] how her mother had forced her to marry a man she did not like, and our tempers being of a contradictory na­ture, and in opposition to each other, she had obtained leave to spend some time at her house till her repug­nance should be removed, and she be decided to return to her husband. The good old aunt, easy and credu­lous, yielded to all their artifices, and introduced her niece to Mrs. de Ramond (the fictitious name adopted by Mrs. des Roches and her son,) as to friends to whom she professed the highest regard. Thus these contemp­tible wretches carried on their debauchery, even in the eye of a respectable aunt, who, far from guessing the plot, granted them every liberty of meeting and con­versing with one another.

In spite of all this, my letter created some confusion among the criminal triumvirate. Duverly made a pre­cipitate retreat, and my spouse (must I tell it!) was in a very advanced state of pregnancy, betook herself to bed, and feigned all the symptoms of a violent disorder. I arrived at this juncture, and found the old aunt and the perfidious des Roches by her bed side. Alas, exclaim­ed the latter, whose face I did not know, alas! the poor little woman, when she heard of her mother's death, she was seized with a fever and phrenzy. My mother is dead, said she, and she died loading me with curses and imprecations! Oh heaven! can one be more unfortunate! In vain her aunt, my son, and I endeavored to console her: nothing, sir, nothing could avail, but the news of your arrival. Shall I see my spouse again! said she, Ah! may he forgive me, and I shall die contented.

At this discourse of the perfidious des Roches, I ap­proached the bed: dear Adela, said I to my spouse, you know I never intended to tyranize over you! You wished to spend some time at your aunts, I gave you my hearty consent. Now, since you have no mother, there remains only a husband, a tender, a faith­ful husband—deign to accompany him to Paris, where he intends to fix his residence, and be sure that the care of consulting your happiness shall henceforth be his sole and constant ambition.

[Page 102] Adela, affecting a feeble tone of voice, answered, that she was highly sensible of her wrongs, that she in­tended to make amends for them, but intreated my kindness to give her three months to indulge her grief at the loss of the dearest of mothers, that she asked so much time to surrender herself to my wish. It is no mere indifference which dictates that language! No, no, my dear Dorance, your behavior, your generosity, impresses the most forcible conviction of my wrongs; They are great, and will I ever forgive them! De­part, dear husband, depart; in three months you shall see again Adela, not the unjust, ungrateful Adela, who received your hand with dread; but a submissive, ten­der, sensible spouse, who will think her life too short, to expiate the wrongs done to you.

You, my children, will perhaps think, that Adela did not speak the language of her heart: yes, she was sincere. My gentleness, my politeness had moved her, she repented of her crimes, and intended to live with me, according to the most rigorous precept of decency and probity. It was now the eighth month of her pregnancy, she longed to see me gone, she feared to pub­lish her shame, and my dishonor! Alas! how she wept! had you seen it, my children, she would have excited your pity. I who was ignorant of her mo­tive, was moved to such a degree, that I advanced to console and to embrace her. No, exclaimed she, push­ing me back, no, my too respectable husband, I am not worthy! my conduct towards you! Ah! preserve those tender caresses for happier times.

Des Roches, quite motionless at this spectacle, did not know if Adela had spoken sincerely, acted the part of a stage player; the old aunt dropt some tears, and was muttering quite low: Hum, poor couple! how loving! how moving they are! my dear nephew! My dear niece!—If Raymond was here!—With this cursed journey he lost the spectacle, a best example!—He is a good young man; he will, I believe, have the same feelings for his wife: for I will see him married, &c. &c. Des Roches beckoned her repeatedly to be silent; and would with all her heart have wished her to all the devils. Although I did not know this Raymond, [Page 103] yet she was afraid I should guess him. The guilty are always fearful and trembling lest the least sign should discover their crimes. They will often show by their anxiety what they are so careful to keep con­cealed.

I staid two days longer at St. Marcellin: my spouse, who had her disorder at her controul, made haste to recover, and having left her in good health, I set out for Paris, where I arrived and took lodgings in the Rue Grenoble, St. Honore. A month after my ar­rival, I received the following letter from Duverly, which to me was no small object of surprise.

"Will you excuse so long a silence, my dear Do­rance, when I shall have enumerated to you all the causes that have occasioned it? A few days before your father's death. Rosina's father discovered my in­trigue with his daughter. After having loaded her with the severest reproaches, he resolved to leave Gre­noble, and to take lodgings at Bourg-d'Oysans, a place which you know is adjacent to this town. Mrs. des Roches brought me the news: I was thunderstruck!—The father threatened to kill me wherever he would find me. What could I do? Despair almost overpow­ered my faculties, I proposed to my relation to travel, she consented, and we set off. I did not let you know it at that time, I was so perplexed! You had forbidden me to mention any thing farther of my amours! Your severity—a series of misfortunes! pardon, I pray, my silence: I break it off to conjure you to receive in your house a wretched friend, who is soon to go Paris to die—to break his heart. My Rosina is to marry the colonel in question; but at this time—she is—dare I tell it you—she is pregnant,—the poor child! I don't know how to act, that her father may not find it out—indeed it drives me mad. Assist me with your advice, it is the last favor of an unhappy friend, who does ac­knowledge his faults, and swears never to be guilty a­gain, if you suffer him to live near you, before your eyes, and fortified by your example.

"Direct under cover, at Mr. Pirlet's, Bourg d'Oy­sans."

[Page 104] I perused this letter several times, and pity resumed her empire in my heart. I was going to let him know that he was welcome to my lodging, but I received a letter from my wife, purporting that her health was perfectly re-established, and that the three months she had fixed, appeared too long a period to be absent from me—that she would come to Paris in six weeks, and would make it her duty to see me happy.

This letter filled me with joy, and my transport had made me forget to send Duverly an answer. One day when I had just thought on him, my servant came to inform me that some peasant desired to speak to me instantly. I made him come in, and asked what he wanted. The stranger, without answering, deliv­ered me a letter, which I knew to come from Duver­ly.—

"Dear Dorance, how will you receive the request of a favor I have to ask of you! will you render me so essential a service? Now—I am a father—Rosina is brought to bed of a most beautiful little girl! Mr. Pir­let, my friend, went into the country with the old man: He left Rosina to the care of Mrs. Pirlet—During this I shall say no more—but, after all, that child, it must be concealed from the vigilant eye of its grand-father and the colonel, who is expected.—I have but one friend, to him I send it—receive it, Dorance, receive the pledge of the most tender love!—Give it a name, or if your heart, if your delicacy deny me what I re­quest of your humanity, consign the babe to those assy­lums open to those victims of its age, whom indigence or jealousy leave destitute! Alas! how happy should I be could you but take care of it till I arrive: which will not be long. O Dorance! remember the sweet inti­macy of our youthful days! Do all for your friend—may he owe you more than his life—his happiness!"

This singular proposal quite affected me. "Where is that poor child?"—"Why, Measter, we bring it in an our mare; it is below in that there yard."—"In my yard! good God, what will he have me do with it? Impudent man!"—"Poh! Poh! you need but say a word, good measter, I'll soon see it snug in the Found­ling Hospital; I won't be long about it, I warrant [Page 105] ye." "Stop!" What a situation, what an embarrass­ment!

I knew not what to do; when a woman entered my apartment; she had a child, which she rudely put into my arms. "There, good gemman, there it is, poor little thing—Can you be so barbarous not to take it!" "What, I take it? it is not mine; it is nothing to me." Poor little chicken! it wept, it looked at me; (it was then a fortnight old.) I was touched with pity; I embraced the child. I looked at it. The woman that brought it was a nurse; I kept her too.—"Measter," said she, "'tis a little girl; she ar'nt been christen'd though." "Well," answered I, "we shall give her a name; I will stand her godfather, and you shall be godmother; but how must I go about all this?—what will people think?"—"Nay, answered the rustic nurse, "never mind; only take care of a poor forsak'd baby." I followed this advice, and went to the rector of the parish, to whom I communicated my adventure, such as it had happened. That worthy priest received my avowal with a high degree of sensibility; and the child was christene [...] that same night. I gave her the name of Clara Adela Duverly, and had her brought up in my own sight, because of the treacherous Duverly, who had caused me all this trouble. I heard no far­ther for very near six years.

Here Candor's narrative was interrupted by Clara, who threw herself in his arms, and, melting into tears, exclaimed, "Ah my father—Ah Sir—I know not what name to give you—I see but too well, I am that unfortunate child—O my God!—why did not you reject me—O heaven, what kindness, what generosity." "Yes Clara," replied Candor, "yes, you are the fruit of the most shameful plot.—You see how despicable he is, to whom you owe your life; but why should you suffer for it?—Alas, your birth is your only crime; how have you expiated it by your sweetness and ten­derness to a bar arian who deserved them not; Oh, hear, hear, and tremble before hand at what I am going to disclose.

"I ought first to explain to you the motive which made Duverly and my spouse send me the fruit of their [Page 106] guilty loves. Adela [...] moved at my proceedings, had repented: remorse knawed her breast. After my de­parture from St. Marcellin, she loaded des Roches with the most bitter reproaches. "Yes," said she, "yes, perfidious friend, it is you who precipitated me into this abyss; who is to save me now? who will make me worthy of a two generous husband? O wretched Adela, what [...]ast thou done? Thou art following a declivity strewed with flowers, and fallen into the most shameful disorderliness, whence thou must extricate thyself by passing over a path all spread with thorns!—infamous Duverly—thou hast seduced me, thou hast betrayed a friend: O heaven! could I but hide myself from mine own conscience!"—

Des Roches, quite astonished, informed Duverly of this change: the latter flattered himself to regain Ade­la's heart; but it was in vain: my spouse, quite inflexi­ble, threatened to kill him if he ever should attempt to appear before her. The only favor she begged of him was to send the child to her husband at Paris. "I shall see it," said she, "that unfortunate offspring of my guilt; I shall bring it up, and its presence will always remind me of my error; and point out the conduct I ought to adopt towards the most respectable and most generous of men." Duverly consented; but he could never prevail on Adela to permit him to come and live with us. That woman, whose affection to this wretch was changed into hatred, forbad him preromptorily, threatening to disclose all to her husband, should he ev­er be so imprudent as to disturb the peace of their house. Duverly, in consequence having made choice of a nurse, and a trusty confidante, sent me the infant as mentioned above; and too much persuaded of Adela's carrying her project into execution, he voluntarily exiled himself without writing to me.

There was but one thing that puzzled me at Paris; I knew not how to present the child to my spouse without exciting on her part, some injurious suspicions against me. What could she think of the care I took of it?—In this anxiety of scruple, I resolved to send her with the nurse to a village adjacent, when a carriage stopped before my door;—a woman comes up—it is [Page 107] Adela herself! she f [...]s to my arms; sheds a flood of tears; calls me her dear, her too generous husband!—we sighed in concert—she begs me humbly to receive her, and to forget her wrongs. "They are very ag­gravating" cried she, "but how little did I know you! how unjust have I been to you! alas! this will be my only torment! yes, my strange, inconceivable conduct will be the torment of my life."—"Forget it, Madam; let us both bury in oblivion our past failings.—Ah! did you know my imprudence!"—"Your im­prudence, Dorance! no! I know all; I know your proceedings towards a friend too culpable!—How durst he send you the fruit of an illegitimate comm [...]erce with one Rosina? Do you know that wretch?—My aunt knows her, and she told me the whole affair."—"Madam, I will send the child far from your eyes; it is neither just nor decent."—"What! my dear hus­band! should I exact this of you:—Let not love be an obstacle to the favors of friendship;—you received the child: you obliged your friend: suffer me to be as generous as you."—"Oh! this extreme delicacy would be enough to discard the suspicions I might have entertained about this child, did I not know, as well you, the spinning of that intrigue. Let us be short, don't deprive yourself on account of me of this sacred [...]. I declare it wants no less than all the affections you have inspired me with. But, after all, have that satisfaction; and by it, let me prove to you all my sub­mission: keep it! keep it I desire it."—"But, madam, is it just to bestow upon a strange child those necessary cares which perhaps it will be necessary for us to keep in reserve? for—"—"I un­derstand you, my dear,—Well, we are rich; and can afford it: her father has forsaken her."—"I know it; he is not in France; his Rosina is married; he can see her no more; such is her will—Oh! had you seen the repentance of that woman; my aunt and Mrs. des Roches described it to me in such lively colors, as makes the scene still present to my view—Let us do all for an unfortunate mother; who will perhaps one day em­brace and cherish the little innocent; and thank [...]s for [Page 108] its preservation?—"Dare I expect this, my lovely A­dela!" "Ah Sir! I could sacrifice my life to prove you my regret!—May the tenderness and gratitude of the little innocent put us in mind that she was the cause of our reconciliation."

Thus spoke Adela; and moved as she was, she feigned to put so much zeal and dissinterestedness in the favor she granted, that, seduced by her adroitness and sensibility, I embraced her. I was, however, not much inclined to keep the child in the house; but so well did she take her measures, that I resolved to the contrary. How captious were her expressions! when she remark­ed my coolness for her daughter; she knew how to move me by a picture of the situation of a forsaken child; and, when she had excited my feelings to the highest pitch, she expatiated upon the great service I was rendering Duverly: and the desire to anticipate the smallest of my wishes. She then would call for her little Clara, and taking her in her arms, "Behold, she would say, "that poor little innocent creature? How she resembles her mother: she is the very por­trait of her—Imprudent Rosina!—I knew her well. Who would ever have believed she could place her af­fections in a seducer!—The whole town of Grenoble respected her.—My mother often proposed her as a pattern for me to imitate.—Yes, these are her eyes—her mouth!—poor little creature! thou shall not fall into the excesses of thy parents!"—"Excuse me my dear Adela," said I, "I never knew that Rosina was in Grenoble."—What, sir! did not you know the name of her family; did not you know her father?—Oh! were I to tell you his name you would soon see!—but no! heaven would not have you to discover it your­self, permit me to conceal the name of that illustrious family, which such a dishonor would blast for ever!"

I was, I declare, surprised at such an air of myste­ry; but, attributing this reserve to an excess of delica­cy, I only admired the more the upright and virtuous heart of my spouse.—You my children, will perhaps find me too credulous, but had you been as ignorant of the bottom of the adventure, you would have your­self [Page 109] been deceived. And what a stranger to mistrust is an open and honest heart! I was, in a word, doom­ed by fate to be ensnared in every thing, to all intents and purposes!—had I even discovered the truth at that time, what could it have availed me? the mischief was done; it was too late to open mine eyes. I would to God I had never seen since!

CHAP. VIII.

THUS I lived twelve months with my spouse in the sweetest intimacy. Little Clara was growing apace; Adela loved her dearly, and gave her leave to call her mama, and often called her daughter. For my own part, I made use of the same expressions to the child, who was beloved by every one. She gave tokens of bright parts, and a good heart; we resolved to begin her education and to put her in a convent. At that time my wife presented me with a son. A son, forgive me if my heart sighs at this name—Alas, it [...] my wounds. Here begins the career of my attrocities: O my children, how you will detest me.

I had no profession, and was a father: this sacred title rouzed my emulation. I was informed that the person who had purchased my father's charge had since died, and that the precedency was again vacant. Am­bitious of occupying a post in which my ancestors had distinguished themselves, I imparted my design to my spouse. She would not, at first, give her consent; un­doubtedly because she would not live in a town which would always call to her remembrance her transgressi­ons. Yet, after all, she consented, and we set out. My spouse nursed her son, we took him with us, and went to settle at Grenoble; but it was decreed that it should not remain long my abode.

We had now been a week at Grenoble; I was busy in courting the head magistrates for the object of my [Page 110] ambition, when I received one day a large parcel in form of a letter. A cold sweat came forth from my pores, and set all my body on a tremble; a fatal pre­sentiment seemed to forewarn me not to open the papers. I was alone: judge of my despair, upon reading these words.

I read with sudden and eager curiosity the letters of my per [...]iduous spouse, whose hand writing I recogniz­ed. Imagine to yourselves my rage, my anguish, my despair! Adela had deceived me!—these too children Clara and Julius—were Duverly's: I had been duped!—I shall not attempt to paint to you my transports.—I ran with pre [...]ipation up stairs into my spouse's apart­ment—O new terror—she is gone! she his fled!—she took the young child with her! I find a paper on a table; I open it and read:

[Page 111] "Fly, unfortunate Adela; your husband knows all!—Fly, and know the ancient friend Des Roches by the service she renders you."

And lower down, with Adela's own hand:

[Page 112] She [...]pires!—Her son is in her arms lifeless!—Ger­main embraces the two corpses, and bather them in his [...] He sees me attempt to thrust the same sword, [...]king with gore, into my breast.—O unjust­est of men, exclaimed he, wresting the fatal weapon from my hands. O most cruel of husbands, of fathers! detest now your cruelty!—Know all—Adela, this morning came to me, Germain, said she, save my life save thy master.—I have committed a horrid crime be­fore I married him. He has just been informed of it, the conduct which I have since adopted, will not suffice to shelter me from his just resentment.—Oh conduct me to some sacred asylum: give me time to disarm his an­ger?—In vain did I represent to her the dangers this proceeding would expose me to, her tears, her entrea­ties, (she was almost at my feet;) and having heard that you was in pursuit of us made me comply. I drove her as far as this forest, to conceal ourselves for some hours: but believe me she was virtuous with you! Oh! I swear, I swear she was virtuous.

Despair succeeded the most poignant sorrow, I wept bitterly: Dear victims, said I, leaning on the poplar beneath which these two deplorable victims were lay­ing; ah, could you hear my voice; could I restore you to life at the expence of my own!—Just God, could you permit a deed so black, so attrocious? Alas what cruelty, what infernal cruelty.

Favored by the shades of night, Germain and I drag­ged the two corpses to a neighboring cavern. There I sat down by them, and swore not to leave them to my last breath. In vain Germain attempted to make me return to Grenoble; I was deaf to all his intreat­ies, and had it not been for the zeal of this faithful servant, I would have made away with a life, stained by the most abominable of crimes. Germain, said I, in a moment of calm, men have betrayed me; I will fly from them, I will inhabit this forest; here I shall be with my wife and son; here, far from all soci­al intercourse, I will deplore my crime and family. Germain consented, he pledged himself to keep the strictest secrecy about this dreadful accident, and it was agreed, that, next day I should go to Grenoble, [Page 113] to settle all my affairs, and to engage a clever and discreet artist to erect this cottage, of which I myself had drawn the plan.

This hope circulated in my veins like the most pre­cious balm: we spent that night in the forest, and, after having set by the remains of two beings so dear to me, we set out for town, in the same post chaise, which had, the preceeding day, carried my spouse and son. I waited immediately upon the Duke de—, then governor of Dauphiny, who was at that time at Grenoble: I informed him, that certain misfortunes, which I could not explain, had determined me to re­tire from the world, and for that reason I humbly sup­plicated his permission and leave to build a retreat in the forest of Chamborane. This nobleman, who had known me from my infancy, and loved me much, made use of all his rhetoric to dissuade me from so singular a project; but finding his advice would be to no purpose, he readily granted my request and ad­ded to it another architect, a man of abilities and tri­ed fidelity, who seconded my project with the highest discretion, so that the town, and all other adjacent places knew nothing of my undertaking. I ordered the fatal poplar, a witness to my barbarity, to be transplanted into my garden, and you, my children, know it well; it is to this hour stained with blood. Let us now turn our eyes, if possible from this dread­ful picture!

While the cottage and its premises were building, I remained in the cavern, which contained the bodies of Adela and Julius. I had them embalmed, and put in a coffin, made of a very hard sort of wood, lined on the inside with a kind of pitch, which kept out the air and humidity. It is the very same cavern in which Alexis to day sheltered himself from the storm. A subterranean passage leading from this cave conducts to it, and every night I visit it to shed tears! When the cottage was finished, I procured all the necessary furniture which you so often see, and came to conclude my life within its walls.—I was but too sure of Adela's innocence: among her papers I found a letter from Duverly dated some weeks before the perpetration of [Page 114] my crime, purporting that he had settled five years since, in the province of North-Carolina in America, and wished constant happiness might attend her, me, and his little Clara, whom he recommended to her maternal care: from this it appears, that Adela had not seen him since our re-union at Paris: thus I im­molated my own son on the bosom of his mother!—O inexhaustible source of remorse!

It is nevertheless a plain fact that the perfidious Duverly intended to disturb the peace of our family. Why did he send Adela's letters, and unveil her crime?—Why would he blacken that unfortunate woman with the most odious calumny; why feign to be on his death bed, while it was a mere fiction (as Mrs. Des Roches, by a note, has informed me since, that I had no occasion to trouble myself about Duverly, he being settled in North-Carolina) although it be true that the fatal letter was not of his own writing, yet he dictated it—it was a trait of blackness in that infernal villain to destroy my peace and the honor of my spouse. He did it seemingly, to be revenged on her, because she had entirely banished him from her presence. What light could I draw from this chaos of thought!—All my fury, all my resentment, were kindled against Duverly—I conceived the most bar­barous project; he has a daughter, said I, she is in my power. She believes I am her father: let her grow in this belief—I will go to seek Duverly in eve­ry part of the globe, I will restore him his daughter, but when I restore her, my dagger shall pierce her a thousand times in his own sight!—Yes, my wife, yes, my son; this is the vegeance decreed to your bloody manes. Duverly, who made me commit the greatest outrage against nature, I will punish with the same blow.

I fetched Clara immediately from the convent, to live in the cottage with Germain and me. You have trembled, my children, at the phrenzy which misled my reason. Ah, I blush and will be ashamed of it, all the days of my wretched life: Yes, Clara, behold your benefactor, he only brought you up to be his vic­tim; but now much has your sweetness, your lovely [Page 115] temper, discomfited his bloody design;—ah forgive him! Your father is the cause of all my ills; him alone I do charge with all the weight of my hatred; but you shall forever be the dearest object of my ten­derness.

Alexis, you have now heard the story of my mis­fortunes; they seemed to excite your pity, prove it, then, in revenging my crime?—"Upon whom?"—"How can you ask!"—"O heaven, upon Clara's father!" "has he ever proved himself her father? "O God, what a demand! The hand of Clara is the destined reward!"—"What do I hear," interrupted the latter.—"What, sir, are you so cruel as to promise my hand to the wretch who murders my father?—Cla­ra must deserve to expect of you such sentiments."—"Who is your father? is it a base seducer who dis­honored your mother, or is it her true and generous husband, who received you as his child, who brought you up, and of whose misfortunes your birth is the only cause?"—"Where am I," replied Clara, "O God! what an abyss of crimes does surround me! am I then born for crimes?"—"Germain," continues Dorance, "this is the period to execute our design. Let us spill those drops of a blood devoted to my hatred, sprung from the veins of the most inveterate of ene­mies!"—"Away, barbarous ruffians, how dare you?" "Clara," replied Dorance, "be docile, second my wishes, ah! I will not have thy life; thou art too dear to me, but leave me my vengeance, leave it me, it is my only treasure."

Clara, sinking under the weight of grief, remained motionless, her lovely head hung over her woe-fraught bosom; she was a prey to sighs and sobs. The vin­dictive old man laid hold of the hand of Alexis, and said to him: Go, my son, and seek Duverly all over the world. To-morrow, when dawn ushers in the fresh morn, thou shalt set out, and never return to this mansion, but with the traitor's head—his head in hand—mark me: this is my command, this is the will of a friend, who has by his generosity proved a father to thee!

[Page 116] Alexis, trembling with indignation, could not ut­ter a word: Dorance and Germain rise, they take the coffin on their shoulders, and having given each of the young people a flambeau, they ascend the stairs of the cave, cross the garden, and let down their noble burden under the great poplar.

Night, with the thickest sable array, governed the forest. The light of the flambeaus having roused the birds perching on the neighboring trees, they suddenly cleave the air with anxious wings, fluttering a thousand sinistrous shrieks, which were re-echoed incessantly by the bird of night.

Our four hermits having arrived at the great poplar tree; Dorance addresses them: Here, said he, here is the place where a desperate hand plunged a dagger in­to the heart of a spouse and a son!—Here is that bloo­dy steel still stained with blood; the most precious, the most innocent blood! O my wife! thy head was lean­ing here, against the bark of this tree, here thou hast fallen, thy eyes looked tenderly on me, thou pressedst my hand and expired! Wilt thou forgive thy butcher? And thou, unhappy creature, that had scarce a vital spark: Julius, my poor little Julius, what hast thou done! Here they are, Clara; behold them, Alexis, in this coffin! They groan, I hear their voice! it calls for vengeance! You shall be revenged, sacred ashes! God speaks to the heart of Alexis: he arms his hand! Clara herself will encounter him to avenge the cause of a mother, of a brother, and a generous benefactor! no, it is not thy seducer, O most unfor­nate Adelia; it is not thy seducer who gave her life! it is thee, it is from thy bosom she received life! Oh! let her see thee! let her hear thy voice from the hol­low bier!—Be appeased unhappy family! Ah! you break my heart!

The old man threw himself upon the coffin. Clara falls down prostrate, and both utter cries as would have moved the most flinty heart! but what became of our young couple, when Dorance, opening the cof­fin, exposed to their sight two embalmed mummies, covered with wounds? Clara reels and drops senseless to the ground: the old man burns some incense, covers [Page 117] again the frightful corpses, and taking Alexis by the hand: every year, said he, we bring hither these sad remains and mourn over them! O Alexis, Alexis, will you disappoint the hopes of my old age? Take this steel, take it: make it pierce the perfidious Du­verly: go, my son, the dawn is nigh, take this gold; it will keep you from want, and come back to the cot­tage. If I am gone, you will find your Clara, you will find her, she is to give you her hand, it is my will.—Am I? exclaimed Clara, no, never, never!—Alexis, whither will you, my dear Alexis?—To die far from you, replies the latter! Yes, I quit forever an odious abode! O Dorance, it is thus you will ensnare my innocence?—If we punish crimes do we cease to be virtuous?—Sigh no more, my dear Clara: never shall my hand attempt thy father's life!—Take this my promise: young man, interrupted Dorance, where are your oaths? have you already forgot that you pledged your honor?—Ah! give me enemies more entitled to be the objects of my prowess.—What? should I be a base assassin? Who desires it! Challenge him to a single bombat, and gain the victory.

Dorance added a thousand other persuasives, each specious than the other, in order to determine Alexis to espouse his cause; but he could not succeed. Our young hero had too high a sense of feeling and deli­cacy to become an instrument of crime. Meanwhile Dorance and Germain lowered the draw-bridge, and Alexis left the cottage in spite of the cries and tears of Clara, whom the two men detained and carried to her apartment. Alexis still hears her voice, which made his heart bleed. We shall leave her for a mo­ment, and see what becomes of our hero upon leaving the cottage.

He first felt an emotion of joy, at seeing himself thus restored to freedom; he surveyed, for some time the walls of the place, which had, during a twelvemonth, been his abode! A little uneasy about Clara's fate, he sat down upon the brink of the fosse and gave vent to his tears. At different intervals, he heard the sound of her voice; words unconnected reached his ears—Tyrants, let me die! Is he then going to murder him? Alex­is, [Page 118] thy heart is not capable of it! Shall I then set him [...]? &c. &c. Alexis, quite in emotion, rises of a sudden; some subtile thought had entered his mind: If the draw-bridge was to be lowered again! Were they to compel me to return!—Love yielded to fear; and the horrors which surrounded him. His heart was depressed, he takes to his heels and runs till he quite lost [...]ight of the baleful mansion which he quitted with a such a deal of pleasure. What a cruel man, said he, is that Dorance! What service did he exact of me! O my God, I still tremble. But Clara, poor Clara, is confined there for life! Would to God I could deliver and take her with me! She is not his daughter, nay, what say I, a man who has a design on her father's life, has forfeited all claims to so vir­tuous a heart.

Alexis hastened over hedges and bushes, he knew not whither to direct his road, and reflected upon what he should do, when a singular noise was heard near him under ground. The trees shook their tops, an abyss opens its jaws—heaven, what is he to see? What new adventure is he run, to encounter?

CHAP. I.

O Singular instability of things—O wonderful va­riety of human vicissitudes!—who can explain your nature—who can flatter himself to elude your power?—Thus it was not enough of the scourges and evils that infest the globe; must also the passions of men be added to them? The difference of characters, as visible as physiognomy, are the only sources of the troubles and discord which divide society. The wicked undo the good, and drag them into the preci­pice with themselves.—Thus my neighbor sets fire to his house and it consumes mine: so must I, who am good natured, humane, sensible, generous, become the victim of the vices which infect the heart of my friends, my parents, or those on whom I depend.—Dependence is the source of a thousand disorders. Such a one, born honest and virtuous, is hurried into perverseness, because he was compelled, in the course of his life, to flatter the vanity of sots, to be subservient to the pas­sions of the great, and to knock at [...]he temple of for­tune, and at every door which the hazard of circum­stances had placed in his way.—A close tie unites so­ciety so strongly, that no individual can form a true resolution without the concurrence of the others. Is it not the combination of circumstances which deter­mine that profession?—It requires only a single word, a single step, a single glance of beauty to overturn all your projects, and make you often take a resolution quite opposite to that which once was the favorite ob­ject of your ambition. What an instability!—What a subordination to the laws of events!

Alexis, whilst living in the cottage, thought he should never leave it, and flattered himself to spend a life of peace and tranquility. He who detested a resi­dence in towns, sound nothing that could engage him [Page 120] to return and inhabit them a second time. Yet a stranger compels him to it; a stranger of a jealous, vi­olent and vindictive habit:—He bids Alexis imitate his vices—he will have him to share one half of the venom which infects his heart; he puts the dagger of crimes in his hand, and covers the atrocity to be com­mitted with the cloak of unspotted justice, and heaven born gratitude. Thus to men subordinate, what should be most sacred to them, to the purpose of grati­fying their passions!—Hear the covetous—he finds al­ways lawful reasons to pursue with jealousy the objects of his boundless appetite—the ambitious exclaim how merit and equity ought to elevate him to the pitch of grandeur—the libertine excuses himself with the vio­lence of his senses—the flatterer pretends the necessity of making friends: they are never in the wrong!—vir­tue and justice are always the language of their mouths, but how far are they from their hearts!

Thus Alexis is forced to leave all that is dear to him—a mistress, a place of refuge—in short, he aban­dons all!—forces his inclination, and runs to the world for adventures.—Now behold him alone and solitary in the woods; he is drest in his former decent clothes; in one hand a knapsack with provisions, the gift of Germain; in the other a knotty stick; his little round hat shelters his face from the ardor of the sun; his brown hair, floating in natural ringlets, hangs about his shoulders. He has, indeed, the gold of Dorance, but it is a treasure which flatters him but little.—How much would he prefer simplicity and rest!—he slowly continues his way; sometimes he turns towards the cottage, now out of view.—His eyes, wet with tears, are lifted towards heaven—It is of heaven he now ex­pects all—it is heaven that will be his guide, and will preserve his youth from striking upon the shoals of in­experience.

Let us accompany Alexis in all his travels—let us mark for his fate every concern which a befriended, shelterless orphan of eighteen must necessarily excite in sensible souls!

Alexis had now left the cottage one league behind him; uncertain what way to take, he strayed at ran­dom, [Page]

[Page 121] when hearing a singular noise near him under ground, it attracted his attention, and chilled his soul with terror. He stops—the earth shakes—the bushes, which hide the entrance to a subterranean abode, are seen to move—a cavern opens—out of it comes a man, pale and bewildered, his eyes sunk in his head, and covered with thick brows, seem extinguished by lan­guor and disease—in short, it is not an animate being—it is a ghost! a phantom!— [...]ast up from the innermost recesses of the earth to frighten Alexis. The latter was hesitating whether he should stay or fly, when the stranger, throwing himself at his feet, cried, with a tone of voice that would have melted a cannibal's heart, "Ah! Signior! Signior! save me! help me"—"Who are you?"—"A poor harmless creature! an infelice cavaliere! ^* who expects of you either life or death."—"Speak! be explicit!"—"First, Signior, let us leave this cursed place; we might be overheard and pursued." "By whom?" "By the ruffians I leave! Oh! let me follow you, and above all, be not afraid: my exterior frightens you; Lo v [...]do; ^† but if you once knew my heart, you will know lo pove [...]o Carlo Sciocco. ^‡. You will pity him, assist him and love him!

Alexis did not know how to believe the stranger's words.—A man of a ghastly aspect, coming out of a cavern in the middle of a forest, alarmed his natural mistrust. And, setting aside mistrust, what traveller is bold enough not to apprehend something at so particu­lar a meeting?—Yet, the man was alone, unarmed, prostrate, his voice was sweet, and even effeminate; he was shedding tears, and imploring our hero's assistance.—What could make him to be feared?—Alexis was good, sensible, generous; he raised the stranger from the ground, and permitted him to follow him. "Come," said he, "come with me, unhappy stranger; but, before you expect my confidence, first give me your own and, with the most scrupulous fidelity, give me a recital of your misfortunes, and what you have been doing in this forest"—."O Santa Maria! [Page 122] Divino Giesu! ^*" exclaims Carlo, lea [...]ing for [...], "What blessing! What unexpected joy!—Yes, Signor, you shall know it all; my history is not long—hear it, and make me the happiest of mortals, in permitting me to follow vestra fortuna ^†, and to prove you my gratitude to the last of my life." "We shall see that, when you have told me who you are."—"I am Italia­no, Signior, Italiano di Napoli. ^‡—Let us march—be all attention."

(Our two itinerants, at these words, got into a path which led them to the highway, and, whilst they were thus proceeding, Carlo related his adventures to young Alexis, who did not lose a single word.)

My father was a great musician at Naples. He married, and had a son; but a few years after, having a quarrel with a bad cansonier ^‖, his neighbor, who pretended to be on a level with him in point of merit, they fought a duel in which my father's antagonist fell. From that moment my father was forced to quit Na­ples, to lose his place, and to take refuge with his fam­ily, at Santa Croce, a little adjacent village, where he shifted, and was at the greatest pains in getting a live­lihood. I was five years old, and he intended to make me an Orpheus of the first eminence, deprived me of what is more than life to give my voice the power and sound of a woman's. I lost my parents at an early period of life, and, after having long travelled through Italy, I settled at last at Frascati, where I instructed a great number of the inhabitants in music and compos­ing. At sixteen, I was independent, and left wholly to myself with a fine competency. There are many fine palaces in Frascati belonging to persons of the first eminence; I sung in their assemblies, and was univer­sally courted; but I disliked my profession; born with a feeling heart, and a gloomy mind, whose only de­light was the study of philosophy, I became tired of be­ing the buffoon of every body, and longed for calm and solitude. Any situation in life, by which I might [Page 123] have gained these advantages, had it even been beneath my own, would have appeared to me the completest happiness on earth; I found it one day by the greatest hazard in the world.

A French nobleman, whose name was Mandeville, was upon his travels through Italy, and passed through Frascati. He had heard so much of this Tusculum [...], which is built upon the declivity of a moutain, on the very spot of the ancient Tusculum, that he resolv­ed to spend some time in it. As he lived [...] the same house where I kept lodgings, we soon became acquaint­ed. This young, rich, and handsome chevalier, was passionately fond of music, and was highly delighted to hear me sing. He came every night into my apart­ment, and I rehearsed before him the best songs of our great masters, accompanying them on the harpsicord, I then taught music to Signiora Lauretta Mazarelli, the eldest daughter of Signior Mazarelli, descended of a noble and wealthy family. Mazarelli one day gave a concert at his house, where I introduced the chevalier Mandeville.—How much had I to repent of my com­plaisance! The chevalier had no sooner seen Lauret­ta, than he fell desperately in love with her. He made me the confidante of his passion, and by dint of intrea­ties and presents devoted me so much to his service, that I became the slave of his commands. Lauretta, who was also dying for the chevalier, having made me the same proposals, I was, in spite of myself, involved in the intrigue, without either daring or being able to keep out of it, for Signora Lauretta, a woman of an impetuous, sie­r [...] and revengeful temper, threatened to [...] through like a sieve if I dared to unravel the secret to her father. Mazarelli expected hourly a Venetian nobleman, his in­timate friend, to whom he had promised his daughter. The Venetian arrived at this critical moment. The young Signora hated Alfo [...]o (the name of her future spouse) to the utmost degree. She was the first who proposed to the chevalier to elope with her to France. Man­deville had no sort of objection. They both were in need of my services to succeed in their enterprise, and my imprudence complied with their desire. You shall see, Signior, the issue of the whole business, and the [Page 124] circumstances which resulted from it. Lauretta, since the arrival of her intended spouse, who was of a more jealous disposition, never left the house. She was closely watched, and I was the only person who had access to her apartment to give her the usual lesson. I contrived, in order to get her out of it, a peculiar stratagem, which might have turned out very bad for me, had not I made use of all the prudence and skill I was master of.

Lauretta, by my advice, laid down, and feigned an indisposition. I came to her father's house, about six in the evening, and, having covered my face with a handkerchief, under pretence of a violent tooth-ach, went up to her apartment. Half an hour after, I went out and told her women, who were in an adjoin­ing room, that their mistress was fast asleep, and desir­ed nobody would enter her apartment, and, condemn­ing myself for neglecting to bring an interesting piece of music, I returned, and instantly gave my clothes to Lauretta, and went to bed in her place. Lauretta, in this disguise, put her handkerchief over her face, passed through the middle of her women, who did not know her again, left the house, and stept into a post chaise, which waited, with the chevalier, in some adjacent lit­tle street. Bene, Signor, bene ^*! Signora was gone, but I was left in the lurch, and to get out of it put me at no small loss. Half an hour after her elopement, a wo­man entered the apartment, approached my bed, and asked if I wanted any thing. I had put on the night cap of Lauretta, and, for one who was ignorant of the stratagem, it was impossible to discover the cheat. Alarmed a [...] this sudden intrusion, I hid my face in the pillow, and feigned, in this state to be fast asleep, not sonno ronfatore, ma d'un sonno dolce et tranquillo ^†. The donna did not disturb me in my rest, but retired, and shut the door after her.

Being anxious, as you may suppose, to leave a place where my life was in danger. I put on a pair of trowsers, and a brown jacket, which I had taken car [...] [Page 125] to bring with me; then climbing up the chimney. I worked so hard, both with my knees and elbows, that I reached the top in a little time. It was dark; I went down the roof, and finding the window of a neigh­boring house open. I ventured in without knowing how I should get out of it. The door which commu­nicated to the house was actually shut, but being easy to open it from within, I did it, and went, in the dark down stairs, and passed through a garden, whose gate happened to be open, into the street.

You must admire, Signior, the propitiousness of all the circumstances. If yourself had been in the same jeopardy, you would, perhaps, not have got off so well; because of destiny and predestination!—"How predes­tination?" said Alexis.—Si, signor, si, signor! ^* do but listen, and you will soon see what I mean by this word Nay, I am a philosopher—a downright philosopher.

Alexis, judging Carlo to be an eccentric character, could not help laughing; but his companion, who was not aware of it, continued his tale with a seriousness really comical.

CHAP. II.

I LEFT Frascati almost instantly, and travelling by night, in my light dress, I met, by day-break the chevalier, and la cara Lauretta^‡, who were waiting for me at the gates of the little town of Agania, in the Campagna of Rome. We immediately pursued our road, and at two in the afternoon were near Ve­rolia, on the frontiers of the kingdom of Naples, on the enchanting banks of the river Cosa. We admired this beautiful district, and the proud Apennie, the foot of which we had reached, Enraptured with the freedom they were about to enjoy, both lovers embraced me, and in the most flattering terms commended me for my [Page 126] stratagem. Soon after, a post chaise, much lighter than ours came up with us. A man, quite furious, came out—it is Alforo! "Traitor," cried he to the chevalier, "infamous ravisher! surrender thy prey, or thy life!"

The chevalier alighted, and began a bloody combat with Alforo. During the engagement, four men whom he had brought with him, seized Lauretta, who had swooned away dragging her with them, and put her into their chaise. I flew to her assistance; Mandeville's servants followed my example, and our dexterity had such an effect on our antagonists, as to hinder them from accomplishing their design.

Alforo received a mortal wound from the cheva­lier, who, while the former endeavored to join his ac­complices, came to defend us, and we put them to flight; but the barbarous Alforo, before his strength left him, plunged his dagger into the heart of the un­fortunate Lauretta. "Die with me, perfidious wo­man!" said he, "Thou shalt not be my rival's"

The chevalier saw the blow, and flew to his mistress; she looked at him, and died!

"O gods!" exclaimed Mandeville, "O gods! could you permit this?" at these words he ran his sword re­peatedly through Alforo's body; but to what purpose? to mutilate a cold and ghastly corpse.

Oh! what was my situation at this dreadful spec­tacle! The very idea still shakes my frame! I fell up­on my friend who was going to make away with himself, and having wrested the fatal weapon from his hands, I, with the assistance of his servants, put him into our chaise, and drove, with the greatest dispatch, from the bloody spot. The chevalier was bereft of all his senses: having recovered them, he blamed us for leaving the body of his dear Lauretta; but we repre­sented to him the dangers which would have attended a similar proceeding, as we might have been caught in ipso facto, carrying off two dead bodies, whose assina­tion would be laid to our charge. Mandeville yield­ed rather to our arguments; but, during the whole journey he did nothing but weep.

[Page 127] The road we had taken, could certainly not conduct us to France; we therefore changed it, and finally en­tered Provence, where we took the road to Paris. Af­ter the chevalier had settled his affairs in that capital, he resolved, always fretting at his past misfortune, to retire for life, to a castle, situated in the environs of Lyons. left him by his father. It was in that delight­ful retreat we both studied philosophy, and brought it about by dint of study and application, to convince ourselves of these two maxims, which ought always to live with their fellow citizens in society.

All men—But, signior, before I enter any discourse with you upon moral subjects, I ought to give you an account of my last adventures, to remove all suspicions about the manner in which you met with me, and the better to gain your confidence.

You will please to remark, that the chevalier Man­deville, mio tenero amico ^* died a few years after, partly consumed by his grief, and partly by his own fault.

His first principle was that all the events of life are pred [...]stined and decided before our birth by the supreme Being: a sage, well ordained, well thought maxim, which he, however followed too literally. One day, walking alone in his garden, and reflecting upon his past misfortune, he found, by chance, a pistol in his pocket. This pistol had been put in by a stupid valet de chambre, who believed he had heard his master give him orders to do it. What does it signify? said the chevalier to himself;—I think on the misfortunes which cross our life, and now find a pistol in my pock­et—It is perhaps a decree of heaven!—Yes, without doubt, heaven will have me die by this pistol, it is evi­dent!

The chevalier was on the point of blowing out his brains, but the idea of not having made a just distribu­tion of his property, made him return to his closet: he made his will, went out, hid himself in a wood of his park and lodged the fatal contents of the pistol in his mouth.

We heard the explosion at the castle; but thinking the Chevalier was hunting, we minded it no farther. A [Page 128] [...]ew hours after, the gardener came in, quite frighten­ed with the report, that he had seen his master lying on the ground in the wood. We went out in haste, and found the body of the unfortunate Mandeville welter­ing in his blood.

I cannot express what I felt in that cruel moment. I lost the use of my reason for a whole month.

The chevalier had left me a considerable share of property by his legacy; I received it, and went to Pa­ris to banish from my imagination the terrible phan­toms which continually tormented it.

In the metropolis I saw company, and in a little time, spent my whole fortune. You will think signior, that I squandered it away in balls, feasts, and parties of pleasure. No, I did not!—I obliged friends, who afterwards proved ungrateful to me; because it was apparently to be so. I lent, I gave away to every body, and soon found myself without resource. I did not, however, regret the use I had made of my property, I said to myself, all men are born with wants; my e­quals expose them to me, I bestow, they take; all this is very natural, but they think themselves under no ob­ligation to me; I did not assist them with that motive.

Wo to the interested man who only serves people to render them grateful! but I am myself reduced to necessity, and they whom I obliged will not assist me. Well! they are of another way of thinking; it must apparently be so. Moreover, they hinder me from do­ing as they have done. I need but beg for relief, and there is no doubt but I may find some feeling souls who will open their purse to assist me. Oh! such persons are very rare! and why should there be none? I am born indeed with that sensibility; I am the only being of my kind in nature; I will hope, I will wait; I may perhaps find some friend.

Thus I reasoned; though experience had taught me that I should not have too firm a reliance on hu­man favor. So much the worse for them, thought I, if they will not oblige their needy brother, of course they deprive themselves of a most exquisite pleasure; and should I be sorry for them? heaven has thus or­ganised them, but to me, it gave a different character; [Page 129] such is the order of things; all is intended, all is ar­ranged, all is premeditated in nature. We are not the masters of events, but should take them such as they happen.

After all, signior. I helped myself out as well as I could; I sung, I gained money, and resolved to make the tour of France, to gain wherewith to return to my country. It was in this wood where I was stopped and robbed by ruffians. Having told them I was an I­talian musician, and what were the causes of the par­ticular sound of my voice, they resolved to make me their buffoon, and to take me to their cavern to amuse them, and to divert their wives, with whom they could safely trust me without danger. It is now a week, since I have been in that cursed cavern, signior; I did every thing to make my escape, but never could find an opportunity till this day.

My hosts stripped last night a rich Jew, and in or­der to make merry upon the occasion, began to drink brandy and spirituous liquors ever since the morning. I had the good fortune to put into every one's glass a pinch of opium, which I found last night in the Jew's pocket, and seeing them all asleep, I lifted the trap of bushes, which covers the entrance of that horrid fright­ful den. I saw you, signior, and your features then youth, in a word, your whole appearance inspired [...] a with confidence and make me determine to [...] to your assistance. Per Dio, ^* if it be possible, let [...] low you every where, let me accompany you; I [...] be your guide, your servant, your every thing; do no [...] deny me that grace, and depend per lavita, ^† upon the sentiments and friendship of the unfortunate Carlo Sciocco.

The language and adventures of the Italian had giv­en Alexis no small concern. Above all, the history of that mad Chevalier, Mandeville, who blew his brains out, because he thought himself destined to be shot, appeared so strange to our hero, as to make him curious to learn thoroughly the precepts of a philosophy so contrary to his own. He did not know what judg­ment to form of the character of Sciocco, who given [Page 130] away his whole fortune, now to one, then to another, who trusts every body, and after all accuse no one of the misfortunes that befal him. Predestination was a word he had never heard of from Dumont, but of which he nevertheless conceived the sense; it astonished him so much, as to make him consider it as an error of some crackbrained individual. In consequence, he determined to examine Carlo on the road, and to re­fute his erroneous opinion.

Your misfortunes, said Alexis to Sciocco; and the critical situation in which I now find you, can but make me subscribe to your request, and not leave you in the middle of this forest; but what can you expect from a man as wretched and miserable as I?—I can­not forbear telling you I have neither parents, friends, no [...] property, fortune nor refuge; in a word, I have nothing. Fate, pleased in harrassing me, made me meet with a beneficent ho [...]t. That good man is now in my eyes, a bare monster, a cruel tyrant. I fly from him, and forever: may heaven never bring me into his presence, sullied with that odious crime which he ordered me to commit!—I loved, I adored Clara!—what say I?—I love and adore her still; but fate parts us; I can never be her's nor can she ever be mine! to re [...]ort, I do not know where to linger out a wretched necessi [...]nce and you, will you share it?—No, rather fly Well!—let me steer alone my fatal course. Sant [...] Croce ^*! appare [...] [...]hould I leave you, (replies Carlo with vivacity,) [...] it is providence that made us meet: it was or­the [...]ained in the order of things, that at such an hour you, [...] should pass on such a road of this forest; that, in the mean time, I should leave the cavern and should fall down on my knees before you: that you would hear me; that I should give you upon the road an account of my misfortunes, and that we should agree never to leave one another.—What! was all this ordained thus?—Certamente! ^§ we could not miss the minute in meet­ing together.—You joke; it is a mere hazard!—Haz­ard! there is no hazard in the world, all happens by decree; and all human wisdom can neither foresee nor prevent it. Suppose, for instance, there is a little path [Page 131] if I have a mind to walk upon it, robbers, lay waiting for me, and will take my life away; but, on the con­trary, if I continue my road, nothing disastrous will befal me: Am I not free to follow my own will in ei­ther case?—No, if your life is to be taken away by as­sassination, something will excite you internally to fol­low the little path! your steps will bring you to it as it were mechanically; every thing will conduct you to it.—What a singular system!—But you, signior, you, who believe not, I see, in predestination, can you ex­plain me the meaning of fate, destiny, fatality, all high words, which are [...]n every body's mouth?—Destiny, in my opinion, is the imperious law which orders the march of human vicissitudes, but it makes them re­sult from circumstances spontaneously, and according to the character, passions and conduct of the being, which it curbs under its iron sceptre.—Your explana­tion is not quite just; for this reason destiny torments the good, as the wicked, oppresses the weak as the strong, and makes herself sole mistress of the circum­stances. Thus destiny and fatality are absolutely the same thing as predestination.

If a man should exclaim buoni Dei! ^* for what have you reserved me? How cruel are my stars; It would be all one for him to say, Buoui Dei! have you then decreed before I was born, that I should sustain such a misfortune! was it then in vain for all my prudence to resist the doom! No, I cannot resist your sovereign, will; I must obey your laws; believe, me, signior, every body shares my opinion, though nobody ever sound it out like me.—Do not you know it is a very dan­gerous one? Perche ^†—According to your doctrine, the unjust, the cruel, who persecutes his fellow creatures, is not criminal; he only obeys an invisible hand, which leads and involves him into a bad crime; he is only the iron rod, or the instrument of heaven to pun­ish mankind; and why should heaven punish man­kind? What are their wrongs? what harm can they do, since they cannot act freely?—Oh! your sys­tem overturns all moral and divine laws!—Moderate this servore signor; ascolta mi; ^‡ the question proposed [Page 132] by me is a point of theology, which would take up too much time to be discussed at present, and we shall re­sume it some other time. Know, only, that I pity the wicked, that I pity them greatly. Moreover, all men are not born wicked; God has made them good, hu­mane, generous, and endowed their hearts with sensi­bility. If they degenerate, it is because they are im­perceptibly hurried away by the violence of their pas­sions, the shock of contraries, real and self created wants, and (those letter are more imperious than the rest) in a word, by exaltation and the power of doing mischief—I do not tax heaven with their degeneracy, but are not all the evils of Pandora's box diffused over the earth? Well; these are as many venomous insects swarming about every created being. Wo is to him whom they pitch upon to be wounded by their stings, for it will never be in his power to keep them off.—My dear Carlo, your system is so ill established, that you are much at a loss how to consolidate it.—Why, sig­nor:—I maintain that all men are good—O heaven what a gross mistake!—Good they are, yes, and very good!—But they have ruined you—It is my own fault; why did I give them my property? They have now betrayed me?—Why did you believe them impru­dently? Because it was to be—Oh! I cannot stand this. How did the being that formed me, intend to render me miserable?—I shall never injure it by insi­nuating such a notion in my mind.—If you are innocent you cannot be miserable; the guilty alone feels real misery, because he is gnawed by remorse. Now signor, amabile ^*, let us drop a conversation which displeases you. Give me time to unfold truths of my opinion, and to reclaim you from your unjust prejudices Yes, I will prove, that if it is impossible to elude the laws of events, necessary in the equilibrium of things, we might at least, mitigate our ills by confidence, submissi­on and docility. We become wretched, through our own fault, when we seek for those events, when we give them rise, when, in a giddy manner, we throw ourselves headlong into the abyss. We cautiously avoid all occasions which cause such a fall, we feel only what [Page 133] are more entitled to our pity than to our censure, we shall be able to enjoy that sweet consolation, the sole privilege of innocence, which renders the oppressed happier than the oppressor.

CHAP. III.

ALEXIS could plainly collect from this conversa­tion, that Carlo was a madman, whose head was stocked with systems, one more erroneous than anoth­er. His way of thinking was even destitute of steadi­ness and solidity: what he said this moment would be destroyed by what he said the next; his opinions were so confused, that none of them were established. He seemed, however, to be endowed with an upright heart. He prayed Alexis so humbly to be allowed to keep him company, he promised so firmly to follow him every where, and to join in mutually working for their subsistence, that, in spite of the remembrance of Dumont's perfidy, the lover of Clara conquered his mistrust, and consented to Carlo's request. It was then he had an opportunity to see all the mad­ness of the Italian. "Santa Maria!" cried he, fal­ling down upon his knees, "Divina croce di Giesu, vi ringrazio! ^* O good and generous cavalier!—be my friend; be my master!—I will forget all my misfortunes.—If you should one day marry, a sweet­ness of which a father's cruelty has deprived me, if you should become a father, I will bring up your chil­dren, I will carry them in my arms. O carissimi figlio­voli ^† I see them, they put forth their little hands, they call me their good friend—Yes, I will be their friend, I will love them as much as their tenero padre ^‡, and to live with them and you shall be my greatest happi­ness."

[Page 134] This broken compound of languages made Alexis smile, while his companion continually lifted up his hands towards heaven, and distorted himself into a hundred different postures.

Having passed a winding of the road, our two tra­vellers descried several men advancing streight towards them. Alexis could not help trembling, but Siocco, who was very sharp-sighted, begged him not to be un­easy, that it was only a detachment of the cavaliers de marechaussee, ^* of whom they had no occasion to be afraid.

By this time the detachment was rather near, and Sciocco, who had been looking all this time, began to cry out, "O Dio! whom do I see in the middle o [...] them?—an accomplice of the ruffians of the cavern—He was taken a [...]ew days ago; he comes at the head of these guards to the cavern of his compani­ons—Let us change sides, signor; I am afraid he will know me."

Alexis at this discourse began to be sensible of the danger he was in. They betook themselves from the highway, but the guards, to whom the ruffian had de­nounced Siocco, clap spurs to their horses, overtake them, and seize them in the king's name.

Let the reader judge of our hero's grief: he de­clares his innocence; but the guards are inflexible; they load them with chains. The robber, who had betrayed them, insulted them in the most approbrious manner. "Hah! hah! Sciocco;" said he, "the pretty buffoon of our charming company; so you find at last a comrade?—He is quite a child: he began the business too soon."

Alexis, overwhelmed with grief, could not utter a single word; tears rolled down his cheeks—he moaned—his eyes were directed towards heaven, and seemed to beg for some miraculous token of his inno­cence. Sciocco muttered, and swore solemnly, that neither his master nor he was guilty; he related to the [...] guards his adventures, but they would not hear him. He then endeavored to console Alexis, saying [Page 135] to him, "Mio caro maestro, ^* heaven will have it, it was apparantley to be so."

Meantime four of the horsemen leave the main bo­dy of their comrades, who continue their march, and lady hold of the two unfortunate friends without mer­cy, and drag them to the town of St. Marcellin, which they reached towards sunset.

They were, without any formality, committed to prison, with the consolatory notice, to hold themselves ready for the next day, to undergo an examination, and to be put to the rack.

Behold Alexis alone, shut up in a narrow dungeon next to Sciocco's! Behold him, that unfortunate youth, accused of the basest of crimes, confounded with the most infamous wretches—What has he done? What fate awaits him?—Ah! it is much to be feared he will soon be inclined to believe in predestination.

Alexis, stretched out upon the straw, melting in tears, revolved all his former adventures in his mind, accused his father, Candor, Sciocco, nay, heaven itself! Thus he spent more than half the night, when a sweet voice abated his despair, and restored a little clam to his soul. "Alexis," cried the voice, "are you here? Is this your dungeon?"—"Alas, whosoever you be, save me, make my innocence known!"—"A woman who has seen you, and pities your youth, has it in her power to deliver you if you promise to be grateful."—"Ay, all my life, all my life!"—"Stop then, be of good cheer," The voice is silent.

Alexis, surprised at this event, did not know wheth­er he ought to accept of liberty thus offered him. "I may be thought guilty," said he to himself, "if I fly das­tardly. O my God! what am I to do? I [...] I remain i [...] this infamous dungeon, if I expect justice from my pre­possessed judges, who are deaf to the voice of innocence, implicable cruel, what will become of me? the very idea makes me start with horror!—Ah! what need I care for what the world will say! I will go. But that woman! what is her motive to deliver me whom she does not know? What interest can she have?—Suppose it is a snare! Ought I to trust her?"

[Page 136] Alexis was now more tranquil, and waited patiently for the angel of consolation, who had made his sorrow subside, when he heard the door of his dungeon open. A young, handsome, and well-drest woman, provided with a dark lanthorn, approached him, and laying hold of his hand, said, "Come, follow me, unfortunate young man; I cannot believe you guilty; my heart scorns such a supposition—Oh! did you but know what an impression you have made upon it; but don't let us lose time." "Oh, most generous of women! "cri­ed Alexis, "my friend is as innocent as I."—"Save him; let me be under that double obligation to you!"—"I will, with all my heart; but remember, young man, what I do for you."

The sensible deliverer opens the next dungeon. A­lexis called to Sciocco with a low voice, Dear Carlo, come, we are set free."—Santa Maria! who can—"—"Hold your tongue, fool; you undo us."

Alexis was forced to stop the Italian's mouth with his hand, as his mad declaration might easily have frustrated their design by a discovery. They both fol­lowed their benefactress, who went up several stairs, opened different doors, and conducted them to an a­partment decently furnished, where she ordered them to be seated. "Alexis, I will save you," said she "and accompany you in your flight: hear only a few words; I am the wife of the keeper of this prison. My hus­band disliked and ill treated me. I saw you yesterday, and you made a very strong impression upon me.—Let me fly from the man I abhor; and permit me to follow one I—I pity. But promise never to leave me."

Alexis was at a loss how to answer; but Sciocco, whose joy was extreme, gave way to his rapture.—Should we leave you, generosa dona! ^* we! Oh! my master and I swear forever to shew the most perfect gratitude, the most—"—"That is enough!" broke in the mistress of the jail; "but let [...] be gone."

Alexis had now lost all his joy. The woman who would leave a husband to follow him, appeared in his eyes, contemptible: and if he did not express his [Page 137] in­dignation, it was because the great danger into which he saw himself involved, kept him in sullen apathy. The woman, who considered his silence the common effect of natural shyness, and was satisfied with Sci­occo's answer, had risen to set off, but Alexis tremb­led and repented already of his proceedings: he re­gretted his dungeon, and would fain have returned to it. He reluctantly followed his guilty deliverer, quite lost in thought, and deaf to the ejaculations of Sciocco, who whispered, "Well, heaven is just, mio cara ami­co! ^*—The order of things was in confusion, but now all is set to rights.—What a change! What a happi­ness!"

Our three fugitives descended the private stairs, which led them into a little lane. A carriage waited for them, they got into it, and drove away. Having travelled two nights and one day, they reached Avig­non, where they alighted at an inn, and resolved to rest themselves for a few hours.

During the journey this inamorata had asked Alexis a thousand questions, which he answered with the utmost sincerity; but Sciocco in order to save Alexis the trou­ble of a tedious recital, related our young hero's ad­ventures, and how he had met with him in the forest of Chambarou. The woman, little satisfied with his account, begged Alexis to recount his misfortunes himself; he complied, omitting certain particulars, and above all expatiated upon his residence in the cot­tage, and his passion for the fair Clara; a passion which he said death alone could extinguish.

The keeper's wife, surprised at this avowal, persuad­ed him, by the most forcible arguments to renounce that passion, which in all appearance, could never be crowned with success; and in order to affect a change in his mind, she made a plain declaration of her own.

Alexis could no longer restrain his indignation: "What, madam," said he, "you are married, and you dare think of loving me?"—"What of that, my dear? I have always been remarkable for my levity in all the circumstances of my life. My husband court­ed me for a week, and tired of being a virgin I marri­ed [Page 138] him—I took a dislike to him a month after, and left him—He came sometimes to see me in a convent to which I had retired, and with persuasions I returned to his house. His conduct to me was very censurable and scandalous—A fortnight after I set off with a young man, as lovely as can be, who, in his turn, left me at Paris, where he had brought me. Thus unable to do better, I returned to St. Marcellin, and conde­scended to forgive my husband, who received me a­gain. We have now lived together for six long months; and he has vexed me in a thousand different ways; It was too much for me to bear, to live six months with a husband I hate!—I saw you, you took my fancy, and I have set you at large."

"No madame," answered he, "if my heart is the reward of the kindness you have done for me, I shall be ungrateful; I judge so by my feelings; you may claim my friendship and gratitude, but my love, never." "Traitor, remember your promise, and the sacrifice I made for you! You shall love me, or die by my hands!"—"What a fine way of ingratiating one's self! What a woman!"—"You don't know me yet;" an­swered the jailor's wife, "I am capable of every thing—I shall devote you the victim of my rage, not as a traitor, by poison, or pistols, but by facing you in fair combat. Dare to resist a woman!—If you will not requite me, take sword or pistol, because I care not for either, and take the field with me!"—"Oh madam, are you in good earnest?"—"Coward, thou tremblest! Know that I have been educated to be the ornament of my sex!—I can as well mount a horse as fight a duel—I can handle the sword as clever as any French­man. But Alexis, Alexis, give me your heart, lovely youth! give it me, and do not leave me to despair."

Alexis, astonished to the highest degree, was struck dumb. Sciocco alone kept up the conversation with the intrepid amazon; he undertook, by phylosophical argument, to convince her, that she interrupted the order, and destroyed the balance of nature; that a woman ought to keep within the bounds prescribed to her sex; and that only by a most supernatural predes­tination she should act the part of a Hect [...]r in petti­coats.

[Page 139] It was during this conversation that our fugitives entered one of the Foxbourgs of Avignon, and alighted at an inn.

The jail keeper's wife, quite in a furious fit of amor­ous transport, proposed that Alexis should either yield to her desires, or accept a challenge to fight a duel. Sciocco offers to stand ground for his master. "No!" answers the termagant, "No, signor, if I fight, it is always with a man."

This scene, in fact comical, appeared in quite a dif­ferent light to Alexis. His virtuous heart rejected so disgraceful a connexion.

But let us return to Clara, the unfortunate Clara, who, upon losing her lover, is acquainted with the se­cret of her birth, and obliged to live with the enemy of her father!—let us enter her very apartment, and sympathise with her.

CHAP. IV.

CLARA had seen her lover depart. Clara, lean­ing with her eyes and mouth against the iron­grated window of her apartment, had seen let down and drawn up the fatal bridge which parted her, per­haps for ever, from her dear Alexis!—She is left alone to grief, to fury, and despair. "Oh!" cried she, "he flies from me to plunge the dagger in the breast of him who gave me life!—O cruel Candor! It is you who requires that horrid sacrifice by the hand of he sweetest and lovliest of men!—It makes me tremble still!—The raitor has brought me up with no other design than to devote me some day to his fury, to revenge in me my father's wrongs!—O Candor, thee I loved, but Dorance I hate, I detest. Candor is my benefactor—Dorance my most implacable enemy. Good God! what horrors await me! Candor, if he finds that Alexis does not return, will not he spill my blood? O heaven, I will prevent it, I will leave this [Page 140] cottage which has, till now, been dear to me. But how can I escape?"

Clara, determined to leave Candor, and to go every where in pursuit of her lover, invented a thousand ex­pedients to effect her elopement, which reason destroy­ed by degrees. There was but one that seemed prac­ticable.

After having well deliberated on it, she began, with great trouble, to take off the staple of the lock of her apartment. She then waited till night, which was the most favorable time to carry her project into execution. All day long, Candor and Germain endeavored to console her, and to prove that she would soon see her Alexis again. At night Germain came, as usual, to lock the door; but in vain did he give himself that trouble; he turned the bolt of the lock, which having nothing to receive it, could answer no purpose.

Clara went down stairs, and staid till the two old men had descended into the subterraneous temple. She recollected that Alexis had been led almost to the cen­ter of it through a cavern, whose entrance was from the forest. She had also remarked, on the preceding night, the door which led to this subterraneous temple. She intended to hide herself in the cellar till the two old men should have left it, and to escape through that same door.

She descended quietly into the temple, the door of which had been left open, and hid herself behind a pillar, and was witness to all the extravagancies of Candor and his old servant. After having offered their complaints to the ashes of Adela and her son, they both retired. No sooner Clara saw them depart, than she opened the door of the subterraneous cavern, which she could easily effect from within, but, groping in the dark, soon found herself obliged to stop, seized with horror and fright.

She recollected there was in the temple a lamp al­ways burning before the tomb; she returned with a design a fetch it away; but, all on a sudden, the silence of the place, the horror she felt before the dead, brought a thousand tremendous phantoms to her ima­gination. She stopped, and kneeled down upon the [Page 141] steps of the monument; she thought she heard a voice break through the marble which covered the coffin. "Oh! my mother!" cried she, "is it you I hear?—Are these the woeful moans of my unhappy mother? Speak, what will you have me do? Do your sacred manes rise against the project of an imprudent daugh­ter? What do you foretell me? What must I do?"

Clara could scarce respire; her chilled heart beat no longer. A sword stained with gore, a parcel of pa­pers offer themselves to her sight. "It is the sword that flew Adela!" she cried, "and these papers say, "Adieu my dear Duverly, come soon to join your Adela."

Clara put the bloody sword and the parcel of let­ters into the sepulchral urn from whence she had taken them. But discovering an empty tomb in the corner, it attracted her sad curiosity upon it she sees the words: Unfortunate family! thou shalt be revenged.—This tomb is des­tined for the daughter of my enemy.

Though persuaded that this tomb was erected when the cottage was first built, her terrors and apprehensions were revived again. She took her mother's letters, seiz­ed the lamp, and entered the cavern, through which she pursued her way.

Thus alone, bewildered 'midst the shades of night, she goes, like Hypermnestra, in search of her lover. She now leaves the cavern, and enters the forest which surrounds it.

Profound darkness still maintained the empire of night; the forest was all in awful silence. The trem­bling Clara strayed in this wilderness, with her thoughts on the dangers that threatened her in a place full of rob­bers and precipices. She reflected that the light of her lamp might attract some of those ruffians, and expose her to their cruelty; she extinguished it, and set it on the ground. She was determined to return to the cavern to pass the night, when she perceived, at a great distance, a light which the lamp had hindered her from seeing before. She turned pale and stopped. The light advanced straight towards her, Luckily her presence of mind did not forsake her; used to most bodily exercises, perceiving a tree, she climed up and sat down upon a bough.

[Page 142] Two men drew near, one holding a lantern, the other a parcel. "Well, Handofdeath," said one, "we have walked pretty well; we are now near the cavern." "I think it is time, Mr. Breakpate, to end our journey; it begins to tire my old legs. These two thousand louis d'ors are d—d heavy! Sit down under this tree." "Mr. Handofdeath, now tell me a little of the story about that man; how the devil, my boy, could you alone rob him of such a load of money?" "Hark'ye and I'll tell ye. I came back last night from the dis­covery on which my comrades had sent me, and there was a man riding full gallop upon the highway, with a portmanteau behind him. I felt such a [...]ow of spirits and courage, that I hid myself behind a tree, deter­mined to have a go at him. The moment he passed me. I fired my pistol, his horse fell, the rider very na­turally followed, and I fell upon him. Come, my friend, said I, give me what you have got in that bag, and don't be long. "Pray, Mr. Highwayman," said he, "I hope you won't rob another thief!" What do you mean by another? said I. "Why I was a banker," said he, "and am now a bankrupt for a very large sum. I have about eight hundred thousand livres in bank notes, and about two thousand louis d'ors in cash. I can assure you, upon my honor, I stole it all! One wolf should not devour another. Pray have pity on your comrade." I could not help laughing at the fellow's speech. "Mr. Banker, said I, you ought to be very thankful for being a thief like me; if you was an honest man, I would murder you—but, as I find you are a partner in trade, I have some regard for you, by the bye though, you must give me a bit of your luck—I want the cash, and you may keep the papers."—"O heaven!" said he, "what the whole sum?" Aye, aye, replied I, and be thankful for your good fortune, or I'll—As soon as my man found me clap a pistol to his head, he was in a terrible hurry to unpack the parcel to give it me. I put up with that submission, and gave him the watch word for the other robbers, and away I came. He thanked me very civilly, and made his way on foot. I wou'dn't, d'ye see, take ad­vantage of the man; isn't that conscience? Now, Mr. [Page 143] Breakpate, I met you coming along, you asked me what I had got? I owned it all; but we must keep the secret between us. Zounds! have we any business to divide the money among our comrades? Have they help'd to the glory of the day? No! So let's hide the cash some where, go back to the cavern, and when we want it, we know where it is." "That's your [...]ort, my brave boy!" "Well, where shall we hide it." "The best way I should think, would be beneath some tree, and mark it properly. "Stop, do you know this spot well?" "Yes, that I do; there are four high-ways all around, and a path that leads to the old mad­man's cottage." "O yes, you are right; I have heard say the old dunny has got a very pretty daughter!" "Who knows that? as yet we never saw any body come out of the place;—Don't you think there would be some way to get into their quarters to make booty?" "The devil a booty you'd make; the old fellow lives as a hermit; ar'n't there walls, ditches, and every thing to keep us out?" "So it is quite a strong hold?" "Aye, and a good one, "I'll warrant you,—come don't let's forget our yellow boys;—This is a fine tree; won't it do to protect the cash?" "To be sure!" "Come then, bear a hand steady to work."

Handofdeath and Breakpate tore a branch from the tree on which poor Clara sat. They made a kind of stake of the branch, and dug a hole large and deep enough to contain the bag. They accordingly de­posited the money, and covered it with earth; after which they marked the tree with four or five notches, and withdrew, not without having well examined the place and its environs.

What Clara felt during the conversation and pro­ceeding of these two villains, may easily be judged. What they said about the cottage, had above all, frightened her to an extreme. She was afraid le [...]t they should discover her, and in spite of her dress easily distinguish her sex by her features and tone of voice. When they were out of sight, she leaped from the tree, and feeling, for the first time, the want of gold to an adventure [...], she determined to rob the thief who had robbed another.

[Page 144] She dug out the treasure with the same stake they had interred it with; but finding the precious burden too heavy, necessity taught her an expedient. She fancied to make it lighter by dividing it. In conse­quence of this notion, she put a certain sum into her shoes, her bosom, and all her pockets. Thus provid­ed she commenced her march. She took her way from certain hints, dropped by the robbers, and her imagi­nation was pregnant with pleasing thoughts, and the hope of again meeting with Alexis.

CHAP. V.

THE curtain of night was drawn, and Aurora, in bright array, pursuing darkness from the gates of the east, ushered in the bright god: all was awakening all reviving in nature. From all parts the birds tuned their melodies to celebrate the return of day.

Clara continued cheerfully her road to St. Marcel­lin, in order to proceed from that city to Valence, where she [...] to enquire for Alexis. She arrived at St. Marcellin the morning, and stopped at the first [...]. Here she found the whole town in an uproar concerning the elopement of the jailor's wife with two prisoners. This news was communicated to Clara, who thought it scarcely worth her hearing. All her eagerness, all her wishes, tend to inform herself of Alexis. Alexis! answered the people. Alexis! yes, you are right, he is one of the thieves.—Is not he a young man, of such an age, of such an appearance? He—He must certainly be the man?—the jailor's wife fell in love with him, and they went off together.

This was more terrible than a thunder stroke to poor Clara. She dropped down; her landlady, who relat­ed the story, came to her assistance.—Pray, my dear creature, do you know that Alexis?—If you do, I [Page 145] would advise you to get out of the way.—You might be taken up, and get yourself into trouble.—Well, madam, I will be gone, not to elude the unjust pur­suits of justice, but to quit the fatal place where my friend has betrayed me.

The landlady could not comprehend her meaning, Clara, forbearing all farther elucidation on the subject, le [...]t, that very instant, the town of St. Marcellin, where every thing she had heard struck her with astonish­ment. She took the road of Aubervive, and rumina­ted upon all the circumstances of the report made to her with respect to Alexis.—Alexis taken up for a thief—is it credible?—I doubt not but he has been mistak­en for another: but his having eloped with another woman, his having yielded to the proposals of that wo­man, whom he could know only a few hours—this is astonishing.—Could he so soon forget his Clara?—De­ceitful man! I will renounce, I will forget him, and seek some corner of the world, where, far from the cot­tage, I may languish out a miserable existence.

Clara, though well persuaded of her lover's infidel­ity, persists in her design of directing her journey to the capital, where she thought to find her fickle swain with his new conquest.

Having slept that night at Aubervive, she proceeded the day following, to Vienna. In the course of her march, she entered a little remote hermitage upon her right. It consisted of a chapel, committed to the care of three capuchins, who were so very poor as to be obliged sometimes to ring the bells as a signal of their distress, and to receive alms from the adjacent villages.

Clara fell on her knees before the altar, where a priest was officiating, and addressed her most fervent prayers to the maker of all. Soon her pious ejaculations were disturbed by the remembrance of her misfortunes;—she sighed, while tears flowed plenteously from her lovely eyes.

A lady of a middling age, and very well dressed, approached her—O, Good God, my child! what is the matter?—you weep!—Have you met with some mis­fortune?—you have perhaps committed a sin that caus­es remorse—Yes, madam, I have committed one—a [Page 146] very great one!—Alas, at your age▪—but there is for­giveness for all sins, my little friend; you must obtain it by a sincere penitence.—I have a spiritual director, father Stephen, an upright and virtuous man, open your heart to him, make a confession of all your sins, and let him, by his holy absolution, reconcile you to the grace of almighty God whom you have offended—You anticipate my wishes, madam—Where is that fa­ther Stephen?—my burdened soul pa [...]s to unload it­self. Alas! my little man, how happy I am! You shall see him directly! but stop here a moment.

The old lady returned with father Stephen, who ogled much our young traveller. Come, my dear heart, be faithful and sincere, said she—Father Ste­phen, you will come to dine with me to morrow, wo'n't you?—Bring with you that child.—You cannot continue your road to day, my angel; devout this whole day to piety—Let me not hinder you.—What a pretty lad!—what a pity that so lovely a sheep should have strayed from the flock of the faithful. Well, do what is to be done; I will not bid you farewell; come back as soon as you have finished; I shall wait.

Clara took the capuchin aside, and began to acquaint him with her being a woman, A woman! cried the director of consciences, a woman! pray what is your name?—Clara.—A pretty name!—go on.

The beloved of Alexis made a general confession of the particulars of her education, her flight, and the perfidy of her friend. The father conducted her from church to the lady's house, and gave her on the road the most salutary advice. My child, you must re­nounce that giddy youth, you must give him up; so lovely a creature deserves better sentiments. Do you know where to go to?—I care not where; it is indif­ferent to me.—Well, stay for a while with the old ba­roness d'Yrace, that is the lady's name who directed you to me, she is a very sensible and charitable woman; it will give her pleasure to accommodate you at her own house; stay there: but do by no means reveal your sex to her; beware telling her that you are a woman in disguise; she is so scrupulous in point of de­cency, that it would be much against you.—Follow my advice, I am your friend.

[Page 147] Clara promised not to disclose her sex to the baron­ess, and thus discoursing, they both arrived at her castle. The baroness was at the gate, and waited for them with the greatest impatience. Well, my rever­end father, have you purged his soul of the sins which infected it? has it acquired the snowy whiteness of the lily, and the fragrancy of the rose?—What is your name, my dear?

Clara was confused; father Stephen answered for her. His name is Alexis—and, as the poor orphan is without friends, without shelter, I prevailed on him to stay for some time in your house, if you, madam, deign, to receive him.—With all my heart; it gives me great satisfaction—Ah! father Stephen, what a concern I feel for this poor youth!

The baroness seized her hand, and conducted her to see her park, her castle, and the apartment which she destined for her use.

My dear, said she, you may stay with me for life, if you like, it only rests with you; I shall take care to make every thing pleasing and comfortable; but if your fancy is for the beau monde, you will not find it with me, for I see no other company than father Stephen, he is my intimate friend; we have been acquainted with one another so long—You will be highly benefited by his conversation.—Yes, madam, replied the friar, I will do whatever lies in my power to divert him, but you will not keep him shut up all day long? you will send him sometimes to me, I hope; there is a fine fish pond in our hermitage; if he loves angling, he is wel­come to amuse himself; and besides, my numerous collection of books are at his service too; we shall read together in my little cell—what do you say to that, A­lexis? Clara thanked them with unfeigned pleasure, for condescending to comfort her in her wretched situ­ation.

The baroness conducted Clara to the Castle; the dinner was served up, and the young pilgrim was plac­ed between the old lady and the friar, both shewed her the greatest attention, both felt the same interest though excited by different motives.

[Page 148] At night, father Stephen, who was obliged to re­turn to the hermitage, retired with a kind of sorrow, yet not before he made Clara promise to come next morning to see him in his little cell.

The baroness, who was now alone with the supposed Alexis, asked him many questions, which he answered as well as he could. He was very sorry to see himself under the necessity of deviating from the truth, and had not the father, when taking leave, expressly desired it, Clara would not have retained the secret, and borne a name which at once put her in mind of a lover, and his infidelity.

Next morning she waited on father Stephen, who longed to see her; he ventured to squeeze her hand, and to make some little advances with regard to the tenderness he had conceived for her.

Clara, who thought no farther, left him full of es­teem and gratitude. She returned to the castle, where the baroness addressed her pretty near in the same terms, yet, with a little more candor and less captiousness. She asked her if she had ever been in love? Clara, surprised at this question, answered in the negative. At these words, the baroness seemed to be out of her senses—She sighed seemed enraptured, embraced her, and painted the happiness which two sympathetic hearts should enjoy in a retreat so delightful as hers. The passion of the old fool rose to such a degree, that Clara, simple and innocent as she was, perceived it, and was much alarmed. She was twenty times up­on the point of making herself known; but submissive to father Stephen's command, had determined to con­sult him upon what conduct he would advise her to a­dopt in so delicate a juncture.

She returned next morning to the hermitage, and recounted every thing that had happened. The fa­ther, who had never thought his old friend capable of such folly, and who was desirous of accomplishing his own design upon Clara, ordered her again to conceal her sex, and to make the most vigorous resistance a­gainst the old woman's proposals. He then touched upon his own feelings, and endeavored to be more ex­plicit in his language. Clara, still more surprised at [Page 149] the capuchin, than at the old baroness, returned, quite in confusion, to her temporary abode.

The baroness pushed the business much farther that day. The friar came to dinner, took aside Clara, and made a plain declaration of his love. Clara, being thus teased by these two hypocrites, took the wise reso­lution of quitting that dangerous asylum, and its bane­ful tyranny.

She was so imprudent as to mention her design to father Stephen. The capuchin was struck dumb for some time, but recollecting himself afterwards, he feigned to approve of Clara's project. Yes, my daugh­ter, said he, you do well; your age, your charms, in a word, every thing in you, had for a time alienated my reason, and made me regardless of my duty; but now, restore me to myself, and to my sacred function! fly, and let me forget you, if possible! Beware of let­ting the baroness know what you are about to do; who knows but that violent passionate woman might detain you against your consent. When she shall be taking her nap after dinner, take your things, and set out. Mind you do not leave the high road; you are only two small leagues from Lyons; you will be there to night; there you can take post, and go wherever you please. Adieu! my dear Clara! You see that I resign all; the baroness would not be so reasonable. Adieu. Alas! how sorry I am.

Clara was overjoyed to find the father willing not to interrupt her project; she returned to the castle, and dined quietly with the baroness. After dinner, the latter, according to custom, laid down on her couch to take a nap; Clara no sooner saw her asleep, than she walked off with her things, and pursued her read to Lyons. Passing through a delightful meadow, she re­solved to rest herself at the end of it, and reflect upon what she should do. The baroness, said she, when she discovers that I am gone, will tax me with ingratitude, and not give herself any trouble to run in pursuit of me.

The sun began to visit the western hemisphere, a gen­tle coolness pervaded the air, the earth opened her bo­som to receive the evening dew, and the all fragrant [Page 150] flowers exhaled a thousand perfumes, when Clara, seated on a rising turf, supported her head with one hand, reflecting what to do. She sat there some time, and heard not the rattling of a carriage which stopped before her; this put an end to her reverie. A man dressed in black came out; it is father Stephen. Cla­ra, said he, behold the power of love! I could not re­sist the desire of following you wherever you went; I have thrown off my sacred habit; it is no longer fa­ther Stephen, but a man enraptured with your charms, and who only wishes to live at your feet; let us not tarry: step into this carriage with me; come, a­nother minute will undo us. Oh, heaven, should [...] fly with you, with a man who deserts the most sacred duty and profession, to—Clara, we shall talk of this in the carriage; come, or I'll die before you.

He immediately pulled a pistol from his pocket, and applied it to his forehead. Clara seized his arm. She was moved, and knew no longer how to behave.

Whilst they were in this wavering situation, they descried a carriage amidst clouds of dust; it drew near and the baroness alighted; she approached, and up­braided them with the keenest reproaches. Cruel, treacherous, faithless man, cried she, what harm have I done thee, that thou should'st carry off my Alexis? he forsakes me, and thou art the cause: My Alexis, return with me, return, and bring me not to despair.

The friar looked very foolish; Clara blushed; and the baroness laying hold of one of her arms, attempt­ed to make her get into her carriage. Stephen, [...]laying hold of the other, exclaimed, no, madam, he shall not go with you; you would be the ruin of that innocent young man; you would hinder him from completing the work of salvation: he told me all; I will save him. Oh, that will not do, replied the baroness, pulling Clara to her side, he shall come with me; answered the monk, pulling her towards him, we shall see who is to be conqueror.

Long would this dispute have lasted, had not an un­forseen event most propitious to Clara, saved her from the rapacity of these two vultures, and discomfi­ted their criminal intentions. Thus heaven, which she [Page 151] invoked, came to relieve her; and sent, in her trouble, a deliverer, a comforter, a man who will be forthwith most dear to her. Let us make a moment's digression from this scene of strife, and return to the identical A­lexis, whom we have left at an inn, with his friend Carlo, and the wife of the jail keeper of St. Marcellin, who proposed either a criminal intrigue, or a duel.

The reader may see that the hero and heroine of our history are equally unfortunate, and that both must struggle with vicious individuals who make at­tempts upon their virtue and innocence.

CHAP. VI.

ALEXIS, quite at a loss how to get rid of the fe­male tormentor, received from Sciocco, whose fancy was so fertile in expedients and advice, a plan, by the observance of which he might easily, and with speed, disincumber himself: Signor, said the Italian, it is on­ly by flight you will be able to put yourself out of the reach of that bad woman, and per lo fare ^*, heaven fur­nishes me with an admirable suggestion—it is similar to that which freed me from the robbers in the forest.—I have a remnant of opium—let us lull our Argus into sleep, then take post, and retire to some place where it will not be easy for her to find us.—O you wicked wretch! is not opium the same as poison?—No, signor, it is not—I shall take it upon me to give her a dose strong enough to keep her a sleep till to­morrow morning—Can you have any objection to this? is it not an advice from heaven?—For, after all, perche ^† have I kept this opium?—I did not want it; twenty times I thought of throwing it away on the road, and I don't know what hand retained mine—It has been reserved for the use I shall make of it to day—Had you rather fight with her?—She will fall in the com­bat I tell you—Odds! would it not be better to avoid [Page 152] the accident—is it not in the order of [...]hings;—Come, lasciami fare ^‡, and rely on vostro humiliss [...]o servo. ^‖ Alexis laughed at this strange expedient, and left the conducting of the business to Sciocco. The latter found means, during breakfast, to administer the rem­edy to our Dulcinea with such success, that she soon after complained of a violent head ach, and fell into a profound sleep. Alexis and his companion, without loss of time, repaired immediately to the royal post­office.—They are asked to what place they wish to go—Where you please, answered they—To Marseilles?—Yes, to Marseilles.

A chaise is got ready for them, and they depart▪ we will not disturb the sleeping inamorata, but fol­low our two travellers.

Next morning, they arrived at Marseilles, and hir­ed lodgings at an hotel situated at the entrance of the new town. They were, however, highly embarrass­ed for want of cash. The treasure of Dorance, which was in the possession of Alexis, had been taken from him by the officers of justice, when he was committed to jail at St. Marcellin. He was left destitute, and his comrade labored under the same predicament.

Sciocco advised his friend to make the best of his abilities in music—Alexis accepted his proposal. In consequence, they advertise themselves as musicians desirous to perform in a public concert.—There re­quest is granted, a day appointed, two amateurs an­nounced, and the house very full—Alexis performed a concerto on the harpsichord, Carlo sung a rondeau in Italian, both were applauded, courted, and well paid.

This debut made them bold, and they intended to en­gage for a second appearance in public, but a favora­ble event furnished them with another kind of re­source.

Whilst they were one morning performing some musical morceaux, a person about forty years of age, and of a wealthy appearance, entered their appart­ment.—Let me not disturb you gentlemen; go on, go on, said he—I should be very sorry to interrupt you.—Sir, we are too desirous to know what procures us the honor of seeing you.—Well, gentleman, we will sit [Page 153] down, and talk about it—but mind it must be kept a se­cret; for the matter I am going to inform you of must not be known.—Sir, we promise secrecy; please to speak.

I am the receiver-general of the farms of this city, and it is in my power to give places to those I wish to serve—You seem to be masters of your profession—To-morrow each of you shall have a place in my office—You may take your function upon you; and as to the salary, I pledge my word you shall be well satisfi­ed—but I expect a mutual favor of you▪ I am in love with a very amiable young lady; you will be so good as to instruct her in music, history, geography, and all the sciences you are versed in; and then you will lose no opportunity of making her sensible of my tender­ness; for I have a rival, a formidable rival—I have taken care of the young lady from her infancy to this very day, and my intention is to marry her, if her af­fection and sentiments make her worthy of my choice—You see the whole of my proposal has a lawful ten­dency, and cannot hurt your delicacy—Whilst, for one month, you endeavor to obtain her good graces in my favor, I shall not appear at the house—If she con­sent to be my spouse, the nuptials shall be celebrated at the expiration of that term—If she rejects my of­fer with obstinacy, give her this little coffer, locked up as it is now, and signify to her that I renounce her forever—I have chosen you, gentlemen, for conduct­ing this affair, because your landlord has spoke in the highest terms of your prudence and honesty; besides, I am your neighbor; I live in the court before you—this vicinity will enable me to see you daily, to know what impressions you have made on her heart and mind—Well, gentlemen, will you subscribe to my offers and proposals?

Alexis, who would not trust the stranger, did not know how to answer his question; but Sciocco was already speaking, Si signor; ^* we accept of your offer with the greatest pleasure.—Well, gentlemen, re­plied the stranger, I shall be back to fetch you in an in­stant, and we will pay a visit to the lovely Sophia, who is to be your pupil.

[Page 154] The receiver general then withdrew. Alexis up­braided Carlo with a thousand reproaches for having acquiesced in proposals of so singular a nature. What, said he, can you, Sciocco decide so freely and without my concurrence? Come, answer me, [...] you know that man or his mistress?—It is, indeed, a pretty function he lays on us; but—it is a matter of marriage, replied Carlo—

Sciocco was running on, but Alexis took no notice of his foolish arguments; he was thinking in what light he should consider an adventure, which gave rise to his suspicions, and foreboded nothing good.

While Alexis made these reflections, and Sciocco continued his arguments, the receiver general entered the apartment. Come, gentlemen, said he, let us go—let us see the insensible Sophia, and may I be indebted to you for the conquest of her heart, my gratitude shall be boundless—But mind, I leave you the little coffer, which you will deliver to her, if she persists in her cruelty—But let us not mention it before the time is come—I desire either her hatred or her hand. But sir, said Alexis, why don't you keep the coffer at your own house?—you can give it us in due time as well as now. I insist on your having it here, replied the re­ceiver—I intend going upon a journey which will last five weeks; of course, I shall not be able to give it you—My friends, I think it is as safe in your hands as in my own.

Alexis would not venture any farther questions. They all three left the house, entered a spacious street, where the dwelling was situated. A governess made her appearance, and conducted them to the parlour, where the fair Sophia was amusing herself with per­forming on the harpsichord. Sophia, said the receiver, you know that I must go to Paris; my business will detain me there for some time—As I don't wish you to be without occupation, I beg you would be docile to the lessons which these gentlemen will give you; I sincerely hope to perceive, after my return, that they have operated some change in you.

Sophia made no reply; it is thus you mind what I say? cried the receiver—Come, hold up your head, [Page 155] and thank these gentlemen—What, are you going to cry? I am tired of your little airs, miss; and I assure you, they shall not deceive me any longer—come, give us a song, and let us see what you can do?

Sophia, after much begging, and intreating, sung the following air, and accompanied it on the harpsi­chord:

When Sophia had done, the receive [...] [...]nd her again. What means this song, miss?—you sing none but languishing ditties—I do not like it—I love gay, merry, and pleasant airs—Come, come, these gentle­men will change all that—will you be attentive to them, Sophia? will you follow their advice? I love you, you know it well—I hope therefore you will make me some trifling amends for the pains I have bestow­ed on your education—Who would have taken care of you Sophia, had not I pitied your fate?—you that was born poor, and bereft of your parents when a helpless infant in the cradle? you had no friend but me; Ah, Sophia, why not add to this title another more sacred and dearer still; a title which would ac­complish my every wish? Sophia remained dumb still; but that silence, and a motion of her head proved plainly how far she was from granting him that title.

Alexis and Sciocco were quite lost in amazement; the receiver almost put himself in a passion and all three retired. You see, said the latter, how she hates me. It is because you treat her a little too rudely, replied Sci­occo. Nay, rudely! that little fly creature has took a lik­ing to a giddy young spark, by whom I have been nearly knocked down an hundred times. Have you a rival! In­deed I have! he formerly had the impudence to visit her, but since I threatened Sophia to send her to a convent if he should renew his addresses, he has kept out of the way; I doubt not, however, of their meeting [Page 156] privately, and keeping up a correspondence, in spite of the vigilance of the governess, who is much devoted to my interest. Since she has a lover, answered Sciocco, were I in your place, and did find him with her, I would give him a sound drubbing. This is just what I mean to do; but let us change the conversation: you promise, gentlemen, to use your best efforts in my behalf, and to [...]often her heart if possible. We certainly shall, answered Alexis; but it seems to me an ardu­ous task. What of that, if it be impossible to bring her about, I am determined to abandon her; the mo­ney which is in the little coffer will help her to take some resolution, and I will do my best to forget her.

Sciocco spent the day in convincing his friend that he [...] the whole of the matter as highly advantageous to himself; but Alexis would not be­lieve him. Next morning the receiver came to fetch and instal them in his office. In the afternoon they gave a lesson to Sophia, which she took with great carelessness, and seeming tokens of disgust.

A few days after Alexis perceived that the young lady had cast some sentimental glances upon him; he thought it a favorable opportunity to gain her confi­dence, and to turn the conversation upon the receiver. Sophia, who had thus distinguished our hero from his companion, squeezed his hand, whispering in his ear, Did you but know him, sir, as I do! he is a very dan­gerous man! These expressions alarmed poor A­lexis; he perceived that the discreet Sophia dared not to come to an explanation before Sciocco, and changed the subject of their discourse.

The day following, while Sciocco was amusing him­self with singing, and preludi [...]g on Sophia's harpsi­chord, Alexis took her in private: Miss, said he, what you told me the other day, gives me some [...]ea­siness: is it possible the receiver is a deceitful and wicked man? Wicked, sir, ay, that he knows better than I! How would I bless the succouring hand that would free me from his tyranny! I have more confi­dence in you than in your friend; Come to night a­lone; the governess, who is much attached to me, will let you in. Come, I pray; I will tell you all; [Page 157] you shall know what the man who sends you hither [...] capable of; and when you are persuaded of his treach­ery and blackness, you will repent having known him.

This discourse alarmed Alexis to the highest degree; he was all compliance. At night, wishing to get rid of Sciocco, he feigned indisposition, and a want of rest. Carlo wished him a good night, and retired to his own apartment. But Alexis, instead of going to bed, put on a cloak, ran hastily down the private stairs, and repaired immediately to Sophia, of whom he expected such elucidations as would enable him to take proper measures of conduct with the receiver.

The governess was waiting for him at the door. Sophia and he lock themselves up in a room, where the perfidious pupil made a thousand false reports to her young master, to injure the character of her pro­tector. To explain this, it is necessary to add, that Sophia, whose disposition was the most false and un­grateful, detested the man who had always treated her with fatherly regard and affection, and to whose gen­erosity she owed numberless obligations: carried her perverseness to a still higher degree of censure, and as­sisted by a set of mercinary domestics, gave daily proofs of the most scandalous and revolting conduct. She had been in love with a young spark, but Alexis had now made a more lively impression upon her heart. She hoped, by tracing a touching picture of her own situation, and of the pretended vice of her protector, to soften our hero, and engage him so far as to elope with her.

Whilst Clara's lover, locked up with Sophia, listen­ed, with the most blind and implicit credulity, to the lies of the latter, the receiver, who had passed by chance through the street in which his mistress lived, had seen a young man enter muffled in a long cloak. He doubted not but her ancient gallant returned: rage and jealousy overpowered his senses. Hah! hah! said he, is it thus I am duped? and that deceitful governess, whom I considered as my stoutest adher­ent! Well, I swear to take vengeance upon the young spark, who has offended me so often; and, as to So­phia, she shall hear of me to-morrow.

[Page 158] The receiver, persuaded that his rival would stay all night at Sophia's, went quickly to Sciocco. Where is your friend? He is asleep; he is not well. I should be glad to speak to him this moment. 'Tis impossible, he has retired to his bed-chamber; he is asleep. Well, my dear Sciocco, I can't help it, you must come a­long with me, and help me to give a sound drubbing to my insolent rival, who has just got access to Sophia, that treacherous Sophia! To be sure, Signior, I am sorry my master cannot be of the party; it would not be worth while to awake him for that; we shall do the business full as well without him; I will serve you with the most scrupulous fidelity.

The receiver and Sciocco, taking each a good cud­gel, lay in ambuscade opposite Sophia's door, deter­mined to wait all night, if required, till the pretended rival should leave the house, and fall into their hands.

Sophia, who had all this while frightened Alexis respecting her protector, conjured him to save her, to take her with him, and to deliver her from a man whom she hated more than death. It was in vain for Alexis to oppose her arguments, Sophia would hear no reason. Alas! my friend, said she, that man is capable of ruining me and even you, if he finds it his interest; it is a great misfortune for you to have known him, and I am still more to be pitied, if I am constrain­ed to live with him: Oh! help me, my generous youth! I don't care where I fly so I get rid of my ty­rant! Alexis was so much embarrassed, that he knew not kow to act. He promised to think maturely of it, and to give her a decisive answer next day, at the u­sual hour of her lesson. Sophia, before he went away, showed herself so kind to him, as to obtain a complete victory over his will. Alexis, however took his leave, quite moved at what he had been told.

Well persuaded that the receiver must be a man of the blackest character, he took the resolution to re­turn the mysterious coffer, which he had received the morning before. Who knows, said he to himself, whe­ther this coffer does not contain papers, jewels and o­ther articles, which might very likely undo me, if [...]ound in my possession.

[Page 159] Amidst these reflections, he went down stairs, left the house, and shut the street door after him. He had scarcely walked three or four yards, when the two companions sally forth from their ambuscade, fall up­on him, and give him the most consummate drubbing before ever he had time to look about him. Alexis turned round and perceived the receiver and Sciocco▪ what becomes of him at that sight! he dares not o­pen his mouth, and receives, quite mute, all the blows which Sciocco deals on him in a most masterly manner. Had it not been for the interference of two strangers, who put the aggressors to flight, Alexis would have fallen on the spot.

Alexis, quite sore, and severely bruised, returned thanks to his deliverers, and crept to his lodgings; went up the private stairs, and betook himself to [...]

CHAP, VII.

ALEXIS, who suffered great pain, reflected upon this sad accident. What have I done to that miserable Italian? what could induce him to make such an attempt upon my life? Oh heaven! on whom can I rely? That cursed receiver has surely seen me enter Sophia's house! he must have been kindled with fury; he must have fetched Sciocco, who, not find­ing me in my apartment, has easily given credit to some story set up by his infamous accomplice: But can he, he that seemed to love me, have recourse to such extremities!

These were the meditations of poor Alexis; and wounded as he was, he would rather suffer death, than request Sciocco to fetch him a surgeon. Thus he spent the night in groans and complaints. In the morning, Carlo, who thought him fast asleep, entered his apartment on his toes. Alexis, trembling at his approach, hid his head under the blankets, to avoid his [...]ight. The Italian, who respected his rest, waited up­on [Page 160] the receiver, informing him that his dear master seemed to be much indisposed. Well, we'll go and see him, answered the latter; but don't let us lose time.

They both repaired to the apartment of their unfor­tunate victim. What ails you, my dear Alexis, said the receiver, are you not well? No, sir, I am not; I suffer very much indeed! Oh, my God! send quickly for the doctor.

Sciocco dispatched instantly a servant of the house, and returned to his master's bed side.

Why was you not with us last night, said Sciocco, you would have helped us to chastise a certain little gallant. Aye, replied the receiver, I saw him enter at Sophia's; fury seized my heart; I came to fetch Sci­occo, and we two gave him such a drubbing with our cudgels, I [...]sure you as he will not forget as long as he lives.

No pen [...] to describe the different sensa­tions of Alexis during this conversation. The traitors! said he to himself, only see their cunning!

The physician's arrival broke off their conversation. Alexis requested to speak in private with the disciple of Esculapius. Carlo and his friend quitted the apartment. Clara's lover opened the whole affair to the doctor, whose gravity seemed to excite confidence Sir, said he at the conclusion, I cannot live with [...] [...]utchers!—take me, I pray, take me from them! With plea­sure! answered the doctor—should you like to be brought to my own house?—Wherever you please, so I do not see my enemies.

The doctor sent for his carriage; it arrived, and Alexis got into it, in spite of Sciocco's complaints and remonstrances—which, far from being listened to by our patient, only served to redouble his indignation.

Upon his arrival at the doctor's, he was carried to an apartment, the door of which was kept locked.—Alex­is was determined to see Sciocco no more—he forbad him his premises, and earnestly entreated his host not to introduce him.

Poor Carlo was much grieved at the faults his master finds with him. How can you be so unreasonable, said [Page 161] the doctor, you that have put him▪ in such a condition?

After a deal of argument with the doctor, Sciocco discovered the cause of his illness, and [...] went imme­diately to acquaint the receiver with what he had heard. The latter was [...] surprised and thought Alexis had concerted some scheme [...] of his mistress.

The receiver, to be circumstantially informed of the whole, called on Sophia that very moment.—Treacherous woman! said he, I know all—Alexis has seduced you; you have both betrayed me!—O heav­en! cried Sophia, throwing herself at his feet, who could tell you this? I implore your clemency for him; he is not guilty; 'tis me alone! what is he not guil­ty? Perfidious woman! I have already taken venge­ance upon him; and, as to you, I renounce you, I des­pise you forever! I despise you too much to take the trouble of punishing you! But leave this town; get out of my sight, for fear of some unlucky moment! Begone! ungrateful wretch!

The receiver frowned once more at the guilty So­phia, left her apartment, and returned to his house. From a remnant of commisseration, however, upon her unhappy situation, he sent her the little coffer full of gold; and delivered afterwards to Sciocco, the sum of twenty-five louis d'ors, to pay his friend's physician; commanding him particularly never to reveal the name of the person who had done him that favor; he then took leave of Sciocco, stepped into his carriage, and departed for Paris;

In vain Sciocco went hourly to the door of Alexis' apartment; in vain he endeavored to convince the doctor of his repentance and attachment to his mas­ter. The doctor himself made use of all his influence in favor of the poor Italian. Alexis remained inflexi­ble; every representation served only to aggravate his resentment; Sciocco's crime became only more con­genial to his irritated mind; he openly taxed him with a design to murder him.

Alexis was soon able to walk, and began to think of commencing his journey. Seeing himself well recov­ered, he ordered his effects to be brought and wished to [Page 162] pay the doctor. It is useless, said the latter, I am paid. Paid! and who has paid you? That I must not tell, sir; I promised to keep that secret. It was a fruitless attempt of Alexis to plague his memory to remind himself of the person who had rendered him this service; he supposed it to be Sciocco; neverthe­less, remembering the treachery of which he accused him, he resolved to set out without either speaking to him, or even suffering him to be admitted to his presence.

In consequence of this, one fine morning, the sky be­ing serene and cloudless, Alexis took leave of his hosts, begging they would not acquaint Sciocco with his departure, and set out on his journey to Paris.

He would not take post at Marseilles, for fear Sci­occo should find out by inquiries, what road he had taken. The conduct of this friend hung so heavy up­on him, that he walked quite drooped, and with a world of [...]in; tears even gushed from his eyes.—"Am I not the most unfortunate of men! said he to himself,—whom can I trust?—to whom can I have recourse?"

He was absorbed in the most profound melancho­ly, when Sciocco, who had watched for him, threw himself at his feet; He embraced, and bedewed them with tears. Alexis started, and strove to avoid him, but the other hindered him by exclaiming with a most woful and contrite tone of voice, Oh, my dear pat­ron! hear me! forgive me! What dost thou want, wretch? How darest thou to shew thyself to me after what you have been guilty of? Those blows you mean! Oh! did you but know how often I cursed myself for them! I did not think I was striking my good master! indeed I did not! Traitor, can you be so impudent! By heaven, I did not know you! Who else did you think it could be? The receiver is as inno­cent as myself; he saw a man, muffled up in a long cloak, enter Signora's house; he took him for the old gallant of the fair one; jealousy overcame him with rage; he came to me, engaged me to be the joint in­strument of his wrath, and intended also to make you of the party; but I, who believed you was asleep, did [Page 163] not chuse to disturb you. We set out, and find the supposed gallant, and it happened that the blows, in­stead of being the reward of a traitor, fell upon my poor master! Now, is it our fault? could we guess it was you who was with your scholar at an hour so unseasonable? 'Tis a lie! It is not a lie, signior, it is the plain truth; ask the doctor who cured you; What, did not you and the receiver know me? I swear by all the powers, we did not!

Sciocco dropped many a tear; Alexis, seeing him prostrate at his feet, began to reflect, and accused none but himself of what had happened: Carlo asked him with the most genuine simplicity, My dear patron, won't you tell me what business you had with the dam­sel at such an hour? What lesson had you to give her?

Alexis looked at Sciocco, and held out his hand to him, which the Italian kissed with heartfelt transports, exclaiming, Do you pardon me, dear Alexis? I think I ought, if you tell me the truth; Alas! I see all the fault lays on me! Yes, it does indeed! and on that good natured receiver, who mistook you for his rival, and insisted upon paying the expences of your physician! Did he pay my physician? He did, sir.

Alexis embraced him, and recounted his secret con­versation with Sophia. Sciocco shewed him plainly how she sought to enthral him! and Alexis, stung with remorse, could hardly forgive himself. They both pursued their road, and longed to see Paris, where Alexis hoped to hear of his father and Dumont.

Since his departure from the cottage, he had gone through so many adventures, and sustained such hard­ships, as had scarcely left him time to think on his dear Clara. Sometimes, however, he would shed tears at the remembrance of his parting from this dear object of his love: his imagination represented her, as it were, in a state of forlornness; he heard her com­plaints, her reproaches, and this moving picture quite wrung his soul.

We shall only stop with our travellers at Vienna [...] where they happen to have a very singular adven­ture, owing to the mistrustful temper of Alexis.

In the dusk of the evening our two travellers, who [Page 164] might have gone a few leagues farther before night, found themselves so much spent with the fatigue [...] of their journey, as to enter an inn with an intent to spend the evening, but not to sleep there all night. They were conducted to an apartment, and sat down to converse with one another: suddenly they hear a strange noise in the room: their door was shut, they were alone, and yet they heard somebody breathe near them, and a low restrained coughing. There is somebody in our room, cried Sciocco. Yes, replied Alexis, there is somebody hidden.

This said, they search on all sides, they open a cup­board, and find a man laying on the floor, and trem­bling like a leaf. What business have you here? said our two travellers, putting themselves at the same time upon the defensive. Ah! gentlemen, don't un­do me! answered the stranger; I am a wretch, pur­sued by the just vengeance of a man whom I have in­humanly sacrificed; he is now at this inn; I saw him come in, and quickly hid myself in this apartment, the door of which I [...]ound open. You have other de­signs, villain! I tell thee leave this room! Ah! by all that is dear to you, save me, extricate me! I am no villain; and if I am guilty of a crime, it is love only that made me commit it. Oh! suffer me to spend the night with you! you shall know who I am—you shall have an account of the whole affair! What, should we suffer a stranger? If you turn me out, you undo me! If my enemy discovers me here, my life is lost! Alas, let me owe you my preservation generous strangers! deign to keep me for this night; to-morrow, when my rival shall be gone, I will go too.

Sciocco was very willing to befriend the stranger; but Alexis, afraid, perhaps not without reason, of all the bad consequences which might have resulted from harboring a man he had found hidden in his room, would by no means have acceded to his request. In vain Sciocco attempted to prove that it was in the or­der of things, and of predestination; in vain the stran­ger has recourse to entreaties and tears. Alexis, who had so often been put upon, suspects some fraud in the [Page 165] business, opens the door, and calls the landlord.

At the noise he made, the stranger attempted to escape; but another appeared before the door of the apartment, who stopped him, and cried, Hah! have I found the object of my [...]ury, and immediately thrust his sword in his bosom. What became of Alexis and his friend at this spectacle of horror! They see the un­happy victim fall, and impute his death to none but themselves; and the house resounded with the cries and complaints of the people who came in crowds. Alexis and S [...]iocco, fearing to be compromised in that cruel affair leave the inn, and pass through the crowds that had gathered round the house, and take, with the utmost precipitancy, the road to Lyons. Having marched to the distance of about three leagues, they are overtaken by two men on horseback. One of them alighted, and addressed them in a most furious tone, So, you have been the accomplices of the wretch I have killed?—We!—Yes, you! he was hidden in your apartment. Villain! cried Alexis, fear the due search of that justice, thou seemest to have evaded! Forbear insulting an unfortunate young man, who will be sorry all his life time for the crime which he has given thee an opportunity to commit.

The cavalier and his valet make an attempt to at­tack Alexis and Sciocco with their pistols, but the lat­ter disarm them, and begin a pugilistic combat, in which the four champions display equal strength and dexterity.

The night was not very dark, and the battle being fought before a castle, made several persons come to the windows to be spectators to an action most spirited and vigorous.

Alexis and Sciocco knocked down their adversaries, suffered them to rise again, set too and worsted them. This singular combat would have lasted much longer, had it not been interrupted by a particular accident. It happened that Sciocco, elated with the hopes of in­stant victory, exclaimed, Don't flinch! courage, A­lexis!—Alexis! cried a lady, who was looking out of one of the windows of the castle; What, is it he? is it that dear lad? fly to his assistance!

[Page 166] That moment, a whole troop of valets, armed with cudgels, leave the castle, fall upon the four champions, and strike both the aggressors and the aggressed. Our two heroes [...]ide with this unexpected reinforcement, and charged the horsemen with such impetuosity as to make them fly, and leave them conquer [...]rs.

Alexis received a blow in his face, which quite dis­figured him: the blood flows: he stops it with his handkerchief; Sciocco and the valets of the castle support him. The subsidiary dame arrived, and took him by the hand, and made him enter the castle. What, is it you, my dear Alexis? Good God! you will not escape from me this time.

Alexis is struck with astonishment; he wonders who may be this lady that shows him such concern.

CHAP. VIII.

WHILST the ex-capuchin and the baroness were thus contending about Clara, a phaeton stopt on the high road. The generous stranger who was sitting in it, heard the cries of Clara, and alighted from the vehicle. He advanced immediately with his valet, to the spot, where Clara hoped a speedy relief from her persecutors. What are you doing to this young man, cried he? (The reader will remember that Clara disguised in men's clothes, had made the conquest of the baroness, under the name of Alexis) What is it to you, answers the father? Ah sir, cried the poor victim, deliver me out of the hands of these two people, who will carry me off!—Traitor (said the stranger, advancing close up to Stephen's breast,) let him go or thy life is at stake.

During this dialogue the baroness returns to her car­riage, and bids her coachman drive home with the ut­most dispatch. The ex-capuchin is left alone, and o­blidged to make a precipitate retreat to his post-chaise, ordering the post boy to carry him to Lyons, as he could [Page 167] not be received again into his confraternity.

Clara fell upon her knees before her deliverer, and returns him thanks with the most heartfelt expressions: her candor and gentleness made her own the situation she was in.—O most generous of mortals! said she, the person you have extricated from the hands of her cruel ravishers is a woman!—A woman!—Yes, a wo­man who will ever remember with infinite gratitude the invaluable service you have rendered her.—Alas! my good lady who could?—but please to step in my phaeton, my age ought to warrant my good intentions, come with me, I am ready to carry you to any place you please to appoint.

Sir, I cannot hesitate in the least to accept your liberal offer; your generosity, your discourse, and the singular respect you inspire in me, in a word every thing assures me of the exquisiteness of your sentiments, every thing engages me to profit by the honor of your com­pany.

At these words, the stranger handed her to his phae­ton, the postilion whips the horses, and Clara resumes her discourse. I am going to Paris, sir, where I hope to—You go to Paris, madam? well so do I, it is in­deed a very fortunate oportunity for me! You will find in me an honest, sensible companion, who feels the deepest concern at your misfortunes! happy should I be, if you thought me so far deserving your confidence as to give me an account of them.—Sir, you are cer­tainly entitled to that confidence. I should scorn the least thought tending to the contrary. I ought to in­form first of all that my name is Clara. A young man whom I loved, and whom I still do love, in spite of his treachery!—What do you love miss?—I myself did love once! perhaps you were unfortunate as me.—Unfortunate, indeed! May I beg you to proceed?—I have left all that is dear to me, to follow Alexis; to follow my lover, and the first news I received of him, was of his inconstancy.—Alexis you say is your lover's name, Alexis?—Yes, perhaps you know him?—I do not think it can be the same-pray, is he a musician?—Oh! an excellent one. A handsome young man?—As can be. About nineteen?—Wants but a few [Page 168] months. He is very mild, shy?—'Tis he indeed. Unfortunately deceitful and dissembling. It cannot be he!—He told me he lived in a forest?—Ah! it is A­lexis: you know my lover—sir, where have you seen him?—At Marseilles, miss:—alas! his acquaintance has proved very fatal to me. For God's sake, sir, ex­plain yourself!—How I pity you to love at all, that perfidious—Well?—It will grieve your heart. Oh! speak sir, pray speak?—He deprived me of my mistress's affections.—Is it possible?—Ve­ry possible; I had an unlimited confidence in him;—him; I introduced him to Sophia; I beg­ged him to have an eye upon her conduct; the traitor! he falls in love with her; they both unite their cunning to deceive me, and in a nocturnal meet­ing, resolve to elope together, to forsake me, to break my heart!—Ah sir, sir!—I see a young man enter my Sophia's house in the dark; I never suspected him to be my friend Alexis! I watch him, in company with another person—he comes out of the house: I and my companion were armed with bludgeons. I re­venge myself upon the unknown person, and in the morning am informed that the victim was no other than Alexis.—You cained him? Ah tell me, has he been much hurt?—He was forced to keep his bed a whole fortnight; but it seems you pity him my fair Clara, do not all these facts carry the strongest convic­tion to your mind, must not he be a villain unworthy to approach a person as lovely as you?—Ah! let me respire, sir! So many blows all at once? O Alexis! must I hear nothing of thee but thy perfidy! At St. Marcellin, he elopes with the gaol keeper's wife; at Marseilles he projects an elopement with—O God! what a fickle man! how many mistresses in so short a time! Oh! Clara could not fix thy inconstant heart; I am but too sensible of it; my absence has effaced my image from thy soul, which thou said love had engra­ven on it forever! I have done with him, I renounce him; I will neither see nor love him any more.▪You tell me, sir, he is at Marseilles; I will go straight to Paris; I will put a distance of an hundred and sixty leagues between him and me. I fain would add the [Page 169] whole globe to the space which shall part us!— [...], miss Clara, come with me; I will introduce you to a friend, a friend dear to me by his virtue [...] and his mis­fortunes; you shall make acquaintance with the charming Arzelia, his spouse; they have no children; I will have them to adopt you for their own, I will have you to be their daughter. Ah! remember that virtue finds friends wherever it is to be met with.

Clara thanked the receiver (for it was he) with sin­cerity, sweetness, and innocence. She then gave a faithful account of her adventures; mentioned her father Duverly, and Candor, described the cottage, and by all this obtained the entire confidence of her de­liverer, who was a man highly respectable. During this conversation, they arrived at Lyons, where they made a stay of several days, to see all that was curi­ous and remarkable in that city. Nothing very ma­terial having occurred in their way from Lyons to Pa­ris, I shall not trespass upon the reader's time with uninteresting details, and enter the metropolis with our two travellers, who alight at the hotel^*of the marquis de Corsagne, the receiver's friend, who makes a conspicuous figure in the remaining part of this his­tory.

The marquis was about forty, tall, well made, and amiable. He had suffered so much by misfortune, that his countenance was overcast by a melancholy gloom, which nothing could dispel.

Arzelia, marchioness de Corsagne, had nearly ob­tained her seventh lustre; she had still the appearance of a woman who had been distinguished by exquisite beauty; and though her eyes flushed no more with glances of juvenile vivacity, though her cheeks and features had been sorrowed by torrents of tears, though she had lost the seducing attractives which at first sight captivate the heart, yet her soul was refined, her temper gentle, and her mind ingenuous and upright. The loss of her external charms only helped to heigh­ten the brilliant qualities of her noble heart. Thus the panting rose, faded by the ardency of a summer's [Page 170] day, the fickle butterfly approaches, and quickly leaves her for another flower, whose full blown charms and sweet perfumes attract the coquetting insect; but the prudent bee is not deterred by the decayed appear­ance of the queen of flowers; she reverently opens her calyx, sure to find in it a nectar more precious than the useless perfume she has lost.

The receiver whom we shall forthwith denote by the name of Du Monay, had intimated to Clara, be­fore he presented her to his noble friends, that it would not be proper to acquaint them with her adventures. Much have they suffered by misfortune, added he; such a confidence would only sharpen the edge of their grief; and with regard to the history of the cot­tage, to that Alexis who never knew his family, all this appears so singular, so romantic, as might in all likelihood, lessen the favorable opinion to which your merits lay so just a claim. Pardon my plainness Clara, you have given me leave to speak with the tenderness of a father; I shall exercise the paternal prerogative; nay I do now, and in testimony of my friendship, I will introduce you to my friends, as my neice, as my brother's daughter; they know that I was to take her with me to Paris, but they know not that she i [...] no more: take you her place, and be sure, the mar­chioness will bring you up as her own daughter.

Clara had not the least objection to make Paris her place of residence; yet she regretted the cottage. Many times thinking on Candor, she accused herself of cruelty and ingratitude, and promised to return to a man, who had fulfilled every duty of a parent to­wards her; but the bare idea of what he exacted from Alexis, the vengeance he had meditated against Du­verly, and her ownself, his daughter, made her shud­der, she trembled with indignation, and praised the powers above for having rescued her from a blood­thirsty tyrant. Nevertheless, said she, to herself, one day, Alexis may return to the cottage, and not find­ing me there—The question is will he seek me? This question I will not decide. But who will answer, that this false man, not content with having thus de­voted me to all the neglect of slighted passion, who will [Page 171] answer, I say that he will not add barbarity to broken faith. Oh God! that he were to bring with him my father's head!—O heaven!—and should I witness it! and should I behold! No; I had rather stay in Paris. In my deliverer I have found a real father, and can the friends to whom he means to introduce me, be of an inferior stamp? No, I will never leave those gene­rous hearts; I will live happy far from my relations; but what say I?—Is not the place which gives happi­ness, the real bosom of the family?

This was the wise determination of Clara: Arriv­ed at the marquis' hotel, the porter shows our travel­lers into a beautiful saloon, where the marquis was reading▪ and his spouse amusing herself on the piano forte. They no sooner perceived M. du Monay, than they fly to his arms. It is you, my dear friend said the marquis, it is you? how happy I am to see you again.

The marchioness expressed no less the joy she felt at this meeting, and M. Du Monay laying hold of Clara's hand, presented her to the noble hosts. Here you see, my neice Clara, my brother's daughter. You have offered me your house to receive her; that I make bold to accept your proposal, there she is; Arzelia, what can be more lovely?

Clara blushed and cast down her blue eyes: the marchioness begs her to be seated by her: yes, said the noble lady, yes my dear, I adopt you as my daughter: our friend's niece will find again a father and a moth­er in us! what a pretty creature! Come modest Cla­ra, let us see those pretty blue eyes; come embrace me.

Clara flies to the arms of her new protectress, who, in conjunction with her consort, lavished the most ten­der and affectionate caresses upon her. Dinner was served afterwards. Clara conquered somewhat of her natural timidity: she sung; the marchioness accom­panied her on the piano forte, and the day was entire­ly spent in conversation, and the sweets of friendly re­creations.

M. Du Monay who only came to Paris to settle some affairs, set out a fortnight after to Marseilles, whither his function called him. Previous to his de­parture, [Page 172] he recommended his dear neice to his good friends: but he might have saved himself that trouble. Clara by her gentleness and accomplishments had al­ready ingratiated herself so much, that the noble pair absolutely considered her as their daughter.

Clara saw, not without tears, the departure of her worthy friend; and though she was fully aware of the happiness she would enjoy with her new parents, yet without him, she looked upon herself as banished to a desert. In consequence, she desired to speak to him in private. Will you leave us, father said she?—I must my dear niece!—Oh! my best uncle, how shall I be able to endure your absence?—In obtaining the friend­ship of the generous hosts, who will soon make you for­get me!—No, never! never!—Farewell, Clara. My uncle!—Well!—You go to Marseilles?—Yes. Have you any commands upon that city?—Oh! none at all—but—go on.—If in case he was there, never to men­tion my name to him!—To whom?—To the perfidi­ous Alexis; did he know where I was I am sure he would write to me, and I—I would burn his letters. With­out perusing them?—Yes, without perusing them!—Very well, my girl, I understand you; I will not even tell him that I know you. O never mind, let him know what you have done for me—your generosity, your friendship do me too much honor to conceal them; Well, let us come to the point! So you will not even let him know you are in being.—Ah you may tell him how happy I am, tell him, tell him—that I think no more on him, and that I am happy—very happy!—Well, I will not forget that—Ah! my daughter! you have not quite got the better of your love.—Me! I assure you!—Come good bye my Clara, write to me, and depend always—always upon my parental tenderness and affection.

They parted; Clara was melting in tears; but the marchioness who surprised her in that condition, took her to an apartment, and tried to stifle her sor­row by a thousand little amusements, which did not fail producing the desired effect.

While we leave Clara in her prosperous and happy state, let us return to Alexis, whom we left wounded [Page 173] at the castle; let us see if he got better, and persists [...] his resolution of going to Paris.

CHAP. IX.

FIRST of all it will be necessary to inform my readers (if they have not guessed it already) who was the lady of the castle, that could not without enthusiasm, utter the name of Alexis. He must re­member, that Clara, by the same name, had made a conquest of the heart of the baroness of Yrace! It was before her castle, the battle between Alexis, Sciocco, and the strangers had commenced; and it was that foolish old woman, who, upon hearing the name of [...] young hero, had, mistaken him for the Alexis who deserted from her a few days since.

Alexis stops the blood which gushes from the wound he has received in his face, and the baroness not having examined him well, perseveres in her no­tion, and orders him to be put into an excellent bed. I [...]lia, said she to her woman, I could not see his wound without fainting! poor child! go and dress it—to­morrow morning I shall see how he does, and shall myself bring him his breakfast.

In fact the femme de chambre, who had but newly en­tered the service of the baroness, goes up stairs to Alexis's apartment, and by dint of applications to the patient's face, covered it so much, that his nose, eyes, and mouth, were the only parts left visible.

Sciocco, who stood by his friend's bed side, gaped with astonishment; and though he did not know the motive of all this, yet he failed not to attribute it within himself, to the order of things and predestina­tion. When every body had left the apartment, mio caro padrone, said he, will you say now that hazard brought you to this castle? I don't know; I have something else to think on, Sciocco. And what is that?—What a wretch! does not thy conscience up­braid [Page 174] thee with the murder of the unhappy man at the inn, a murder of which we are the cause!—Oh! we are the cause; you had better own Signior, that you yourself was the only cause; for my part, you know—Alas! you speak the truth!—yes my suspecting temper. But how to trust the sincerity of a man hidden in a cupboard?—He had his reasons for it!—He intreated me in so urgent a manner.—My God! it is I who have mur­dered him!—What harm could there have been to let him stay that night in my room? We would have watched, that is all. Ah! Carlo! what a weight I feel upon my heart! how poignant is my remorse!—Dolce, Dolce, Signor! ^* do not accuse yourself so much. Be it as it will, fate had some hand in the accident. Well, fate! Certainly thus he was to perish; the matter was pre-arranged on high!—But fool, suppose, I had left him in the cupboard? You was not to do it, Signor; no, it was forbidden; something restrain­ed your generous soul, and whispered in your ear Lus­cia lo fortira ^†—How you tire my patience with your foolish arguments!—methinks you keep them on pur­pose to make me the more sensible of my wrongs!—yes, the more you say, the more I am sensible of them! because what could hinder me when—but let us drop this theme of despair—Where are we, I wonder?—In the house of a very charitable lady, who is your inti­mate friend. My friend, you say? Yes, signor, she says that you are charming, lovely, and that you was a sev'night with her. I? Si signor! Surely I don't know her at all: this lady mistakes me for some oth­er person—Well, so much the better, mio Caro! Lus­ciamo [...]arla. ^‡ It is heaven that sends us that good soul; had not we have sound her castle what should we have done in the open fields, wounded as you are? Let us make the best of the bona stella ^§ which—

Sciocco would have gone farther, but a servant came in with a message that the baroness invited him to supper. Sciocco who did not want to be asked [Page 175] twice, went down stairs to the old lady, and ate with a most hearty appetite, the provision of his host.

The baroness asked him a thousand questions, to which he made no answer, lest he should undeceive her, and be ordered to leave the house. Ah! poor Alex­is! have you known him long, sir? No, madame perdio ^* he is a very [...] cavaliere!—Aye, quite amiable! it is only ten days since he has been here. [...]ulto ri­dere la Signora. ^† We have just left Marseilles, where we staid above a fortnight. Why are you so pleased to contradict me? I know him well, the cruel little man! but tell me, as you are his friend, and know his secrets, what has [...]e done since our last parting?—Since your parting? Yes, we parted upon the road about one league farther. Upon my word, madama I know nothing of it. O, but I know better, where did he come from just now? where did you get ac­quainted with him? have you had any dispute? who were the aggressors?

The baroness would never have put an end to her questions; and Sciocco, who plainly saw that she mistook his master for some other person, was at a loss what answer to make, so great was his apprehen­sion of being dispossessed of his good birth. The ba­roness, who, for her own part, did not know what to make of Carlo's jargon; imagined that he was non compos mentis, and the blows he received in the com­bat must have disordered his senses. After supper Sciocco returned to our hero's apartment, and repeat­ed the conversation which he had just had with the hostess, asked him what he thought of it. Alexis, who was not framed for falsehood, promised, that, on the next morning, he would discover himself to the baroness, and rather quit her house than suffer her any longer to remain in her mistaken notions.

At the break of day the old lady went up to her patient, whose face she did not know, on account of the lint applied to it by Julia; she sat down by him, and addressed him in the following words: "So, you ungrateful little man, I have you again in my castle. I ought not to feel the least concern for you, since you [Page 176] behaved so scandalously towards me; but—my indul­gence—my weakness—you know me;—you know well my feeling heart?" Madam, the reception you gave me, puts it out of all doubt: but permit me to unde­ceive you?—I am not—Come, be of good cheer—what signifies that bashfulness; that low voice? Indeed I hardly know you again.—I believe you, madam, be­cause I never had the honor of being known to you.—Ah! you dissemble; cruel creature! you are sor­ry that fate has brought you to my feet; you mean to—but the artifice is too palpable; I have got thee a gain, little wretch, and never more shalt thou leave this place. It is all over, thou art with me for life.

Alexis, frightened at this menace, was going to re­ply, when the baroness being informed that somebody desired to speak to her below, suddenly left the apart­ment. It was one of her farmers who had come to settle some accounts with her ladyship, which would not suffer her to return to her young patient. Scioc­co had exhausted his whole rhetoric during that inter­val, to convince Alexis that it was very lucky for him to be thus mistaken for another. Alexis rejected his arguments. His suspicious disposition even made him find in the old lady's conduct, some secret end, which did not alarm him a little; he imagined that she must have some violent design upon him. If not, said he to Carlo, we are fallen in a den of ruffians. What can she want of me? why does that woman threaten me with perpetual confinement? Oh! I will be free this very night! Is it possible you should think so, mio padrone? Possible you say! don't you observe in the baroness and all her domestics, an air of savage­ness, an air so singular?—Why, I believe they look much like every body; only observe them, Sciocco. Joke apart, I am not easy in this place.—This is a­nother instance of the effect of your prejudices, your fears, your suspicions; But let us be short;—why should I be kept here in spite of myself?—suppose it is in the order of things. Sciocco, I perceive some fatal omens! Come, let us get out of this place.—But, your wound?—My wound, hey?—Only look how dangerous it is?

[Page 177] Alexis, at these words, throws off the dressing, rises and taking Sciocco by the hand, they both descend in­to the garden, walk across it, find a little gate open from the field-side, and run as fast as they can! The sky became insensibly more cloudy, and a thick ob­scurity, which, covering the earth, seemed to indicate to our travellers a fast approaching and inevitable storm.

After having strayed for a while through windings, bushes, ditches, &c. the most vivid flashes of lightning rent the eastern sky, and which were succeeded by the loudest claps of thunder; already some little drops of rain, preceded the torrents of hail and showers that were to follow. Alexis and Sciocco continued their march with indefatigable haste, yet the silence, the night, the awful horrors of nature, congealed their frame with involuntary shiverings; in vain did they attempt to advance farther in their course, an ex­treme weakness slackened their nerves, their knees tottered, they could neither breathe, nor support the weight of their bodies. Well, imprudente cavaliere, said Sciocco, you see now, to what we have exposed ourselves.—What can we do, answered Alexis, by way of consolation, was it not in the natural order of things?—Certainly: but we could have avoided it, had we remained in a house where we have been treated with so much gentility.—Well, this brings, you over to my opinion.—Not it, indeed; I shall always adhere faithfully to my system. There are events that cannot be avoided, in spite of all our efforts to the contrary; but there are also some that can be avoided, which we seem to seek by our imprudence, and which, in order that they may happen, are liable to certain conditions. For instance: the storm to which we must be exposed;—Might we not as well have heard it roar in bed at the house of the baroness, hey?—Go on with your muttering, I think you have great reason for it. What can the danger be to you? Veramente ^* that's a great comfort! Ah! mio maestro!—What a clap of thunder! Ah! Dio! Dio! how unfortunate are we!

[Page 178] Sciocco, terrified at the storm, which was continual­ly increasing; began to weep bitterly! in vain, A­lexis tried to console him, the Italian is always a sob­bing; he protests that this is the last moment of their life, and that both are destined to be consumed by the lightning—Alas! cried he, how have I deserved to perish by celestial fire!—Santa Maria, ascolta la mio con­fessione. ^* I ravished Signora Marzarelli from her father; but it was only to put her in the hands of a very honest chevalier. Non ho peccato contra lalegge! ^†—Is it for hav­ing obliged the ungrateful at Paris with my property? Non ho peccato contra la legge! Is it for having lived a­mong thieves? don't we live among them in all great cities?—Non ho peccato!—Is it, in fine, for having giv­en so merciless a drubbing to mio caro, mio tenero, mio tropoc dolce maestro! Oh! Si hoc peccato, molto peccato, contra la legge, la venerabile legge!

Whilst the Italian offered up the most fervent vows to all the saints in paradise, the violence of the shower forced Alexis to look for shelter; and there seemed to be a light at no great distance from him. Come Sciocco, said he laying hold of his hand, I see a place of shelter, of propitious shelter.

He says, and advancing towards the spot whence the glaring of the light proceeded, they discover an antique structure, with a little steeple on its summit. The door is open, and nobody appears—Our two trav­ellers enter that kind of a hermitage, and seeking ev­ery where for somebody to speak to—they call out—Nobody answers the call—However, the hermitage appears to be inhabited: a lamp is suspended from the ceiling, and several rough utensils are scattered about. Alexis seemed to perceive an inscription on the wall; he approaches:—O surprise!—his name strikes his still uncertain sight;—Yes, it is Alexis, graved every [Page 179] where upon stone: these words, above all, strike him in a singular manner:

Throughout this desolate mansion he discovers these verses: every corner of the hallowed place, proclaim­eth his memory! Ah, good God! Who can reside here? Every search of Alexis proves fruitless, in vain he calls, nobody appears; thunder and lightning, in­cessant showers, the terror of Sciocco, in a word, all augments his confusion; he dares not rest himself up­on a stone, and all he sees reminds him of his misfor­tunes: he gives himself up to the anguish of despair, and floods of tears gush from his eyes. The Italian sympathises with his sorrow, and both travellers are de­pressed by the bitterest woe, amidst the sorrows of a stormy night, with no other shelter than a shattered hermitage, where all re-opens their wounds: where all sinks them deep in the abyss of wretchedness!

CHAP. I.

WHY has Heaven, that endowed us with the faculty of the mind, made it subject to so ma­ny different affections? Some are men of parts and not of judgment; others have too much foresight and penetration; the former are only remarkable for a knowledge suited to the moment: the latter are sim­ple, timid, credulous, and become exalted, if time is left them for reflection. So multivious is the cast of the human mind!—prejudices make it false and captious; vanity renders it rediculous; timidity de­presses its powers; in a word, it is subordinate to the peculiarities of all the passions that can effect the heart. For instance: Alexis and Sciocco are both distinguished by the gift of reason; but how oblique are their views! One cannot believe in good nature and frankness, and is furnished with a sufficiency of ar­guments to support his opinion. The other is too con­fiding, too open, too much governed by false maxims and erroneous systems, and his principles are not ill-propped. All that happens to the one, does con­firm him in his ideas; and all that is felt by the other does coincide with his way of thinking; both argue plausibly, and both are mistaken.

O human frailty, how amazing are thy deviations!—Logic, morality, philosophy, metaphysics, all these high sciences, are like so many perfidious guides, who will only involve the deeper into the labyrinth of so­phistry. He that gives the best proofs, is not always he that sees best: learning and eloquence are the only merits which raise him above the vulgar. He has used his efforts to consolidate his opinion; he will ever bring you over to his party: but does it imply, that his opi­nion is the justest?—To illustrate this I shall adduce no other example than that of the two philosophers, who spoke by turns; one in favor of abstinence, and the other in favor of high living. A day being ap­pointed [Page 181] for each to preach his doctrine; the people fasted on the day they left the former; and, as soon as they had heard the epicurean, gave themselves up to the most brutal excesses of debauchery.

Thus every one has a mind of his own, opinions of his own, and a peculiar way of viewing things; the best is that which is most consistent with equity and reason. The man who gives all his admiration to the law of nature, is a man of learning, void of common sense: he that follows and respects the civil law, is a philosopher endowed with upright sense and sound judgment; yet, notwithstanding, both are in the right: whence that difference?

Alexis had now lost a good deal of his mistrust, and if I am allowed to say, of his susceptibility. O­bliged to live with men, and what is worse still, to be in want of them, he was sensible that he brought up­on himself all the misfortunes that had befallen him since he first left the cottage. The adventure of the drubbing, that of the man killed in the inn at Vienna, and per­haps that of the baroness, whom he had quitted too precipitately, made him acquire experience, and feel the sting of remorse; be it as it will, the receiver at Mar­seilles whom he suspected so much, was the most hon­est and generous man, of which he had self evident proofs. His Sophia was a deceitful creature, whom he had foolishly considered as virtuous; the stranger at the inn neither was a thief nor an assassin; he had undone him, he had delivered him into the hands of his butcher!—How much did Alexis feel the weight of this crime!—What an inclination had he to be­lieve and oblige every body! Perhaps it is to be feared, that the murder has made too forcible an im­pression upon him. A mistrusting character, if it be once corrected by the superior force of example; if it feel too many rude shocks, will frequently become sub­ject to credulousness and imprudence; extremes are never so distant as we might suppose them to be.

On the other hand he lived with Sciocco, whose foolish good-nature, whose erroneous moral system made him often lose patience: compelled to contra­dict [Page 182] his false opinions, he insensibly lost his own, and this indignation of the mind has the same effect upon him as a wise and enlightened Mentor.

We shall go farther with these reflections, which must be obvious to the reader who has followed my hero in his adventures and errors. If he be sorry to find faults in him (faults which resulted from the man­ner in which he was brought up, he will soon see him gentle, amiable, affable and judicious; but he must be taught a little more in the school of adversity, before he can reach that end.

We have left him with his good friend Carlo, in the middle of a stormy night both sheltered in a kind of a desolate hermitage, where they see nobody; but where a thousand inscriptions on the walls, demonstrate plain­ly that the hermit knows Alexis.

However, the anchorite does not appear! Has he left his asylum, is he dead, is he hidden in some cave? Alexis and Sciocco make the most diligent search all over the place; they find themselves alone, absolute­ly alone, in the hermitage.—But why was the door o­pen? Who has lighted the lamp? Their wavering minds were lost in doubts and conjectures: in short, they are masters of the place; they may wait till the storm has subsided, spend the night in it, nay, make it their residence as long as they please. Sciocco propos­ed to his master to lay down to sleep upon a bench. Alexis is willing, and they betake themselves to rest;—no sooner had sleep closed their eye lids, than a most tremendous peal of thunder made them rise in a pan­ic from the arms of Morpheus. Poor Sciocco thinks the frail structure is going to be hurled down—Alexis removes his fears; the Italian commences fresh prayers, and Clara's lover, spent with fatigue, caused by the smart of his wounds, soon enjoys a calm and profound sleep.

No sooner dawn had dispelled the tempestuous clouds, than Alexis awaking, and not a little surpris­ed at seeing a man in a fri [...]r's habit, stand close by him: he already takes him for the hermit, and pre­pares to make an apology for his intrusion. [...] [Page 183] soon, he could not forbear laughing, when he found it was his friend Sciocco who had put on that strange monastic attire. Hey! what is that Carlo? Why that metamorphosis? O Signor [...]! don't rail, vi prego, ^* don't mock the the holy resolution which I have taken, and which, if you follow my advice, you will take also. What is it?—Yes, heaven has inspired me; it has destined me to be a hermit. I am very sensible of its decree. Well, explain yourself. Last night after the dreadful peal of thunder. I kneeled down before the image of our Saviour, whilst you fell asleep; the silence of the place inspired me wi [...]h the most sacred and religious thoughts. How happy is he, exclaimed I, divino Giesu! how happy is he, who de­votes all the days of his life to thy service! How I en­vy the lot of the hermit, thy servant, whom, without doubt, thou hast called unto thee! how tranquil must he have been in this hallowed place, detached from all the world! I was going to proceed—it seems as if a secret voice had whispered to me, why dost thou not inhabit it? Why not stay?—I looked around; What do I perceive in this corner? A habit, a pair of san­dals, a cordon; in a word, the complete apparatus of a hermit! think how much I was surprised: I, who in company with you had searched every corner of the hermitage, and could not find such a thing; I had not a moment's doubt, but the habit had fallen from heav­en on purpose for me. I put it on, and occupied my­self the remaining part of the night with thoughts on the subject. You are now awake, and find no more your friend Sciocco, but the reverend father Santa Carlo. ^§

Alexis examines that canonical figure, and cannot help bursting out a laughing▪ father Carlo thought his holiness a little scandalized. Non [...] Signor, ^† said he with an austere frown, what I say just now, is no matter of merriment! It is a miracle, Si un miraculo [...]oidente! ^‡ How I wish you a similar chance▪ it would check your raillery—Oh, I believe you, my friend, but in pity to you, let me undeceive you. The [Page 184] garment which you now wear, did not, as you ima­gine, fall from heaven. Yesterday, when we were both searching the place, not for clothes, but for the master, whose residence it is, you remember, we moved the benches, this block, and other utensils to that corner? I observed something black, but took no no­tice of it, my whole attention being engrossed by the real object of pursuit. You advised me afterwards to lay down to rest, and fetched back one of these bench­es. I discovered the attire, which you will pass for a miracle!—Oh, you may say what you please, I was not asleep in that moment.—Well then, what do you mean to do?—What I mean to do, mio padrone?—can't you guess it?—I am bent upon staying all my life time in this holy hermitage, to do penance for all the sins I have committed, and to die at last in the character of a saint.—So you leave me, you part with your friend Alexis? Non certamine, mio dilettissimo. You will follow my example, I hope? No, that I will not, I declare most openly.—Well, well, where is your fortune, your design? have you not been betrayed by every body!—This I cannot deny.—Well, if all men are so false and deceitful as you imagine, you had bet­ter be without them.—Your arguments are just: but may I not be in the wrong?—Forbear all farther ex­postulation; you go to Paris, and what are your hopes? Can you ask me such a question? does my heart not long to see my father again?—Who tells you so?—Heaven, Heaven! Yes, it tells us to be hermits, and by this signifies clearly that all our inquiries would be fruitless.—Come, you deviate from reason!—Though heaven disposes all events, yet it leaves us at liberty to act according to our desires.—You think our fate is in our own hands, and if we are unfortu­nate it is often our own fault.—Why, I never heard you talk in that strain?—I talk so in spite of myself, because I am constrained.—I do not understand you.—Is not our last proceeding downright folly?—What business had we to leave a castle where we were so hos­pitably entertained?—The discourse of the old man was really astonishing, and apt to give rise to suspi­cion; but, granting all this, what had we to fear?— [Page 185] What evil thing could hurt us? I am a very odd being with my sottish fears!—Not quite so odd as you im­agine; it was to be so:—It was to bring me to this holy retreat where God called me; Pray Sciocco, have done with your extravagancies. Let me see: will you now stay?—I can go alone to seek my father, and can die alone too, if I do not find him. But pray, signor, only see how happy we would be here! Happy! far from my father, far from my dear Clara?—Poh! does Clara return to your remembrance?—I never forgot her a single moment!—I do not doubt Sciocco, but I shall see her again; and this very hope which animates me, would make me bid defiance to the greatest dangers!—Let us expose ourselves, my Sciocco, to all misfortunes, in order to deserve that happiness Expose yourself as much as you please, signor enamorato: as to me, who don't know your Cla­ra, her sight or absence can be but indifferent. Indeed Carlo, I admire your attachment to me! To you, signor! to you I am molto, oh molto ^* attached! but to no strangers—Well, sir, stay where you are, let me go alone; henceforth, I will never depend upon a friend! Ah! per Santo Dominico! do not forsake me, mio padrone! Leave me, Sciocco, leave me! E [...] ­me! Vestro povero ser [...]o, vestro povero Carlo! ^† Can you quit him, can you leave him here, and part from him? are you mad? is it not your own pleasure? My plea­sure! oh, no, never! I will pull off this habit which deluded me for a moment. What, should I leave the friend of my heart! Divina Maria, could you have such an opinion of me!

Alexis pitied the weakness of Sciocco, who was real­ly as mad as a March hare, but his heart was excel­lent. The part he had acted in the friar's habit had amused him at first, but it soon made him angry. Sci­occo was sensible of his wrongs, and throwing off the hermit's garment, he put on his own with greater joy than he had laid them aside.

It being now broad day light, and the hermit not making his appearance, Alexis and Sciocco were de­termined [Page 186] to continue their way, though they knew not where they were. They go out, not a little surprised at seeing before them a beautiful and superb city, which seemed to be no farther than two leagues. The rain and tempest had, on the day before hindered them from descrying it. They soon find out a proper path, and perceive a farmer behind his plough, whom they ask the name of this fine city. It is Lyons, an­swered the farmer. What, are we so near Lyons,—Why, to be sure, you are almost in it! My friend, could you inform us to whom belongs the hermitage upon the right?—To whom, why to you, if you've a mind to have it.—How to us?—Don't you know that the hermit who lived in it, went away since yesterday.—Did he, pray who was he?—A madman, who would have been whipt a thousand times, had it not been for our attachment to the bishop who protected him.—Did he stay long at the hermitage?—Not he! it is hardly a twelvemonth since he first settled in the place—A twelvemonth! what's his name?—Father—Father—indeed I can't tell you his name, I have forgot it; but hark'ee, if you go to Lyons, inquire for the Dolphin; he used that house a good deal!—Where is that inn!—Quite near the place of Belle­court; a child will tell you. Now, as you go there, gentlemen, I wish you'll take that there letter to my nephew, the first waiter of the house:—I would have sent my wife, but we are so busy, and it will not cost you much time. Give it me vestro servo will deliver it. Oh! you're very good, master, I beg you will give it into his own hands; his name is upon it, John Pi [...]ot. I am sure he can tell you all about the hermit; he brought him his victuals every day.—Well, we shall ask him when he gets the letter. Good bye, master, good bye.

Alexis and Sciocco proceed straight to Lyons, and enquire for the Dolphin, where they stop.—Here our hero will meet with somebody, for whom he feels as much concern as for those he loves.

CHAP. II.

THEIR first care▪ upon entering the inn, was to enquire for John Picot. John makes his appear­ance: Sciocco delivers his uncle's letter, and Alexis, always occupied with his hermit, began to enquire af­ter him. Oons, answered John, he was an odd fellow, that father Hilary; you just put me in mind of him; oh! I am very sorry for him. Pray give me some particular account of that man?—Only think, sir, that father Hilary, who with permission of the Arch-Bishop, has now been a twelvemonth in the hermitage you have seen; did nothing all that time, but lamented one Alexis; for whom he was highly concerned. I heard him often speak of the young man; because as my master was a very charitable soul, sent him every day his victuals, and it was I who carried it. "Alexis," he said many times, "Alexis you accuse me; alas! I am innocent. If you are in distress, I am so too, and perhaps much more than you. What must you have thought of my conduct towards you? poor youth, how fond he was of me! how he respected me. I shall never see you again; I am but too much con­vinced that I shall die far from you: ah! what a world of torments!" It was thus father Hilary would always fret. A few days ago, the very Alexis whom he loved so much, put up at this inn, with a stranger, whom I believe, was his father. At first, not knowing his name, I took no notice of him; the young man and his friend, stayed here about a se'n-night to see the city. I attended them to every place curious or remarkable, it was only the day before yes­terday, at the very moment they set off, that I heard the old gentleman call the lad Alexis. Alexis, said I Alexis; good God should that be the unfortunate youth whose deplorable fate father Hilary so often be­moans. I waited on father Hilary, and described the stranger—he knew him. "It is he," cried the old man, "It is he; he goes to Paris; I will follow him [Page 188] and find him there;—O supreme happiness! my love­ly youth, are we to meet again."

Father Hilary begged me to bring him some clothes: I gave him my own; he throws his habit in a corner, dresses himself in great haste, thanks me, and takes leave of his abode. "O precious mansion," said he, "floors which I have so often sprinkled with my tears; walls bear a thousand times the name of my friend, and repeat it on all sides to my eyes, fare ye well! I quit you, hallowed premisses, where I lived far from honors, far from those who have used me ill;—Be ever a shelter to the erring or fatigued wanderer; receive him, let him find shelter under thy rustic roof, against the storms or heat of the day: speak to his eyes, tell him, that you were the receptacle of an unhappy man, and may this temple, sacred to friendship in despair, in­struct the sympathizing visitors, how sweet and un­fortunate it is to be born with a feeling heart."

At these words he lights his lamp for the last time, to illuminate once more his hermitage. I will remem­ber, thee, said he, upon my journey,; the idea of its being useful to some erring traveller will keep up my spirits;—From this you see, sir, that father Hilary was not altogether right in his understanding. Notwith­standing he was a good soul, and very fond of me. How often would he say, young man you fully comfort the afflicted; you will be happy, my friend you will be happy: In short, to satisfy your curiosity, I have to inform you, that father Hilary, drest as simple as I am now, set out yesterday about four in the afternoon, Being too poor to take post, he is obliged to perform the whole journey to Paris on foot, and beg alms of the charitable: he hopes to find his Alexis in the capital, and will spare no pains to discover him. Now, gen­tlemen, is this all you desire to know? I can give no farther information, as I know no more. Moreover, am I at loss, about the mutual concerns between the hermit and Alexis; but I find the latter is very ami­able, oh, very amiable.

The discourse of John surprised Clara's lover, in a singular manner. Who, said he to himself, can be that other Alexis, that overturns all the world like me, and [Page 189] precedes me wherever I go, for I have not the least doubt of his being the same that was with the baroness in the castle; she mistook me for him; did there ever happen so strange an adventure?—That second myself, may be equally unfortunate: Is then our very name the emblem of wretchednes [...]? Father Hilary—I know nothing of a father Hilary—His language is, however strictly relative to my situation. Should it be my father? or what is more probable, my poor friend Du­mont—Dumont? yes, yes, it must be he, it must be he, it must be Dumont—Alexis, you accuse me—poor, poor youth! how fond he was of me!—It can be no other than Dumont—But that second Alexis, whom Picot des­cribed to him, and in whose pursuit father Hilary has gone—My mind is quite confounded in this maze of probabilities. What a cruel enigma, who will clear it up? who will explain it to me?

Alexis and Sciocco, go up stairs to the apartment which has been prepared for them. Next to them on the same floor, lived an old man of a very respectable appearance; he passes and greets his new neighbors, but hearing the name of Alexis mentioned, he ap­proaches quite softly, to listen to their conversation. Little by little, penetrated with the most lively con­cern—he enters, and addresses our two friends with these words: "Excuse an old man's curiosity, amia­ble strangers, I heard you more than once pronounce the name of Alexis—Don't you know that young man, who was here a few days ago?" Indeed, sir, this very question we meant to ask you—I do not know him, and am very sorry for it. Hear my story, "I have now been three weeks in this inn, and intend leaving it soon. The young man we are speaking of, came to live in your chamber, with a stranger much older than himself. I have seen that lovely Alexis, and his aspect excited a very singular sentiment in me, for which I cannot account—His features put me in mind of those of a woman whom I loved once: It was just as if I had seen her before me!—The same eyes, the same mouth, the same tone of voice; in a word, Alexis is her living portrait. You judge what I must feel at this striking resemblance. A hundred [Page 190] times I sought an opportunity to speak to him; it nev­er offered itself, and he set out without my being able to ask him a single question. Just now, gentlemen, you spoke of him, and I could not refrain my curiosity; yet, excuse me, I am sensible of my indiscretion. I will withdraw myself." "No sir," answered Clara's lover, detaining the old man, "no, stay—I am as cu­rious as you to know that young man▪ for I must tell you, he bears my name, and I have now been several times taken for him." "Methinks you, gentlemen, know no more of him than I do: yet, be as it will, he is an engaging being—Alas! thou whom I adore so passionately, should it be thee: shouldest thou return in the form of an angel to charm all mankind?—O how that Alexis struck me; good God, how he struck me."

It would be doing an injury to the reader's penetra­tion, to remind him it was Clara, who during her stay at Lyons with the receiver, and always going by the name of Alexis had created that ferment in the mind of the old man, John Picot, and the hermit. I shall therefore dwell no longer on this subject.

This was the conversation which passed for some time between Alexis, Sciocco and the old man, hereup­on the latter retired, and the Italian going below to order some little matters, Alexis was quite alone. A moment after, being deeply engaged in thought, he believed he heard the voice of Sciocco, expostulating in a spirited strain with John, in an adjoining passage. "What," said John, "is your master so rich as not to be in need of twenty-five louis d'ors?" "Quite the reverse, Signor generoso; twenty-five louis d'ors, in this present moment, would be of the greatest service to us. Nevertheless we intend to-morrow, to demand a bene­fit concert in the city, that will fetch us rather better than twenty-five louis d'ors.". "But pray don't I an­ticipate your wishes by offering them thus to you in­stantly, without any father ceremony?" "Certamente, if my master had no objection; but I know him; the expedient will vex him, he will never agree to it."

Here the two interlocutors spoke lower, so that A­lexis could not hear the end of their conversation but [Page 191] little as he had heard, did not fail to cause him some inquietude—"What are those twenty five louis d'ors proposed to Sciocco? How can he take them, he that knows how much I scorn obligations? Is it John? How can that lad be master of such a sum; on what terms does he offer it?"

Already his imagination was set to work, he enter­tained a thousand suspicions, all without foundation, when Sciocco, who entered, interrupted him in his re­veries. He thought to see Carlo constrained and em­barrassed—He dares not look at his master, who, for his own part examined him, without asking him the smallest question. The good natured Sciocco endeav­ors to speak; he is unable. Finally while Alexis is walking up and down in the chamber, Sciocco seizing the moment when he turned his back, pulls something out of his pocket, and thursts it carefully into the little bag, which contains their effects. He goes out after­wards with the strongest persuasion, that what he had done escaped his friend's observation; yet Alexis had observed all; a glass reproducing objects, shows him Sciocco hiding with anxious care a parcel. What can it be? Alexis wished not to insist upon knowing the cause of his friend's embarrassment, and during his absence, he ventures to search the bag. This may probably be construed as an act of indiscretion; but was not Alexis mistrusting, fearful, and timed? Sci­occo who, till then, had secreted nothing from him, had just manifested a dissimulation, which alarmed him. After all, Alexis without deliberation, searches the bag, and finds a rouleau of twenty-five louis d'ors, which he had heard mentioned!—Judge of his aston­ishment.

He had scarce time to put the mysterious rouleau in its former place, than the little old man, his neigh­bor, enters the chamber, quite out of breath. Ah, sir; Ah my neighbor—What is the matter, sir?—I am [...]!—robbed! Yes: I left my door open, [...] entered my room, and stole fifty louis d'ors. [...]!

Alexis falls down in a swoon; the old man endea­vors to give him assistance; he calls out for help; no­body [Page 192] appears. Alexis, by dint of care, brings, back the unfortunate youth, who, not doubting that John and the Italian committed the theft, knew not what to say or do in that sad crisis; nevertheless, he is alone with the stranger, whose physiognomy is equally hon­est and respectable! the place; his confidence; and emotion of heart, all encourages Alexis: he throws himself at the stranger's feet. Sir, O sir, don't undo him: it is he: Heavens, shall I go on! Take this twenty-five, sir! it is his share; don't undo him!

The old man was quite at a loss how to interpret the confusion of Alexis: some words, however take the veil from his understanding; What! unhappy young man says he, should it be possible for you to be guilty? I! O heavens, what I! It is the other, it is the Italian I have with me. How did you know it? Sir, in pity, don't run me down so much; I am vexed enough—I am innocent, I declare upon my honor.

The old man, moved with horror and compassion; knew no longer Alexis, the stamp of candor and prob­ity is imprinted on the youth's countenance. The stranger stares at him, tells the five and twenty louis d'ors, which he holds out with a wavering hand, and prepares to ask him for the accomplice that has the remainder of the sum, when Sciocco, without the least suspicion enters the room, with an air of gaiety and sat­isfaction. Come hither, thou wretch, cried Alexis with a low voice, enter, shut the door, and own the vilest and basest of all crimes! What crime? What crime, villain, replied the old man, shaking him by the collar! tell me this moment the name of thy accom­plice, or thou art lost! Perdio lei Signori, I don't know what you mean; Ah! thou playest the ignorant, in­famous thief! Thief! I am no thief! He dares still to deny the fact! and those twenty-five louis d'ors? They are mine. Thine? To be sure; John gave them to me. Well, John has committed the theft! But pray, what are you talking of theft? I tell you, John got a prize in the lottery, and gave me that sum. Very well, resumed the old man, so he got it in the lottery? we shall see that.

[Page 193] The old man leaves the room; in vain do Alexis and Sciocco use their utmost efforts to retain him; he is gone. Being thus lest by themselves, Alexis, over­whelmed with grief, loads the innocent Italian with re­proaches, the latter falls down on his knees, and swears by all the saints in Paradise that he is innocent. They were both in that cruel agitation, when a great tumult arose before the gate of the inn, and completed their ter­rors. People call out stop thief! stop thief! soon the mob gathers—the thief is taken, brought to the inn, and known for having committed frequent depredations, not without violent suspicion of being guilty of the present. At last he confesses, among other things, to have stolen the fifty louis d'ors of the lodger, whose room was marked with No. 12. He returns the sum, it is brought to the old man, who, ashamed of the affront he had given his neighbors, returns to their chamber, leading by the hand John the waiter, whom he had also much insulted—They embrace each other, the old man begs a thousand pardons, for his uncharita­ble behavior, and John is requested to explain to Alex­is, this matter, which still puzzled him. He acquit­ted himself of their desire as follows:

You well know that Mr. Sciocco delivered me, this morning a letter from my uncle the farmer: here is that very letter; hear it and judge:

[Page 194] I did not wish my uncle to remind me of my prom­ise, to fulfil it. In consequence I went to the receiver, who told me down the sum, and thinking on you my good gentlemen, I took Mr. Sciocco in private, to of­fer him the part I had destined for him. At first he started a world of objections, remarking, how his friend's delicacy might be hurt by such a proceeding. But, what occasion have you, said I, to tell him so soon, but keep that sum in store, against some unfore­seen accident; he liked my notion, and has favored me in accepting the offer. This, gentlemen, is strictly true; yet, I cannot help owning, that this explanation costs me much, and that I shall always have at heart the affront put upon me at this day!—Oh, did my poor uncle know it—It would break his heart.

Thus spoke the honest the virtuous Picot, and the Italian, who, on the other hand, was not less affected, could not conceive how his [...] Maestro could think him guilty of so base an infame—He chid him with gentleness; yet with delicacy of sentiment. Alexis, abashed at his extravagance, dared neither to speak, nor even to look at him.

The old man could hardly put an end to his excus­es, and offered his purse, by way of reparation to those he had insulted. John Picot above all, who shed a torrent of bitter tears, had moved the sieur to such a degree, that he addressed him in the following words, with an air of real contrition: Lovely young man, you that deny forgiveness, give me but time to manifest my repentance? Come with me, be my friend, my confident, and leave me the care to make your fortune—Answer me, John, will you serve me?—Will you be a second to myself? I will offer you no salary, my heart and equity shall fix it.—Come too, come amiable travellers!—I am rich, very rich indeed. We shall never leave one another; we shall live in bro­therly union.—Ah! may my hoary age, comforted by you, forget the errors and misfortunes of my youth!

Alexis, Sciocco and John made no answer. At last, the stranger, whose physiognomy was meek and res­pectable, begged with such energy and effect, that they could no longer withstand his generous intentions.

[Page 195] We shall follow the four actors, now on the stage of this work, and soon become more intimately acquaint­ed with the old man, who professed to our friends so frank and disinterested a friendship.

CHAP. III.

OUR four friends, after having sworn the most in­violable union, resolved to set out for Paris the very next morning. John, whom the generosity of the old man had again moved to tears, went imme­diately to take leave of his uncle Joachin. The stran­ger returned to his room, to pack up his portman­teaus, and Alexis being left alone with Sciocco, was much at a loss what to think of him. Luckily, and through the old man's discretion, the affair of the [...] louis d'ors had not come to the knowledge of any person belonging to the inn; but Alexis had never­theless suspected his trusty Sciocco! he had even ac­cused him! All appearances were certainly against the Italian; the timid and mistrusting Alexis, knew not how to act in so delicate a juncture; and had it been the fate of Sciocco to be actually guilty, his con­duct towards an humane and generous stranger, was, in all respects calculated to extricate him from dan­ger. But it happened to turn out otherwise; Scioc­co was innocent; Alexis had been too hasty, too mistrusting; of this he was sensible, He blushed, and dared hardly to lift his eyes towards the injured Car­lo—How little did he know him! He was the first who clasped his Caro Maestro in his arms, intreating him to discard the remembrance of a slight error, which he could not prevent, as it must have happened. Yes, mio fidelle constant [...] gratrone, said he, this event was decreed by fate, to evince my friendship and honesty to you. Oche ringrazio la divina providenza! che la rin­grazio. ^*

[Page 196] It wanted no less than this lesson of a good heart, to make Alexis still more sensible of his wrong. The more Sciocco attributed it to predestination, the more the other laid to his own charge all that had happened to him; the effect of the contradiction of human principles: one defect is always corrected by another of an opposite nature: mistrust and timidity vanish, if superseded by a noble confidence, the soul of all good undertakings.

But let us lose no time in reflections. Alexis has blushed—He has sworn within himself to be more pru­dent and less inclined to suspicion in future. Let us now bestow our attention on the series of his adven­tures.

Next morning they all met in the old man's apart­ment. The inn-keeper's bills are discharged, our four travellers step into a post chaise, and depart.

The post-boy, who drove with the utmost dispatch, sets them down at the beginning of the night at the first and best inn of Rouanne sur L [...]ire; not that they wanted to stop all night, but only to refresh themselves and to change horses. Alexis alighted with John for the purpose of walking in the evening air. A bustle before the gate of the inn attracts their notice; they approach and look—It was the hostlers and servants of the inn, ordering away, with the greatest inhumani­ty, a poor traveller, who requested permission to rest himself in the stables for that night. No, cried the fa [...]cy valets, no! we would not harbor such beggars as you, indeed, we have been tricked too often.

Alexis, from an impulse of humanity, addresses them, "why will you thus refuse a—"

He had not time to go farther; the beggar stars at him, he knows him, and throws himself in his arms; it is he, it is he—My Alexis; John looks; hey! is it you, father Hilary?—No, no, it is not he. Ah! dear Alexis, know your old friend; your faithful Dumont.—Dumont, you?—Yes, I am the same:—Good God, what a happy meeting! O heaven! thou hast heard my vows.

Dumont and Alexis are locked in each others arms: Alexis, who remembers the treachery of his tutor, sees but a friend in this moment.

[Page 197] The old man and Sciocco have left the post chaise; John shews them the affecting scene. Soon after they all five enter an apartment of the inn, order an excel­lent supper, and enjoy the bliss of the re-union.

Dumont and his pupil, are stimulated with a reci­procal eagerness to know each other's adventures, which they are equally desirous to hear.

The meal is served, every one eats with the keenest appetite; and the desert being brought in, Dumont, impatient of destroying the suspicions which his pu­pil might have entertained of his fidelity, hastened, while all was attention, thus to commence his narra­tive:

Doubtless, you too well remember, my dear Alexis, the cruel spectacle to which your father exposed you at the inn at Valence. At his threats and his impre­cations, you dropped down, and when you opened your eyes to the light, found yourself alone: well, at­tend to me; you shall hear the most extraordinary e­vent your imagination could ever judge. Hear me, Alexis, and condemn me not.

While you laid senseless on the floor, and I was giv­ing you all the assistance which friendship and human­ity can afford, your father said to me, in a savage tone of voice, You blame me, Mr. Dumont?—Come down for a moment, come down, and you shall find in my carriage, a person who will give you an account of the misfortunes this unhappy boy has brought upon me. But, sir, can I leave him in such a situation? He shall have every assistance: do come down stairs, I conjure you.

Here he turned to the landlord: sir, said he, do not leave him. Come, then, Mr. Dumont! it is but a step or two. I was hesitating whether I should fol­low him, or stay with you. At last, (who would have suspected his cruelty?) I followed him down stairs, trembling, well persuaded that I should return with him, or alone: we advanced to a post chaise, which was waiting within a gunshot from the inn. In it sat a woman in years, and rather of a finester appearance. Step in, sir, step in, said she, it is only for a moment. I must tell you—

[Page 198] She added many things: I would not hear her; un­easy about you, and about what they could want of me, I was ready to return to the inn; but time was not left to me; your father steps in, lays hold of my hand; three tall fellows in livery push me in the chaise, shut the door, and the post-boy raises clouds of dust, so hard did he drive.

I solemnly declare, that hurried away with such vio­lence, I had no strength to call for help; my first feel­ings were horror and indignation. I looked at your father, and said to him, with a bitter smile, Barbarous man! Is this the odious design you had upon me? You tear me from the unfortunate Alexis! Ah! he cannot survive it!—Compose yourself, Mr. Dumont, Ah! did you know!—All your ferocity, unnatural father! I would, indeed, never have thought it!—Sir!—Oh! permit me to indulge my grief!—What do you want of me? What means that violence which you exercised upon me? have you any rights over me?—Ah, is it not enough to let loose your rage a­gainst your son?—His son! said the lady, he is not his son. Oh, I am pretty sure, madam, that you are not his mother, but his most cruel enemy!—I his en­emy! the enemy of that child! why, I don't know him. Had the gentleman followed my advice, he would have taken him along with us; I would have brought him up, I would.

I glanced my eye with furious indignation upon the lady, and turning round to your father, conjuring him with tears in my eyes, to let me go back to you; I represented your situation, your grief, and succeeded in moving him a little. Mr. Dumont, said he, what you ask I cannot grant—You have been seen walking in the royal botanical gardens, you are known, search is making after you both—Your life is in danger if you stay with him. I scorn it, sir—His own life if he is alone, is not as much exposed as it would be in your company—I cannot conceive it—That child is the torch of discord, which the gods have sent in their wrath, to be the scourge of his unhappy parents!—Forget him, Mr. Dumont, and leave him as we do▪ far from those whose life he has embittered. It is yet [Page 199] a remnant of pity that makes me desire you to leave Paris. You was undone, and so was he, had not I tak­en that precaution: He lives, let us consign him to fate!—But, sir, make me the confidence—Of my se­crets?—Oh, no, Mr. Dumont! no, nobody shall know them—The grave will soon contain them and me!—What an astonishing mystery—Impenetrable, my dear sir!—Ha [...]kee, my dear friend, I esteem you, I ever loved you: this instant, you are perhaps indebt­ed to me, for a blessing greater than life—Yes, sir, greater than life!—Had I not made use of this expe­dient to extricate you from a danger as imminent as bodily destruction, you would both have fallen into the snare! What, is he in danger, sir?—Not so much; you have been discovered and would have been des­cribed!—I! good God, who are those wretches!—Alas! I cannot divulge their names, and that makes me unhappy.

Your father, my dear pupil, said things which as­tonished me still more. The half confidence he made me, so captivated my eager curiosity, that I could nei­ther perceive a post-chaise, flying with the rapidity of a dart, nor even the approach of night—We had just left a little village, when an unknown voice called out to the people behind the carriage: Hey, is it you, Champaign? Yes, answered the valet. It is they, an­swered the voice to the cavaliers. This instant, they alight from their horses, lay hold of the doors of the chaise, open them, and one of them said very bluntly to your father, Hey, marquis, have you got that dar­ling child? you must either deliver him to us, or die instantly, you—Ah! my brother, cried the lady, stop! Is it you, my sister?—Coward, replied your father, in a rage, stay, I'll alight; dare you take away my life? rather beware of thine.

Your father, I, and his people, leave the carriage. We began with the strangers, who were four or five in number, a bloody combat ensued, of which I could not see the issue, my skull being wounded with a sword, in consequence of which I fell down weltering in my blood.

To all appearance, I laid for a long time senseless on the ground; when I recovered my reason, it was [Page 200] in the dead of night. I saw neither your father, nor the lady, nor any of the assassins near me, except seven or eight shabby fellows who carried me on a litter. They informed me on the road, that I was then half a league from Lyons; that the archbishop of that place, who passing by in his carriage, had heard my moans, one of his servants had been dispatched, and informed him that those groans were uttered by a wounded person, who could only be removed upon a litter. The arch bishop had no sooner reached Lyons, than he sent people to bring me to the infirmary of the archbishoprick. I was actually carried there, and the archbishop came himself to know who had put me in such a condition on the road. I thanked him for his humanity, and gave him some evasive answers, to conceal the real cause of my wound.

Is not the sudden intrusion of these strangers, and their combat with your father, a problem to you?—Well my dear Alexis, it was and still is one to me. To all appearance they were your enemies; they were in pursuit of you, because they thought to find you in the post-chaise, and one of them was the brother of the lady who accompanied us. But when I reflect upon your father's mysterious discourse, and upon the snare laid for us in the inn at Valence, from which he delivered me, I could no help concluding them to be the very wretches whom alone we had reason to fear. Besides, he that wounded me was no stranger to my person; for as much as I am able to recollect, he said in giving me the blow, prithee where's thy pupil? I fell, and they left me, because they thought I was dead. All that I can say is, that I can remember to have perceived among them the young man we met in the botanical garden, and who stared at us, saying to his father, It is, my father, here he is, &c. Do you remember it, my Alexis?—Heavens!—Yes, surely, he was one of them.

I was taken care of at the infirmary of Lyons; the metropolitan, from time to time came to visit me, and to see me properly tended and treated.

Having got well, I went out to take the air in the environs of Lyons, the situation of which is truly de­lightful. [Page 201] I discovered in one of my rural excursions a little chappel; whose ancient and ruinous appearance struck me much.—Being informed by a peasant, of its having once been the retreat of a [...] hermit, I took it into my head to make it my residence.—I had lost all hope of ever seeing you again, because one of the people who waited on me, during my ailment, and a relation to the inn keeper at Valence, at whose house I had left you, having wrote to him with regard to you, and was answered, that same day that you had left the inn, and he did not know what was become of you.

Having thus lost every hope of seeing you again, and life being a burden to me, I communicated part of my misfortunes to the arch-bishop, and intreated him, in the most earnest manner to permit me to inhabit the hermitage I had seen. The prelate seemed at first to state objections against my project; but seeing me so firmly resolved, he not only granted my request, but added a considerable donation, which was soon aug­mented by the charity, or curiosity of those whom my edifying way brought to the hermitage. The master of the Dolphin inn was one; and John, who is here before us another. This worthy young man walked every day one league to bring me victuals; he often conversed with me; I trusted my sorrow to his sensi­bility, and he consoled me as much as he was able—my good and sensible friend, be sure heaven will reward thy kindness.

Some time ago, my Alexis, you passed though▪ Ly­ons—John showed you all the curiosities of the place; and came to let me know, he heard your name by chance, on the very [...]ay of your departure.—What ti­dings were those for me!—John brought them, John even assisted me with his money; I pulled off my hab­it, and began my journey on foot having, previously taken a solemn leave of my hermitage, which I lest quite prepared for the reception of some other.

This is the the third day I am on the road, and I could not walk more than sixteen leagues—Oh, I am so weak! my long sickness, my grief, and the necessi­ty of bagging along the road▪—What a condition!—What a sad condition, my friend, must I have been doomed to.

[Page 202] Alexis clasped Dumont in his arms, and they pres­sed each other with the most heartfelt cordiality!—After this Sciocco broke in to make comments upon Dumont's adventures, which made a very singular im­pression on him.—Well, [...] m [...]stro, is not this [...] effect of predestination?—What do you think of this singular meeting?—What of the hermitage? faith, all this is wonderfully arranged! were it to be related to a stranger, he would think the whole a fiction.—How can you prevent such an inclination of judging in a stranger, especially in one who is habituated to an unin­terrupted prosperity, in the bosom of his country and family? Yet, experience teaches us that facts, be they ever so astonishing, are not less [...]ounded upon truth—what is a fiction, or a novel, but a concatenation of ad­ventures, which taken separately, will be worthy of be­lief?

Dumont, having thus finished his narrative, he re­quested Alexis to give him also an account to his ad­ventures, who in compliance of his just demand, be­gan with his residence in the cottage, his passion for Clara, the history of Dorance, the perfidy of Duverly, [...] concluding with the disagreeable accidents, in which his indiscretion and imprudent conduct had in­volved him: above all, his mistrust and suspecting temper.

All was profound silence; while Alexis related his adventures; the old man alone seemed quite discon­certed, Had Clara's lover watched him a little closer, she would gradually have seen him blush, turn pale, and feel the strangest emotions. Yet, nobody perceiv­ed it, as the story related by the pupil of Dumont, engrossed all their attention.

The old man, being in his turn requested to give the details of the misfortunes of his life, excused himself under pretence that they could give concern to none but himself; and that, after adventures as astonishing as those that had been recounted, nothing remained to said, but what would be too uninteresting; yet he would relate them one day; but as for the present, he begged his friends, above all things, to bestow their attention upon a project which he had just conceived, [Page 203] and advised them to profit by it, if they were any ways attached to prudence and wisdom.

Let us hear, therefore, dear readers, what the little old man has to say; and if you have not guessed it al­ready, I am afraid he will soon betray himself. We need but to follow him.

CHAP. IV.

YOUR adventures, my dear Alexis, have given me no small concern. They reminded me of many persons of my acquaintance—Is it possible?—A moment if you please: do hear me without interrup­tion?

Greenoble [...] has been long [...]my residence: that Dorance, Duverly, Adela, Clara, Germain, I know them all. I hear Dorance is still alive, which gives me great joy. As to Duverly, whom you have men­tioned in your narrative—he is no more, that treacher­ous friend.—Are you sure?—Yes, very sure.—Alas! so Clara's father is dead!—Her mother has preceeded him, I have been told, long ago. The unfortunate Adela has been the victim of the crimes of her seducer, and a husband's jealousy!—Forgive those tears—sad remembrance!—Alas! how lovely has she been!

It is therefore useless, my dear Alexis, to go any more in pursuit of the traitor whose head you are char­ged to bring. Heaven! have you met with me who could give you this intelligence, and inform you that you have fulfilled your commission; but as Dorance might not altogether [...]ake your word, I will myself accompany you to the cottage, he knows me, and will be glad to hear, from my own mouth, every thing that may satisfy his mind. You shall see again your Cla­ra, whom you love so dearly; and I shall see her too, that lovely child, whom I have known from the ear­liest period of her infancy.—In short, I can assure you, every body shall be satisfied.—What, sir, will you [Page 204] have me return to a man, who dared to command a murder! My good youth, your humanity, your vir­tues, in a word, all in you bespeak my savor. Yet give me leave to excuse Dorance: he has been made a wretch for life, so it must be natural in him to seek revenge; be as it will, you have not perpet [...]ated the bloody act! Certainly not. I grant that Dorance is blood thirsty, but you have spilt no blood, and fate has disposed events so, that without sullying yourself with a crime, you shall be entitled to Clara's hand.—Heaven! by the fatal tidings of her father's death!—Leave this to me, I will satisfy Dorance on that head, I will engage him to unite you with Adela's daughter.—Generous stranger, how happy am I to have met with you!—but may I not know the name of so res­pectable a person?—I go by the name of Preville.—Is that your rea [...] name?—I have still many others; but that I like best.—Well, M. de Preville, I shall follow your advice; I shall go to the cottage; but will Dumont, Sciocco, and John, follow us?

These three friends swore to accompany Alexis wheresoever he should go;—their departure for the cottage was of course fixed for the next morning.

Alexis easily perceived in the old man an air of con­straint which astonished him; but this he attributed to a [...] kind of regret, which the story he had related, and comprising so many of his friends, had excited in his breast. At any other time Alexis might perhaps have taken umbrage at M. Preville's confusion; but his own temper, which had always been so productive of disagreeable incidents, had made him swear to ban­ish mistrust from his heart, and for this he would give no encouragement in his mind to similar ideas.

In short, our hero was happy: he had sound again his faithful Dumont; he had found him as true to his attachment as he had been formerly. Moreover, the good natured Sciocco whom he loved, was also in his company, and two honest strangers, one of whom had extricated him from a very critical situation, by an­nouncing the death of Duverly, and promising to car­ry, himself, these tidings to Dorance—Thus, he re­turned to the cottage, in hopes of seeing his dear Cla­ra, for he was ignorant of her departure.

[Page 205] Alexis was restless all night long. He rose the first in the morning, and ran to the post-office to order a chaise. At his return, he found all his friends rea­dy and joyful, except M. de Preville, who had past a worse night than himself. The chaise arrives, our friends step in it, and post away.

I shall not trespass upon the reader's time, with ex­patiating upon the pleasure which our travellers felt in so pleasing a journey, as he will guess the whole, from the tempers and characters of our respective he­roes. For instance, predestination, and the order of things were brought upon the carpet by Sciocco, and refuted by Mr. Dumont, whom the folly of the Italian as­tonished to the highest degree. Love, its pleasures and pangs, were discussed by Alexis and the old man; and the latter dwelt upon the subject with more serious­ness and sorrow than his young friend. Honest John read again and again his uncle Joachin's letter, and related the history of different strangers whom he had served during his late prime waitership at the Dol­phin.

In a word, some were talking, others meditating, and every one was occupied one way or other. Hav­ing rode post all night, they arrived at St. Marcellin, where Sciocco and Alexis, did not care much to make their appearance, lest they should be recognized by the gaoler, whose wife had delivered them from their place of confinement. They were informed that the latter had returned to her husband, and were much a­mazed at the man's good nature, who condescended with such grace to receive his spouse whenever she thought it expedient or agreeable to favor him with her person.

From Marcellin, (our strangers having previously dismissed the post-chaise,) preceeded gently on the road which leads to the forest of Chamboran. All five armed with pistols, cutlasses, and stout cudgels, they feared no attack from the banditti who infested those woody domains.

Having thus walked to a distance of two leagues and upwards, upon paths well known to our Alexis, they descried a winding path, the draw-bridge, and the top of the cottage. They were exactly on the ve­ry [Page 206] same spot, where Clara had once said to Alexis There, do you see the cottage! The heart of Dumont's pupil was now in a strong emotion, he felt an incon­ceivable Je ne s [...]i quoi; yet it was not quite displeasing.

M. de Preville's condition was far from being like that of Alexis; No sooner did he perceive the cottage, and above all the great poplar that rose its lofty top to the clouds, than he turned pale, and a cold sweat quite chilled his frame—he dropped down senseless on the mossy ground.—Alexis endeavored to make him reco­ver from his swoon; it was in vain, all his efforts joined to those of his friends proved useless. Finally, they resolved to carry him—to carry him—poor Alexis!—didst thou but know what thou art doing.

Certain it is, that the confusion and swoon of M. de Preville struck his four friends with a most singular surprize. However deeply he might have been affected by Dorance, by Clara, even by the tragical exit of Adela, whom he owned to have known once, yet it seemed incredible that all this should cause so violent a revolution in him—should he have had a share in the adventures of Dorance?—It was he!—Let us banish superficial doubts, which we cannot clear up—let us enter the cottage, and not lose sight of our travellers. Thus they carried the unfortunate Preville to the draw­bridge, which was drawn up. Nobody appeared, yet it was necessary for them to get admittance, which was certainly difficult, there being neither bell nor porter to savor their design. Long would they have waited, but for a circumstance which turned out propiteous.

Candor, since the flight of his dear Clara, which had affected him to an extreme, suffered not a single day to elapse, without mounting the wall of the fosse, to see whether he could descry her coming from afar. Always in hopes of seeing again the lovely child, whom he cherished as his own, he spent whole days upon a kind of terrace, shedding tears, and imploring provi­dence to restore his dear Clara.

"Great God!" said he, incessantly, "thou who knowest my heart, thou who knowest how dear I held that offspring of crime, thee I call to witness the since­rity of my feelings!—I had, indeed, no other intention [Page 207] when I first brought her up, than to devote her a sacri­fice to my vengeance; but how much have I abhorred that attrocious design!—the sensible, gentle, engaging Clara was my daughter; I had adopted her for such; I forgot her father's treachery, my spouse's perfidious­ness; I forgot all!—She is fled, she is left a generous benefactor to follow her lover!—her lover whom I have inhumanly exiled!—with what design? to send him in pursuit of a man, whom it is impossible for him to meet with. Left alone to himself in this wide world, could Alexis discover the retreat of my enemy, the infamous Duverly?—Thus a vain desire of revenge has robbed me of my friend, of Clara, of all that was dear to me! O my God, thou dost punish me!—well have I deserved the frowns of thy justice."

These were the affecting ejaculations which Candor sent to heaven, when a noise at his feet just facing the draw-bridge, made him cast his eyes downwards—What does he perceive?—Alexis!—Alexis!—can it be he?—Yes, it is the good natured Alexis, it is he—attended by four strangers. Candor examines eagerly each face; he seeks his daughter—she is not among them!—O grief!

But who is that stranger, pale, feeble, supported by his young friend? Candor believes he knows his fea­tures! he tries to recollect—should it [...]e Duverly?—Duverly! should there be some collusion between Alexis and him! do they both come to insult him!—three strangers follow them! What means this cabal.

Candor hesitates for a moment whether or not he ought to open the cottage to this band—he is alone with an old servant as weak as he. But why should he remain in suspence? If he must perish, his life shall be sold dear to his assassins! It is Duverly! yes Candor knows him! What a fury blazes in his heart!

While he was thus engaged in thought, Alexis, who perceived him, cried in a tone of sweetness and sym­pathy: Father, let down the drawbridge—We are all your friends!—You all my friends?

Candor calls Germain; they both let down the draw-bridge.—Alexis, Sciocco, Dumont, John Picot, and M. de Preville enter. M. de Preville, who had re­covered [Page 208] his strength, cannot withhold his tears at the [...]ight of the unhappy Dorance, grown hoary under the weight of years and misfortune.

Alexis looks around for his Clara; he does not see her, he turns pale, he is going to enquire for her of Do­rance, but the latter saves him that trouble. What do you seek here, young man!—Have you avenged me?—Where is my enemy's head!—Upbraid me not, I pray, my father, this respectable old gentleman, who condescended to accompany me, will satisfy your curi­osity.

Dorance, who sees his doubts realized, stares boldly at M. de Preville, whose tongue denies its office; Alexis occupied in looking for his Clara, goes all round the place. Dumont, Sciocco, and John wait with terror the issue of an event which they begin to comprehend better: all four actors impelled by different sentiments, represent a strong characteristic picture, and for some minutes, the profoundest silence reigns among them.

De Preville breaks it first. Well, Dorance, what do you fee [...] at my sight!—Rage, fury, despair!—Do you know me again? The excess of my hatred calls thee, perfidious Duverly.

Duverly, exclaim the four actors. O heaven! pursues Alexis, what, is it [...]u?—Duverly!—What have I [...]. Your duty, answered the unmasked old man, doubtless, you have done your duty and fulfilled your promise: Dorance, said he, to Candor, I come to surrender myself to thy just vengeance. My fate is in thy hands, take away my life and I will not murmur. I have deceived, abused, and basely betrayed thee—under the mask of friendship, I have given thee most cruel blows to thy generous and confiding heart—I have caused the death of a woman equally dear to us both—I still offend thee, I see, by my discourse; why dost thou tarry? here is my breast, pierce it, it waits the mortal blow from thy hand; it waits—without a moan.

Alexis throws himself down before Duverly, whom Dorance surveyed with the highest indignation.—Cowardly foe, said he to Preville; how darest thou to brave and insult me?—To insult thee, what I?—O [Page 209] Dorance! I wish thou couldst pry into the innermost recesses of my heart? I wish thou couldst see it divid­ed, lacerated, and bleeding with repentance and re­morse!—Alas, ask that guilty heart! It will tell thee, that even when it betrayed thee, it felt love, pity, and self-detestation! Yes, Dorance, thee I have betrayed, but how must I smart for it!—Yet, think not I seek to avert the avenging dagger of thy august fury; stab this heart, and I shall not utter a groan. Thou shalt not hear me say that youth and the violence of an irre­sistable passion, have hurled me into the abyss in which we both are fallen. I shall not remind you of our conversation at Grenoble, when you owned, you loved Miss Myrsange, and that it was the desire of your par­ents to unite you with her. Long before had I adored her; long before had Adela vowed to crown my love with mutual affection. What have not I done to dis­suade you from a marriage which I foresaw to be preg­nant with the greatest misery for two friends—Adela swore she never could be happy but with me—Her mother forced her to give thee her hand—Thou loved her with all the phrenzy of enthusiastic love, and I too!

We went to Paris; I used every effort to surmount a fatal passion, whose excess made me shrink with horror. I will hide the fatal secret in my bosom, remember—thou comest—thou tearest from me—I am upon the point of confessing all—the name alone baffles my utterance—thou givest me encouragement, makest me hope, I listen to thee—thou answerest for me Adela's letter!—Ah! this was the first fault which led me to many others!—The step was made; confidence was then unseasonable and would have proved destruc­tive to my own self: love, effervescence, and ill placed shame, all, all forced me to the crime!

You see, dear enemy, that I pretend not to justify my­self; I am guilty—Thy misery and that of thy family has been caused by me: I condemn myself; I have met with this youth, he related to me his adventures, thy mis­fortunes and thy wish▪ I am prepared to accomplish them. I come to acquit thy vow, strike, I tell thee once more, strike; I would scorn pity!—Pity! wilt thou, villain speak of pity? ah, I pitied my spouse, the most inno­cent [Page 210] of women, after I had barbarously thrust a dagger in her bosom! It was however the effect of the black suspicion which thou hast exiled in my heart?—Des Roches is the sole author, that detestable termagant fostered my passion for Adela, it is she who furnished us with means of obtaining mutual interviews, it is she who excited me to betray thee—she no sooner saw Adela's repentance and our separation than she forc­ed me to glut a passion, which she said, glowed in her breast for me. The tokens of indignation and con­tempt which manifested at this overture, kindled her rage, she was bent on my ruin, and would involve you and your spouse into the gulf opened by her infernal vengeance. Having robbed me of letters—fatal let­ters, which I should have a thousand times destroyed; she sent them to you, while I was in North Carolina, with the most calumnious imputations.—Poor Adela, terrified at a secret information she received of her en­emy, imprudently seeks safety in flight, you pursue her.—You shudder! Oh, It is for me to shudder! It was my fatal passion which guided your hand—Oh, let me see that bloody tree where she received the deadly wound! let me see if—This is not the only monu­ment, barbarous man, which puts me in mind of thy perfidiousness: come, descend with me into the gloo­my subterranean, where I preserve the precious re­mains of my victims; come, but alone with me?—There I'll offer thee a sacrifice to the manes of my spouse and son! Let us go, I am prepared.

Candor and Duverly laid hold of one another's hands, and forgetting to pull up the drawbridge, they advance towards the door of the subterranean tem­ple; Alexis and his friends attempt to stop them.—Let us alone, cried they!—Divine justice must be satisfied.

Alexis, Dumont, John, even Germain himself ob­struct their passage; but suddenly Sciocco calls them aside; they expect to get some important advice. Be­lieve me, Cuoni Cavalieri, said Carlo, let them go down alone into the cave;—If they are not to perish, they will not; but if it is decreed for either—

Alexis, impatient of being thus detained, pushes him back, and joins the two furious old men; Du­mont, [Page 211] John, Germain and Sciocco follow them: so all descend into the subterranean, regardless of the in­treaties of Dorance and Duverly.

I shall not repeat what farther conversation passed between the two enemies; their mutual reproaches and menaces are obvious to imagination. Fresh elucida­tions were given on both sides, and in spite of Duver­ly's gentleness and contrition, who knows how the matter would have been terminated, but for the most astonishing event which curbed their rage, and put an end to their resentment?

We shall leave our actors in the temple, to return to Paris, where we shall find Clara at the hotel of the marquis de Corsange.

CHAP. V.

SEVERAL days had elapsed since the departure of M. Du Monay, the receiver. The marquis and marchioness had every regard for Clara, whom they still believed to be the receiver's niece, and cherished her from this consideration.

The marquis, marchioness and Clara, took one day an airing in the delightful gardens of Luxembourgh, a place of fashionable resort. Having made several turns, they, in imitation of other strangers, sat down upon a chair, to rest themselves from the fatigues of their walk.

A person, who appeared to be an abbe, was sitting by Clara, and had gazed at her for a long time, so as to put her to the blush, and could not help expressing his curiosity in these words: Miss, I beg you a thou­sand pardons for my indiscretion; pray, had not I the honor of seeing you somewhere? Clara looks in his face, and seems to know him—she blushes. The abbe perceived it. I see you recollect me, said he.—Pray was it not at Lyons? no,—you are however much like a certain Alexis—Alexis! cried the mar­quis and marchioness both at once.—Alexis! cried a [Page 212] woman in her turn, who was sitting a little farther!—Yes, replied the abbe, you are that Alexis whom I saw at the baroness d'Yrace! Father Stephen, whispered the trembling Clara, pray have done. What do you wish to say of Alexis? asked the woman.—I have seen a young man of that name at Marseilles.—At Mar­seilles, madam? said the intimidated Clara. Have you known Alexis at Marseilles? Alas, miss, don't revive that dearest remembrance. Dearest, you say, madam? Should you be the young lady from M. Du Monay's? Who told you my tyrant's name? Yes, I am the unfortunate Sophia, who loved so much the young Alexis! Let us not be under a mistake, ladies, said the ex-capuchin. I speak of the lovely Clara here before us; and you, madam, of that Alexis, who runs all over the world to seek a father whom he has never known? A father he has never known! replied the marquis with great emotion. Ah! what do you tell me? what name have you uttered?—Softly my dear, said the marchioness, methinks our Clara has more knowledge of the whole affair: we shall beg of her for information:—Knowledge of Alexis, madam, I have indeed!—Good God! my husband and I are much concerned for him; pray explain yourself.—Madam, neither the time nor place are suitable. I beg it as a favor, let us return to the hotel, and there I will give you a most faithful account of what you may wish to know, though I have the strictest injunc­tions to the contrary from my uncle: forgive that ex­pression; I mean to say from my worthy benefactor.

Clara and the noble pair rise from their seats: Cla­ra discovering her rival in Sophia, casts a glance of indignation upon her, which the latter endeavors to interpret. By this time, father Stephen seeing he must loose his prey, attempts to whisper to Clara, and she will not hear him; the ex capuchin, awed by the pre­sence of the marquis and his spouse, proceeds no far­ther; he retires quite desperately, and our three friends return to the hotel, where the marchioness, who had violently restrained her feelings, let fall a torrent of tears. You will not be surprised, my lovely Clara, said she sobbing, at the impression which the adventure [Page 213] of the gardens make upon me, when you shall come to know. From the description given of his person, it can be no other than your son, my dear lord! Your son! cried Clara with an exaltation of voice, your son! What, my lord, should Alexis be your son? Yes, answered the marquis, fetching a deep sigh, and here is his mother! Oh Alexis, Alexis! where art thou?—Come fly to their arms! Clara you augment our anguish; speak, speak, have pity on a father's pain.

Clara, in a transport of joy, is unable to collect her ideas; she lifts her eyes up to heaven, and utters vague exclamations; soon after, she makes an apolo­gy for having, on account of Du Monay's instruction, concealed her history from her benefactors. They all sit down, and Clara relates her own history, and that of Alexis, his residence and flight from the cottage; and concludes with owning that she knew not what had become of her lover. He was at Marseilles, ad­ded she; there he turned faithless! there he got ac­quainted with that Sophia whom we have just left; but as he has not accompanied her, I know not where he can be▪ Oh my God! why does thy power not read him to this house?—Alas! how happy would he be!—and we how happy.

Arzelia and her lord could hardly respire during the long narrative of Clara; the marquis especially, who remembered his cruelties, his wrongs to so amia­ble a son, and the vexations he had caused him through the malice of his enemies, could not forgive himself. It is I, exclaimed he; I am that unnatural father, who involved him into the abyss of wretchedness!—Where is he? innocent youth: What is his fate?—O God, thou art witness to the searches and pursuits I have made since the blessed instant which re-united me with my spouse!—I sent emissaries, and went myself to a thousand places, to seek a son who costs me so ma­ny tears! O Clara! if ever we find him, he shall be thy consort!—Be both our children.—Ah! how wor­thy art thou of his heart and affections.

During these sentimental emanations, the marchion­ess became very pensive. All on a sudden she breaks in on her husband's discourse. My friend—my dear [Page 214] friend—an idea takes my fancy!—yes, hope influen­ces my mind, and fills my soul with consolation! per­haps he has returned to the cottage; we may find him there! Madam, he certainly knows not that I have left it; he might, but no, he has forgot me; there was no place I passed through in my journey, but gave me the sad news of his broken faith. At St. Marcellin, ah! the perfidious Alexis; perhaps he consoles himself in some other quarter of the world with some new conquest. My daughter, believe a mother's heart! Your own was too intimately connec­ted with his! you were born for one another; he will return to the cottage, he will surely return: Oh! sul­lied with my father's blood! What a baneful suspi­cion! can a youth of so sweet and timid a temper, sul­ly himself with that attrocious murder? he is incapa­ble of doing it, to be blest with his father's feelings. So he is graced with your virtues, my dearest Arze­lia, he must shrink at the very name of crime.

The marquis and marchioness, after having testified a thousand tender concerns for the fate of their son, de­termined to set out instantly for the cottage. If he is not there, said they, we will wait for him. To live in a place which our son has inhabited will at least be some consolation for us. Clara knew not whether to accept or decline the journey—piqued at her lover's infidelity; eager to see again the hermitage, her Ger­main, and the beneficent Candor, of whom she had no occasion to be afraid, while under the auspices of the parents of Alexis; her mind was divided between a thousand different thoughts; yet the sweet desire of again seeing the cottage, and perhaps her lover too, overcame all her scruples.

In less than a day every thing was prepared for the intended journey. They set off, arrive at St. Marcel­lin, alight from their carriage, commit it to the care of a valet, and take the pleasant road of the forest of de Chamboran, under an escort of four vigorous domestics armed with pistols and cutlasses.

After a long walk of two hours and upwards, they descry before them the walls of the cottage; the draw­bridge being still let down and the door open, caused [Page 215] Clara to be much surprised. Good God, cried she, should Candor, be dead, or has the place been taken by assault, and plundered? Already her mind was agitat­ed by a thousand suspicions, when she perceived sever­al tracts of the footsteps of a man, which were directed towards the cottage. This revived Clara's hopes.—Alas! said she, could we find him! oh! Alexis! should these be the traces of thy feet.

Clara looks around, she examines all these marks—she even believes to distinguish them for being those of her lover's foot: childish reflections, a ridiculous illu­sion, begot by a fancy wholly taken up with its ob­ject!—Without doubt, this reflection must appear ve­ry trifling to the readers; yet Clara could not be mistaken:—let us then follow her.

The drawbridge, which was let down, favored the access of our little troop to the cottage. They enter the premises—look around on all sides, and perceive nobody. Clara takes the van:—how her poor heart beats—she enters the apartments—not a soul!—she looks in the garden not a soul!—Where is then Ger­main and Candor?—Ah! I hear them speak, and very loud too—Heaven! the voice of Alexis! yes, it is his voice;—Clara is more your daughter than Duver­ly's! Have compassion, my father! Did Alexis pro­nounce these words? Oh! I'm certain it is his voice, cried Clara, quite moved! His voice! replied the marquis and his spouse; what, our son's voice?

Now all three unable to guess whence the sounds proceeded, listen, without moving, and in the attitude of three statues.

At last, Clara cries, it is from the temple! Oh, come, come!—we shall find them there.

The door was actually open. Clara, the marquis, and Arzelia, descended with precipation down the little stairs—suddenly the faint glimmer of the lamp replaces day-light; and leave them only a very imper­fect view of objects;—Alexis turns his head: Clara, cries he!—Alexis! there is your father!

Here, I feel my inability of describing with proper energy, the sudden sensations of each of our respective heroes. My pen is not sufficient to express their sur­prise [Page 216] and transports. Can what happens in an instant, admit of a long and tedious narration? My readers will form, themselves, an idea of this picture, if they please to remember, that Candor finds again his dear Clara; Duverly, his daughter; the latter, her father, her benefactor, and her lover; Alexis, a father, whom he had so long panted for; the noble couple, a son who had cost them so many tears; in short, Germain, Dumont, &c. met again with dear friends of whom they had been so long deprived.

What effusions of heart!—what questions!—Are you here?—Is it you?—You, my father!—My dear son, &c. They were all speaking, and none did an­swer.—All their faculties were suspended; their souls felt too much for expression; they were clasped in each others arms, in the sweetest rapture.

At last, Alexis, who was afraid lest Dorance and Duverly should resume their former conversation, en­gaged every body to leave that dismal place. They all gather and join in a body: Clara between the two enemies, Alexis between the marquis and marchion­ess; Sciocco, lost in admiration; Dumont and John both moved to the soul, close the rear, and our heroes enter the garden, where they ask each other for an account of their adventures. How happy am I, said Clara to Alexis, to have brought back your father!—And how unhappy am I to have restored you to your own! Dost thou deserve still, faithless man, that I should show the least concern for thee!—Ah! do not rebuke me, Clara!—It was against my own wish I served the cruel Dorance!—Pray, what is become of the goaler's wife, and that Sophia of Marseilles? I do not comprehend you! I know all, ungrateful A­lexis, I know all—and am sorry to have ever loved you.

Alexis endeavors to unravel the meaning of this discourse; but his father interrupts him: So I have found you my dear son!—Can you still love a father who has so cruelly forsaken you in the inn at Val [...]nce? Ah! you are my father, and still will be! You know me now, and soon will know my misfortunes, and those of Arzelia your tender mother! Ah, sir, how I seared for your life, breaks in Dumont!—Dear Dumont, have [Page 217] you then found my son?—how, how, all these meetings are like so many miracles!—Oh! replies Sciocco, what an irrefragable proof of the law of events!—Why, says Dumont, there is nothing astonishing in these meetings: What is surprising, is when several in­dividuals find each other in a corner of the globe, where none of them had any business, where none of them was called; but when we have a point of re-uni­on?—Did we not all look for each other? Did we not all repair to this place because we presumed it fittest for us to meet than any other. Yes, replied Sciocco, è vero; but what makes it appear to me so very strange, is, that we all arrived in one day. It is rather strange, if chance had brought it about.—Otherwise you mean, that would have broke the great order which would be morally impossible.

Meanwhile Dorance glanced on Duverly with looks expressive of fury and rage. This event which had suspended Candor's resentment, had not extinguished it.—His soul indeed fostered no more bloody and cruel projects, but he cannot bear the fight of his enemy.—Duverly, actuated by fear and self diffidence da [...]e not lift his eyes upon a man, whose friendship he had thus inhumanely betrayed; he observes silence, and is afraid to embrace his daughter, lest he should shock Dorance's feelings, and solely yields to the sweet confidence which the presence of Alexis, Dumont, Sciocco, and John, inspire him with.

Soon the whole troop reaches the grove, which ex­tends itself along the rivulet. There, every one sets down, and every one is requested to give an account of his adventures: doubtless, those of the father of Alexis were of the most interesting nature. Neither would the marquis suffer any long intreaties. He places his son between him and his spouse; they form a circle all around, and the marquis begins a narration, which the reader must have long ago de [...]red, if he felt the least concern for the fate of a young man of nineteen, who neither knew the world, nor his father, nor the mystery of his birth.

CHAP. VI.

LOVE, interest and ambition are the three scourges which desolated my life;—Love was my own crime; interest swayed my barbarous brother; and ambition became the motive of all the vexations which a father heaped upon me:—why do I say a father!—he was not my father, and had no claim to that title!—Nevertheless, I loved him, I respected him, and that timid respect has always hindered me from shaking off the heavy yoke, beneath which he would crush me. Alas! without his son, without the cruel chevalier d'Anfort!—But I see these exclamations are a mere enigma to you my friends; I ought to explain it and relate the history of my family; thence I will make a digression upon my misfortunes—therefore attend to me.

Aurora Bleville, my mother, was the daughter of the celebrated count Bleville^* ambassador at the court of Madrid in the preceding reign; she could aspire to the hand of the most distinguished young noblemen who then graced the gay circles of the court, as much by her beauty and virtues, as by the powerful credit which her father enjoyed: but young still, she saw the count, and was no longer free to make a choice of her own. The count, on his side, fell desperately in love with Aurora, and even carried his imprudence so far as to demand her in marriage. The ambassador, of­fended at this proceeding, discarded the young noble­man, put his daughter in a convent, and compelled her a few months after, to tie the marriage knot with the marquis de Corsange, the king's favorite, of an a­miable disposition, and endowed with a thousand bril­liant qualities; but for him Aurora felt an invincible repugnance; she complied, however with a father's command, and gave proofs to her husband, if not of [Page 219] love, at least of esteem and friendship. I was the off­spring of this marriage, and my mother feeling for me all the attachment of maternal fondness, began to be accustomed to her present state of conjugal union, when suddenly a cruel incident revived in her the sparks of her former passion, and its hopes. The king was at that time engaged in a war with Germany. The Am­bassador and his son in law, who sought by one another's side, were both, and at the same instant, laid dead on the field by a cannon ball. My mother, who saw her­self thus suddenly rid of her father's and husband's yoke, thought only of contracting a second marriage: she was then twenty-six, and count d'Anfort was thirty: both free, both equally in love, they saw one another again, and joined in wedlock: but the imprudent Aurora, by this match, alienated from her the friendship of my father's whole family. Nobody would see or assist me, when afterwards I was compelled by misfortune to have recourse to them.

Lady d'Anfort began to exact of her new husband that I should be brought up in his own eyes, and he neglected nothing to make me happy, and to render my education brilliant. The count promised all, and faithfully kept his word for two years: I mean, till his spouse presented him with a son of his own. It is he, my friends, who is the cause of all my misfortunes.

The tenderness which the count and my mother felt for this son, the fruits of love, rather than that of ma­trimony, singularly cooled them in their affections for me. A child as I was, I perceived and complained of it to my mother, who answered with sullen steadiness: "Well, sir, you shall no longer be the object of that neglect; for to-morrow you are to be sent to college, where you will stay till you have completed your stu­dies." I was thunderstruck at these words, and spent the whole day in shedding tears, and on the next morn­ing set out, attended by one servant. When I went to embrace my mother, I remarked that she turned her back upon me—My heart was depressed, and I was upon the point of leaving the apartment, when my father-in-law, who saw my anguish, clasped me in his arms, and gently pressed a little present in my hand, [Page 220] telling me with an air of affection, that if I was studi­ous, and would behave well, he would give me liberty to come to his hotel once a month. These words made me a little calmer: I slept into the carriage, and re­paired with my valet to the college of Navarre—the same college where I since put my Alexis!

There I found a tutor waiting for me; a true pedant, quite made up of Latin and Greek, and who only added to my melancholy during all the time I had to spend in that prison.

I was then twelve years of age, and I began to think my mother's coolness was a real torment to me. Whence could it proceed?—had I behaved ill to her? and suppose this had been the case, should she not have made some allowance to a boy only twelve years old? Yet the count's caresses had replaced her more than ever in my [...]lial fondness. From that moment I loved her as much as she had displeased me before. Sensible hearts have no steadiness in their opinions. A harsh expression will grieve and discard them—the least po­liteness makes their affections return even farther than it has been before; it is as easy to make them happy, as to afflict them.

During the first year of my being at college, I had the satisfaction to go from time to time to the hotel d'Anfort;—the second year, I was sent for less fre­quently; the third less still, and soon I became quite [...]t of question. I lived in the college, forgot, as it were, by all nature, left to the care of mercenary peo­ple, with no other compensation than the company of a friend of the same age as myself, whom I had the good fortune to find there.

This friend! forgive me my giving a tear to his [...] remembrance! this friend! alas! was most dear to me, and I went so far as; pardon, my friends, a thousand pardons! it is the effect of ranklin re­morse, which rends my heart.

Dulys was his name; he professed the most steady at­tachment to me: the same temper, the same affection, in a word, every thing united us; we were always together. On those days which were fixed for the students to walk out, we lest the crowd to our fellow-students to give [Page 221] scope to our reflections. In short, the most tender friend­ship operated equally on our hearts. How he pitied my condition; how he could alleviate my sorrows! But as I see my dear [...] my regrets, I will pass rap­idly [...]ver this circumstance of my history, which will soon, in your eyes, overwhelm me with confusion and guilt.

Dulys was then fatherless; his mother, who loved him tenderly, lived at Dreux, and never came to Paris, but her son regularly spent the holidays with her▪ Mrs. Dulys waited for that period with as much im­patience as I felt sorrow at its approach.—Alone in the college, bereft of my friends and parents, during two months of the year, I had no other medium than to study or to shed tears:—Youthful stage of life, with what bitterness hast thou been annoyed!

I had now been six years at college, when I was one day informed that a servant desired to speak to me. I go down, my heart palpitates for joy at the sight of my step-father's livery. Sir, said the man, come quick with me! your mother is breathing her last. A thun­derbolt could not have struck me as much as this news▪—Heaven, what accident has happened?—What ac­cident? It is no accident, my lord: your mother has been very bad these two months. What, these two months! Could you thu [...] leave me ignorant? She never asked for you till [...] morning for the first time: but pray, my lord, use dispatch, who knows but we mayn't find her alive▪

I felt so many sensations of grief caused by sudden starts of thought, that I [...]as on the point of fainting away. The servant perceives it, carries me to the coach, which was waiting before the gate of the col­lege, and which [...]rove with the utmost dispatch to the hotel d'Anfort.

I was conducted to an apartment, where my mother on her death-bed, was only waiting for that moment to resign her breath. My son [...] a [...]aultering and weak tone of voice—I am ready to expire, you will lose me, my son; I leave you a good father in the count [...] have appointed him to be your guardi­an; he [...] condescend to take upon him for you the superintendance of the property of my first husband, [Page 222] the marquis de Corsange.—I give him full authority over you; obey him as you would me, and remember that you would do me an outrage in the tomb, which is ready to swallow me, should you be wanting in gra­titude towards him!

I pressed my mother's hand, and bathed it in my tears; the count stood weeping at the bed side, and his son next him.—This is your brother, added my mother, pointing to the chevalier d'Anfort; I com­mand you both to live in close intimacy, and to love one another till death shall part you—do you promise me that?

I stammered a few monosyllables. Young d'An­fort answers, Yes; his voice being intercepted by sobs. His mother takes him in her arms attempts to embrace him, falls back on the pillow, and instantly expires! Notwithstanding the awfulness and horror of that mo­ment, it grieved me to the heart that the last glance of my mother had been thrown on young d'Anfort. I envied him for it, and showed him a hatred, which I could not suppress afterwards: this without doubt was my only offence; I charge myself with it, but I could not conquer it.

Two days after my mother's death, the count, who showed me many marks of friendship, embraced and promised me an eternal attachment; begging me at the same time to return to the college; whither I went accordingly with a heart bleeding with sorrow. Dulys no sooner saw me than he flew to my arms. I related to him all that had happened, and we agreed unanimously that it would be necessary for me to be upon my guard against the fate which awaited me, as my only dependence was now on a man whom I was a stranger to. Yet I felt some concern for that man; I respected him; I even went farther, I loved him, he had gained such an ascendency over me, that I fear­ed and dared not to speak before him. What follows will show you how fatal that timidity has proved to me.

I remained two years longer at college; yet the count used to send for me once every fortnight.—Thus I saw him, and the more his kindness attached [Page 223] me to him, the more I detested the odious character of my brother. He was scarce fourteen, but his haugh­tiness and impudence controuled all his actions. He scarcely deigned to look at me, called me always Sir, and rendered himself to be equally detestable to all those who came near him. All his faults had a cause; my mother, who made him her idol, indulged him in all his whims from his earliest infancy; he reigned with despotic sway over all the domestics, and the ca­prices of a child were to be a sacred law to those who were appointed to wait upon him. If chance ever made her mention my name to him, it was always to tell him, "My little d'Anfort, my darling child, I love thee more, yes, I cherish thee more than him, &c." a hundred similar expressions, of which I was informed, tended to foster the boy's vanity, and to inspire him with a sovereign contempt for me.—His father, on the other hand, in spite of all the friendship he bore to me, made him the sole object of his tenderness.—That good father even carried his love to weakness, nay so far, that the little master often behaved to him with disrespect. At last the father's indulgence became as excessive as the son's arrogance. We often quarrelled: but I a­voided differences with the most scrupulous care, be­cause I saw they became very vexatious to my dear preceptor! the more so, as he always interested his conscience in the boy's favor. At last the chevalier's insult appeared to me rather contemptible than wor­thy of my notice. I did not foresee that my complai­sance in yielding would cost me so much one day, and that my brother would soon assume such rights over me, as have rendered my life truly miserable.

The count, since my mother's decease, took to his house a very rich old maiden sister, who treasured up her considerable finances for his son. This woman doated so much on her nephew as to call him her jewel, her happiness; she could never find terms strong enough to express her fondness and affection. Not­withstanding, she esteemed me, and had much more regard for me, than she saw the young gentleman would condescend to honor me with. In consequence, I put up with all their oddities, and hoped that all this [Page 224] complaisance to the jewel of the house would make it possible for me to live in some comfort.

I was twenty, and had three times repeated my course of study, when the count would have his hotel to be my constant residence. I joyfully accepted his offer; and of all the professions which he left to my choice, I gave the preference to a military life, though he seemed to advise me to take holy orders, foreseeing that I could not then fail to leave, one day, my whole es­tate to his son, or the heirs of his body. Nevertheless, he would not force my inclinations, and purchased me a lieutenancy in the regiment of Cond [...].

I was very well at my guardian's, where I had no other vexation than the tricks and malicious proceed­ings of my brother; but for these I consoled myself with my friend Dulys: he, like me, had finished the course of his classical studies, and was now studying law to qualify himself for the bar. His mother had put him to board with a gentleman in the neighborhood, where we could see one another at all hours. The marquis and all the family were fond of him, and he was indeed the common friend of us all, except my brother, who could not bear him: but little did Dulys trouble himself about him, and we were all well con­tent.

My disposition was sedentary, gloomy, and philoso­phical.—I had no ruling passion nor tastes: study and reading were my sole delight. Dulys was of the same cast; we would often spend whole days in reading and making reflections.—Women were one day the topic of oar conversation; Dulys particularised all the dangers to which marriage e [...]posed a man, in the most heinous colours; he depicted marriage as a fatal dungeon which fetters the freedom of our being, and whose bands neither domestic crosses, nor the caprices of a spouse can dissolve. Doubtless, he argued like an in­experienced young man; but I listened to his argu­ments, the result of which was a mutual oath never to marry.—A foolish, senseless promise, never made, but when the passions lay dormant in our breast!—Frail structure, which the least wind can overthrow!—To my sorrow I felt it but too much afterwards.

[Page 225] Count d'Anfort, who was a man of parts, enjoyed our whole confidence: I kept nothing secret from him, and was so imprudent as to communicate to him the firm resolution I had taken. The project flattered his views; he seconded it, bestowed a thousand eulogi­ums on me, and was eager to carry the news to the countess d'Ezelle, my [...]dmother, an old lady uncom­monly rich, who was very fond of me, and had prom­ised many times to constitute me her sole and universal heir. This countess, who was equally blind with re­gard to the chevalier d'Anfort, was glad to see that her intentions should become useful one day, to that dear family. Being therefore sick of a dangerous dis­order, some time after, she ordered us all to her bed­side, and dictated, in our presence the different articles of her will. Corsange, said she to me, the most tender friendship united me with your father; I have made you my successor, I am rich, and owe my fortune to no one: to you I bequeath the whole bulk of my estate, but on condition of your signing a deed before wit­nesses, by which you are to promise me never to marry, and leave your estate after your death, in reversion to your brother, or his next heir, by due course of law.

Bewildered as I was by my philosophy, I consented to all, and signed all. The countess expires; count d'Anfort demands a copy of my renunciation, and takes upon him the administration of this new estate, till I should be of age. By it, I acquired an annual income of three hundred thousand livres, and upwards.

I leave you now to think, if, after this, my friendship was courted by the family of the count d'Anfort. Ev­ery body caressed me, even the chevalier received or­ders from his father to treat me with more gentle­ness and politeness; in short, as a person of high value.

I had unknowingly signed my ruin, and repented not; Dulys too, who was as mad as myself, endeav­ored to confirm me in my principles, and I was hap­py! You shall soon see, my friends to what catastro­phs my imprudent conduct has subjected me! These particulars have perhaps been tedious to you; they were nevertheless necessary to lead you to the more in­teresting [Page 226] part of my adventures. Prepare yourselves to hear a series of horrors and unjust actions, brooded by the blackest and most baleful malignity.

Miss D'Anfort, my step father's sister, had a friend, who was baron d'Arceville. That friend, who had been a widower long since, lived with his only daugh­ter at one of his manors. He frequently wrote to miss d'Anfort, who had been very intimate with his late spouse. One day she received a letter from the baron, in which he mentioned among other things: "That as some urging affairs called him to the West-Indies, he was obliged to sit out within a month. As I dare not, added he, expose my daughter to the hazards of so long a voyage, and firmly rely upon our ancient friendship, I shall make bold to put her under your care, for the time I shall be absent. I hope you will not refuse me that service:—We shall be in Paris by the end of this week at farthest.

Miss d'Anfort, enraptured with her friend's confi­dence in her, ordered an apartment to be fitted up for his reception, and another for her young pupil. You shall see miss d'Arceville, would she say to us, every now and then; she is so handsome, oh! so very hand­some! I have no children, she shall be my daughter: how pleased shall I be!

I listened to this discourse with indifference, far from thinking that this ad [...]pted daughter should make me renounce forever what I had sworn. In vain we wait­ed for the baron on the day he had appointed; it was late at night, and nobody came. The next day pas­sed in the like manner, and on the morning of the third we saw arrive a man alone, pale, bewildered, and seem­ingly given up to the most gnawing sorrow. Eh! my dear friend, said miss d'Anfort! is it you?—My God! what a situation you are in!—Where is your daughter?—My daughter! my daughter!—I have lo [...]t my poor daughter!—O Heaven! is she dead?—I cannot tell.—You cannot tell! pray explain yourself, what has then happened?

The baron sits down, composes himself a little, and sometime afte [...] speaks as follows:

[Page 227] We were in the vicinity of the subur [...] of the city of Nevers, when a man in a phaeton, attended by one ser­vant, drove against my carriage, and had nearly over­turned it. Sir, said I to him, take care of what you are at!—He answers me rudely:—I reply in the same strain—The insolent stranger even dares to give me a lash with his whip. I alight and draw my sword—we fight: I have the misfortune to kill him!—Nei­ther the cries of my daughter, those of our servants, nor any thing can withhold me; the stranger lies dead on the field; his valet sought his safety in [...]light. I stept into my carriage, and order the postilion to drive hard. In the evening of that same day, a post chaise, which drove with the greatest rapidity, stopped my carriage;—four men stepped out—they attack me, my resistance was vain:—one of them wounds me, I drop down senseless, and only recover to see myself, bereft of my daughter. Arzelia was no more with me, Arzelia had been carried off by those four ruffians. Germain, my valet, who gave me every succor in his power, saw her seized and put into the post-chaise, without being able to give her the smallest assistance. In short, I have lost my dear Arzelia. I know not whi­ther she has been carried! I stept again into my car­riage, and here you see me forlorn and cruelly injured!—What a fatal adventure, cried miss d'Anfort!—and what do you think of it?—I can form no judgment whatever with any probability—the young man who insulted me was dead; I had laid him sprawling on the ground—Who can then have taken away my poor Arzelia?

The unhappy baron yielded again to his grief, and we endeavored to console him, but to no purpose: we could not pacify him, otherwise than by promising to accompany him to the minister, to whom he intended to disclose the whole affair, and who alone had it in his power to solve the problem.

In consequence of this promise, the baron, my step­father [...] I, sat out on the next morning for [...]. The minister, who was at as great a loss as w [...] [...] to exert every means to make a discove­ry [...] [...]atisfied with that answer, we returned to Paris, [Page 228] alighted before the Thuilleries, where count d'Anfort begged us to stay, till he should have terminated an affair with a person who lived in that palace.

While the count was gone, I and the baron walked about in the gardens. The baron always repeated how grievous he was at his loss, and I endeavored, though in vain, to dissipate his sorrow.

Night advancing, and the count not coming back, the baron, impatient of seeing him, intended to enquire into the cause which detained him. Wait for me, said he upon Pont-tournant; I am going to the palace.—I know the person to whom the baron went, and shall bring him back to you.

At these words d'Arceville advances towards the palace; the night began to be very dark.—I went to the place where he appointed me to wait for him. Meanwhile I felt a secret uneasiness which I could not account for.—Several men of a suspicious appearance seemed to have dogged the baron and me all the after­noon in the gardens. Now the baron having left me,—the same people followed me continually.—What could they want—did they suspect me of any thing? Were they peace officers, or enemies who had formed a design upon my life?—Such were the reflections I made, and I was even going to speak to one of them who was close to me, when a carriage stops: two men alight, join those who followed me, stop my mouth, surround and throw me in the carriage, sit down by me, and drive on with such haste, that I had no time to know where I was.

This is what I call the adventure of the Pont-tournant. Follow me, I pray: you will hear of acci­dents of so extraordinary a nature, as will require no less than the confidence you have in me to give them the sanction of your belief.

CHAP. VII.

JUDGE of my fright and consternation! I question my guards: none of them answer.—Defenceless as I was, I could not make the least resistance—I was forced to wait in silence, the issue of so extraordinary an event—But, how I suffered!—You may form yourself an idea of my situation, if you only put your­self for a moment in my place.

As far as I am able to guess, we rode two whole days through the country; because the doors of the carriage being shut, I could not see the cities, towns and villages through which we passed.—My guides of­fered me some victuals which I refused to accept: I begged them again to let me know what they wanted of me; but they were as mute as ever.

At last we stopped, and a moment after, the carriage passed under some vaults, as I guessed from its hollow and rattling sounds. We alighted, in the dead of night, in a spacious yard, before an edifice which had more the appearance of a castle than a private house.

I ascended some steps, and entered a hall exceeding­ly well illuminated; here the cloth was laid, and the table full of the most exquisite viands. One of my guides asked me to sit down to supper.—No, barbarous wretch, replied I; make haste and strike your victim! We have no such thoughts, sir; will you please to eat something?

Always supposing the servant's invitation to be iron­ical, I refused. He then conducted me to another room, where the most dismal spectacle suddenly engag­ed my attention. A coffin arose in the middle of the apartment, which was quite hung with black. A few wax candles lighted it; an aged and ghastly figure of a man, melting in tears, leaned on the bier. O my son! cried he, thou shalt be revenged, not by the just rigor of the laws, it would be too slow in serving my fury.—Barbarous stranger, I will punish thee in a [Page 230] manner—Yes, I shall strike thee with the same blow which has pierced my heart!

These words almost forced tears from my eyes!—the old man hearing a noise, looks around, perceives me, makes a gesture of amazement, and says to his va­let who conducted me to him, "Awkward fellow,—What business have I with this gentleman? How im­prudent!—Go, let him be re-conducted as you have brought him."—He looks once more about, then turns his back.

You cannot conceive how much these [...]ew words calmed me!—I, who believed myself destined to be offered up a victim to the manes of that son I had nev­er known, saw myself at once freed from danger through a mistake made by the servants!—Oh, what comfort diffused itself in my heart.

My guide having laid hold of my hand, made me re-enter the parlor where the table was so well served. He invited me a third time to take something. Now, I would not have him repeat it again, being no more uneasy, and having not ate since two days, I set down without ceremony to that singular table, and supped with a very good appetite. The valet, who waited on me, expressed the greatest contrition for his mistake; I wished from the bottom of my heart he would accom­pany me alone, confident to get from him some intel­ligence of this surprising adventure.—It happened as I wished: they covered my eyes with a blind; we both stepped in the same chaise which had brought me, and the coachman followed the road to Paris.

I did not hesitate a moment longer to urge my com­panion to tell me what he knew in respect to this affair; I begged and intreated, and concluded with offering him my purse, a reward of an hundred lous d'ors, and a place in my-house, if he would leave his master and satisfy my curiosity. The valet, moved with all these brilliant offers, accepted them, and related the follow­ing story:

"You must know, sir, that my master's son, on his return from Paris, was attacked, near the city of Ne­vers, by a gentleman attended by a single lady and a servant. The gentleman sought a duel with my young [Page 231] master, who in consequence of it was left dead on the field, and his antagonist continued quietly his way in his carriage. Being busy in lifting my young master from the ground, I could only remark the carriage which fled with the murderer and a lady, his compani­on.—Quite disconsolate at this fatal event, I brought the corpse of my master to his father, and told him the whole affair. After having given vent to his grief, that unhappy father says to me, in a resolute tone, Wilt thou know again the villain who has bereft me of my son?—Yes sir, and his carriage too.—Well, then, let us set out.

"This said, he takes with him four or five servants; we get into a light chaise and posted away with such dispatch that we perceived in the evening the carriage we were in pursuit of, which could not go fast, because one of the horses was wounded. We attack the mur­derer; he resists vigorously. My master pierces him; he falls, uttering the name of his daughter. His daughter, cried my master, she shall die! At these words, he ordered us to carry her off. We were on the point of laying also hold of the father, when some horse­men in full gallop made us afraid of being molested; we therefore returned to our chaise, and safely con­ducted our prey to the castle. Since that time she has been confined in a dark hole. My master, who spends day and night in bewailing his son, will have her to be sacrificed upon his coffin. How savage! Oh! you don't know him, sir, he is a man extremely cruel, violent, and revengeful. This is not all yet; he has me­ditated a scheme of vengeance, a thousand times more hineous. The day before yesterday, he gave us orders to go to Paris, to fetch the father of that unfortunate young lady. Some of us having seen him in the royal gar­dens of the Thuilleries!—we watched him till night and probably induced to a mistake by your shape or your dress, which was of the same color as his, we car­ried you off instead of him.—Wretches, it is Arzelia!—O heaven! proceed in your story! What did he want of that unhappy father?—He intended to re­proach him with the death of his son, to stay his daughter before his own eyes; and then, perhaps, to [Page 232] confine him for life in the dark hole of his castle—What a monster!—Oh! my friend, I beg thee, if we can save Arzelia, I will give thee two hundred louis d'ors, three hundred—nay, my whole fortune is at thy disposal!—It is not an easy task, sir; but never mind, we must make interest with the coachman.

That instant my man stops the chaise: we were then in a remote and solitary district of the country. He therefore proposed to to the coachman either to save Arzelia, or to prepare for immediate death. The proposal was very categorical; the coachman con­sents to take the reward which is offered to him;—and we returned with the greatest expedition to the place from whence we came, which was only at the distance of one league from Nevers. The night was propitious to our undertaking. The two domestics en­ter the castle; the coachman had the keys of the dun­geon in which the innocent Arzelia had been thrown—he calls her, lays hold of her hand, and brings her to the carriage where I waited for her with the greatest im­patience. Every body being asleep in the castle, the escape was effected without any obstacle.

How impatient was I to see the fair captive!—she finally arrives with her two deliverers—we step into the chaise, and leave the place with the utmost precip­itation.

I shall not repeat the heartfelt thanks of the baron's daughter; her grief, her misfortunes, her beauty, nay, all in her gave me the most tender concern: I look at her and suddenly my liberty is gone; I felt a singular revolution in my being. My eyes, my tongue, my heart, all my faculties are captivated. Surprised at my situation, I search for the object which causes it, and as quickly ascribe it to the concern I felt for her person: vague excuse of the heart, which for the first time feels the power of love! indeed, what I con­sidered as an impulse of compassion, was actually the first shoot of a rising passion, which was soon to main­tain an imperious domination over my heart. The charming Arzelia felt on the other hand, the same e­motion. Whether from gratitude or sympathy, she blushed, cast her beauteous eyes on another object, [Page 233] was afraid to look in my face, and could only ask how her father did: this confusion, which we felt mutual­ly increased so much on the road, that when we ar­rived at Paris, the least discerning eye must surely have perceived that our sentiments were past beyond the limits of friendship. And such events have proved them afterwards.

Meanwhile I took care to send back the carriage to the cruel proprietor of the castle, by a stranger, to whom I also delivered a letter. I wrote to Arzelia's enemy in an anonymous manner, and without giving him any direction; I informed him of my good fortune to restore a daughter to a father, signifying that should he ever attempt the least method of revenge, he ought to tremble for his life; as I had it in my power to surrender him to justice, being supported by two indi­viduals who had witnessed his enormities, and by the deposition of the innocent victim whom he intended to sacrifice.

This was indeed the expedient I should have made use of when I first left the castle, rather than to have liberated his prey by stratagem; but the remedy was too violent, and I feared for the life of Arzelia, though ignorant as yet of the great loss I would have sustain­ed▪

We found the hotel d'Anfort in the greatest con­sternation. The baron and my guardian having not found me on the appointed spot, went home; but how astonished was all the family, when the whole night elapsed, and I did not return!—Four days more glid­ed in the same manner, and they receive no intelligence from me! What could have befallen me? All en­quiries proved fruitless. The count, believing I had been murdered, shed real tears of sincerity: his son had already worn out his grief: miss d'Anfort was quite disconsolate; and the baron, bereft of his daughter, without hope of ever seeing her again, had set out for the West-Indies on the night before my return. When he parted from Miss d'Anfort, he re­commended her, his poor Arzelia, if ever she should be brought to light again.—You will be her mother, added he, till heaven pleases to send me back to my [Page 234] native land! This is the service I exact of your friend­ship. But what do I say?—She is lost to me, and to you also—my Arzelia is lost!—Ah! no doubt she is dead!—The monsters, who ravished her, have made her a victim of vengeance. Adieu! my friends; far from this abode I will terminate my wretched career, the world is a wilderness to me, since my poor daugh­ter has been snatched from my arms!

The count and miss d'Anfort, who were also over­whelmed with a grief of their own, tried, though in vain, to detain their friends: he sat out and left them to their sorrow.

What must Arzelia have felt, my friends, when she heard the news of her father's departure? As to my relations, the adventure which I related seemed so sin­gular to them, as to heighten their joy at seeing me returned. My brother, alone, seemed not much mov­ed; but my good friend Dulys! Oh! how he em­braced me! how he clasped me in his arms!—O heaven! that deprives me of a father and a mother! I had never tasted the sweets of parental fondness;—but how did friendship compensate for them!

Meanwhile, miss d'Anfort lost no time: the baron had given her his address at the island of Orleron; whether she immediately dispatched a letter, with the tidings of his daughter's return; he could not as yet have completed his voyage, but must have received the letter upon his disembarkation, and his sorrows were to be at an end. This conduct of miss d'Anfort calmed every mind. Peace resumed her empire in the hotel; but it was not of a long continuance. My brother did not see the fair Arzelia with indifference; [...]e fell desperately in love with her, and as enamoured eyes are more prying than the eyes of friendship, he was the first aware of a mutual affection. Indeed, Arzelia knew my sentiments: she had disclosed her heart to me; in short, we loved one another, and were conscious of our passion! Dulys, who could not dive into the mystery, w [...] made our confidant; in vain were all his remonstrances without number, philosophy ceded to the violence of love; my friend pitied me; he promised to do the utmost of his power to serve [Page 235] me; and repented the cruel renunciation he had made me sign. It was too late, the count had the deed in his own hands; he was my guardian, and maintained over me an authority which I was not able then to shake off; on the other hand, I loved, I respected, and always trembled before him.

Must I tell you, my friends?—Love led us astray: I and Arzelia contracted a clandestine marriage.—A country house belonging to miss d'Anfort be­came subservient to that purpose—Thither we were gone to spend a few days. One morning, the count, his son, and miss d'Anfort being asleep; Arzelia, her woman, Dulys and I, repaired to the chapel of a con­vent, situate at the distance of one league from miss d'Anfort's country seat.—We made interest with the priest; and an attorney was present at the ceremony.

Dulys and a friend of his served as witnesses, and we vowed eternal tenderness to each other: inconsid­erate measure! Ah! how dear have we paid for it!

The whole affair was consummated in less than two hours. At eight o'clock, we returned to the house and found every body up. They made very merry at our morning walk; blamed us for not having men­tioned it the night before, as they would have accom­panied us; and here [...]he whole subject was dropped: young d'Anfort alone took umbrage at the proceed­ing. From that moment, he set people to watch us, and soon he discovered, if not our clandestine marriage, at least the intimacy which subsisted between us.

How enraged must he have been! he had been frustrated in all the declaration of love he had made to my spouse; he detested me, he envied my property; in fine he wished me to perform the promise I had made in writing: and he saw me loved in return, and prepared for ties, to which the baron, at his return, could not object, from a sense of gratitude which he owed to me, who had saved his daughter from the jaws of destruction.

All the transports of hatred, jealousy, rage and ven­geance, seized upon his heart:—he began with in­forming his father and aunt of all he knew, and car­ried matters so far as to require them to put me in [Page 236] confinement, and to throw Arzelia in a convent;—violent and impracticable proceedings, no doubt, but two moderate for the insult which he pretended to have received.

The count heard his son with all the coolness of a man of ripe and fair experience; he represented to him the unreasonableness of having recourse to similar ex­tremities, and advised gentler means. The young man at these wise counsels, wept, howled, plucked off his hair, and threatened to kill himself if his father would not treat me with the utmost rigor and sever­ity! The old man, intimidated, consoled his son, beg­ged him to discard his gloomy resolution, and promis­ed to do every thing.—What weakness! In conse­quence, miss d'Anfort received orders to speak to Ar­zelia; and the count proposed himself to take me to task.

We were wholly ignorant of the chevalier's arti­fice; and I imagined our loves were a perfect mys­tery! What was my surprise, when one day my guar­dian ordered me to his cabinet, and addressed me with the following speech, in a prudent but most pas­sionate tone:

"I know all, sir, I know you adore miss d'Arceville, it will meet every desired return.—What is to be the end of that intrigue? answer me: a mere piece of gallantry: it will not do!—A marriage, you know, you have denied yourself that state! What do you pretend, then, sir? If you have the least sense of gratitude for the care I have taken of you, the least sentiment of respect for the authority which your mother conferred on me, I command you never to speak to that young lady, and to set out immediate­ly for Besancon to join your regiment in winter quar­ters.—By that time your juvenile follies will subside, and you will perhaps forget Arzelia, who is destined for your brother!—For my brother, sir?—Yes, for your brother. He shall first have my life!—Impru­dent young man! dare you to threaten him before his father?—Do you know that I have it in my power to enforce means?—Be what they will, sir, I fear them not; Arzelia loves me, I adore her: and you can if you please return me a premise which my [Page 237] age has invalidated. The promise is fair, the laws shall decide it. Laws are not tyrants!—You behave yourself disrespectfully, audacious youth! Depart, fear my anger, or you are undone!—But, sir,—Depart, I say, or I'll make you obey!"

The count frowns at me, and leaves me to my grief—I go out in hopes to see my spouse—I find her melting in tears. Ah! cries she, speak to me no more! our life is at stake! Miss d'Anforth, I will sa­crifice myself for you! only wait my father's return.

This said, miss d'Anforth appears: they both step in a carriage and I see my unfortunate spouse depart, without knowing whither she is conducted, or if we shall ever meet again!

I kindled with rage; and I endeavored to follow the carriage; the servants hinder me.—I run up and down the house, called aloud for my brother, and had he appeared, I believe his life would have been lost.

Nevertheless, heaven preserved me from that crime; it sent Dulys to be my comforter. Dulys came, I told him all that had happened; and asked his ad­vice. My friend, answered he, I have no other ad­vice to give you, than to obey your step-father's com­mands; go, and stay for some time at Besancon. This will give me time to do for you what ever shall be in my power: I will endeavor to appease every mind: depart, my dear marquis, and leave to my care your happiness. I shall discover the retreat of your spouse; I shall see her: she shall hear of you, and an epistolary correspondence shall be established. We have both been guilty of imprudence with regard to that fatal renunciation; but it is not valid—it wants a clause;—it becomes useless to your tyrants.—I'll convince you of it some other time, now depart; this submission will perhaps have a better effect than your menaces.

I set out loaded with the reproaches of the count and miss d'Anfort. I arrived at Besancon; and on the next morning received a letter from Dulys, pur­porting that my wife was confined in a convent, in the Rue d [...] Temple a [...]d that Miss d'Antfort had [Page 238] cajoled and threatened her into it, that it was impossi­ble to speak to her, but time would soon be productive of a change.

This news overwhelmed me with despair; I an­swered my friend's letter, and was a little more easy.

One day I received a very long letter from Dulys, which made me completely miserable; I cannot help giving you some extracts from it, because nothing can erase it from my memory.

My friend, miss d'Anfort has received letters from the island of Oleron, that baron d'Arceville was dead!—He was scarce arrived, but he received the letter, purporting his daughter's return; his joy was so excessive that he could only write these few lines, of which I send you a copy:

[Page 239] By this letter Dulys ulcerated my very heart! Not that crossed love was a sufficient torment, I was also to be laid on the rack of jealousy!

Another letter from Dulys I received, was as fol­lows:

At this, my friends, I could not moderate my trans-Ports! I doubted no longer of Arzelia's infidelity, and resolved that instant, to set off for Paris. There, said I, by myself I will discover my marriage, and seek re­dress from justice of the laws.

I had now been eight months at Besancon, and compelled by duty to stay one week longer. I fixed my departure for the Monday following. Having prepared every thing on Sunday morning, I went, in the afternoon, to take leave of my superior officers, and when I retired at night to go to rest, a singular ad­venture happened, which cured me at once of my jealousy, and prolonged my stay at Besancon:—Hear it my friends, I am sure you would not expect it.

CHAP. VIII.

THE clock struck eight, when I reached my lod­gings; I was gloomy, and absorbed in thought. A woman shabbily dressed accosts me—she seemed to be extremely indigent. Sir, said she, in a weak and suffering tone, relieve me with some little gratuity?

My mind was so much pre-occupied with other ob­jects, that I rebuked the woman without any farther [Page 240] reflection; she perseveres in her solicitations—I rebuke her again. I go, said she, but heaven will punish you! Heaven! exclaimed I, what a resemblance! what a voice! Arzelia! Yes, ungrateful marquis! it is Ar­zelia!—I wished to see if you would know me. But how!—in such an appearance? To it I owe the bliss of seeing you again. It is a precious dress! O, my wor­thy spouse, don't speak so loud, perhaps I'm followed!

Her supposition was just: she goes with me to my lodgings, sits down, and gives me an account of what had happened to her, which my transports of joy in­terrupted an hundered times.

"Forced by the advice and threats of miss d'Anfort, I followed her to a convent, where she left me, giving orders to the mother abbess, not to suffer any body to converse with me. The next day she came to see me again, and was exact in her visits every subsequent day. I wish you had seen her in our conversations, how she extolled the chevalier's merits, and every ef­fort to represent you as vicious. "My dear, said she, Corsange cannot marry you; he has legally re­nounced marriage, and if he perjures himself, he for­feits an annual income of two hundred thousand li­ [...]res. I hope you will not be his ruin. D'Anfort will much better serve your purpose. He is a fine youth of eighteen, well made, and his heart and mind are equally excellent—moreover, d'Anfort will be ve­ry rich: I shall make him my sole heir; with him, my dear, you will be happier.

"This discourse roused my indignation; but I was too much afraid she would guess our secret, had I then given her a decisive answer. From that instant, Miss d'Anfort imagined she had conquered my heart for her nephew; and when she informed me of the death of my father, she dwelt chiefly upon that passage of the letter, where he ordered me, said she, to give the che­valier your hand. I saw him every day with her, and they became so assiduous and intruding, that I had scarcely time to peruse your letters: I dared not to answer them, lest I should confide in a person that might betray me. The servant whom Mr. Dulys sent might have been prevailed upon to take a bribe, and [Page 241] we would have been undone.—I had also another motive to be cautious against my tyrants—dear hus­band, I am pregnant!—O God! Yes, my dear, I expect every minute to bring to light that precious pledge: and this made me escape from my prison, and meet you here!—My dear spouse, how was you able to effect that escape? Oh, it was a bold expedi­ent! but it proved successful.—An unfortunate and very poor old woman came often to beg alms of the nuns; she conceived so great an attachment for me, as to spend whole days in my apartment: I liked her, and was much entertained with her wit and conversa­tion. I thought her a fit instrument to deliver my­self from slavery. In consequence I told her my situ­ation; and from the concern which she seemed to feel for me, I requested her to change her dress for mine, or rather to bring one like that she had on, and to lend me her own. She agreed to my demand. Thus e­quipped, and fearing to bring the poor woman into trouble on my account. I let her go out before me. When I saw through my window, that she was at a good distance in the streets, I ventured myself down stairs in the same dress, in hopes to make my escape. The good old woman used to come to and fro so often in a day, that the domestics were accustomed to it.—I stooped, pulled my cap over my nose, and passing be­fore the porter, even took care to make a crooked bow, which made the fellow laugh. Well, mother, said he, you just went out, how did you get in?—Without losing a minute by giving him an answer, I advanced, and as soon as I was in the street, run as hard as I could to the post-office, where I prepared myself to set out without delay. The post-master made some difficulty, but dazzling him with my gold, he could no longer withstand my demand. I remain­ed under this disguise all the way, for sear of being dis­covered. Now I see thee again, my dear husband, I am no longer grieved."

I embraced Arzelia, and begged her to take some sustenance. Meanwhile I feared the pursuits of our tyrants. We of course determined to take other lodg­ings on the next day, or rather to leave the town. But [Page 242] all these projects were subverted by our friend Dulys, who entered our apartment in the dead of night, and had but time to utter these few words:—Fly, un­fortunate couple, the count and his son are at my heels!

Arzelia swooned: I went to her assistance, but so violent was the effect of her panic, that she was deliv­ered of a child! how embarrassing was my situation! I had no light, my door was open, I take my little Alexis in my arms!—Several voices cry: Where are they?—Where are they? Dulys leaves the room, to keep off my tyrants. I attempt to shut my door.—A man opposes me, enters, in spite of me, tears the child from my arms, and endeavors to run away. I become quite frantic, and suddenly take my sword: Treacherous d'Anfort! Thou shalt be punished! I pursue the man who carries off my child, overtake him at the bottom of the stairs, thrust the steel in his body, and retake the new-born infant. Heaven! what terror struck me!—I heard a dying voice: Cruel Corsange! Could'st thou slay thy friend, when he saved thee? It was the voice of Dulys! it was Dulys I stabbed!—O remorse!

Meanwhile this noise had spread the alarm among the servants of the inn; they come up stairs, followed by count d'Anfort and his son!—What must have been my feelings, when, lights being brought, I saw Dulys sprawling on the ground, and weltering in his blood! Heaven! that dreadful scene is still before mine eyes! My guardian and his son are moved; they stop and raise the unfortunate victim. He is put to bed; a surgeon is sent for, he gives us some hopes, by assuring us that his wound was not mortal.

That scene of horror was not yet terminated: My spouse laid on the floor bereft of her senses, my infant son, by her [...]de, shrieked lamentably; the count and his son stood before me, ready to [...] from me the precious pledge! I leave you to imagine if there can be a situation more cruel and embarrassing!—The count was the first who b [...]e tha [...] [...] silence. Wretch, said he—if th [...] art not [...] with having butchered thy own friend, then [...];—thy [...]and, which made a mistake, was [...] to bereave [Page 243] me of my son!—Ah! rather plunge thy sword in his father's breast, and quench thy bloody thirst!—What has he done to thee?—Thou alone hast involved thy­self into guilt!—Thou alone art the author of all our misery! I will pardon all—I will forget all, provided thou deliver into my hands that child, the fruit of an illegitimate union?—My son! [...]ay, cruel count, It would break his mother's heart!

The count insists upon my obedience; I fall in a pas­sion: my rage, still more aggravated at the presence of my brother, becomes excessive.—My guardian, who searing the consequences, resolves to withdraw; he takes his son with him, and leaves me alone by the bed of my spouse, to whom I give every succor in my power!—Soon she opens her eyes; she sees me, de­mands her son, embraces, and smiles at him. The unhappy mother was ignorant of my crime: I took care to conceal it from her, and she knew it only two months after.

The count and his son remained at the inn as long as my spouse was forced to keep her bed. They a­voided seeing us, and we were rejoiced at it. Arzelia nursed Alexis. Dulys, who was soon able to leave his room, and condescended to pardon my mistake, took it upon him to find a proper nurse for my son, and had him christened, because we could not keep him with us: uncertain, if we should be suffered to live together. Our marriage was void by law; the count had a right to have it dissolved; but, on the other hand, he was much at a loss to prove the legality of the deed he had made me sign, because a gentleman of the law who had been consulted, convinced him of its nullity, because it had been made in haste, and by an ignorant attorney. I certaintly promised never to marry; but then I was only twenty, and it was neces­sary that I should ratify the promise when I came to be of age. As such, the deed would have been valid. The count, who knew all this, endeavored to intimi­date me, though he was conscious that it was out of his power to hurt me; as for my own part, I was afraid lest he should dissolve my marriage; we were, there­fore, forced to adopt gentle means on both sides.

[Page 244] The day before my departure from Besancon, he entered my apartment alone: "Corsange," said he you are still dear to me; I loved your mother: she has entrusted you to my care; she ordered you to obey me as you would have obeyed her; and even to grant me all your confidence. Undutiful son!—Have you respected her commands?—You have con­tracted a clandestine marriage, and violated the most sacred engagements! Hear me, I will be candid with you: I am old; folks at my age are ambitious; I ought to have that ambition.—I cherish the most lovely son, his fortune and advancement lies closest to my heart; but you disappoint my hopes. It is your brother!—Who can be dearer to you than he?—Did you but love each other, I would be happy. In a word, love and interest have separated you; make me happy again: O! my second son, make me happy again▪—Respected sir, it is my earnest desire; but, what sacrifice do you exact of me? "Hear me; your marriage is illegal, of this you cannot entertain the least shadow of a doubt.—I have it in my power to dissolve it; but I will not have recourse to ex­tremes. Live with your wife: I permit it; but give me up your son, dear Corsange, and be sure that I shall train him up with the tenderness of a real father: the only thing I require, is to conceal from him for­ever his name and family. This complaisance in you will insure you the possession of your spouse, and I promise to destroy the deed which now is in my hands. You know I can ruin you, and make you an object of poverty and disgrace. Consent to your happiness, dear friend.—Every day you shall see that son; but never shall he know his father: this is the sole res­triction I wish to lay him under."

The old man's discourse was captious; but it could not dazzle me. I pryed instantly into his policy, and was sensible that should I be so weak as to yield up the offspring of my union, my spouse would be snatched from me in the same manner, and that my compliance would become a manifest disavowal of the dearest titles conferred on me by nature and love; besides, was it not, perhaps disposing of my son's life? I did not [Page 245] fear the count; but the chevalier was, in my opinion, capable of every crime; nevertheless, I found it then seasonable to dissemble. I seemingly acquiesced in my guardian's design, and promised to put my child under his care, after our return from Paris, where Du­lys kept him under his protection. D'Anfort, calmed by my ultimatum, communicated it to my brother, who was equally satisfied; so that we all four sat out with apparent content. Arzelia, who considered it as the sum of wretchedness to be parted from her son, se­conded my views, and we both hoped to find some subterfuge for not delivering our Alexis into those cruel hands, which intended to deprive us of what we held dearest on earth.

What was our grief when we arrived in the metrop­olis! Dulys! my dear unfortunate Dulys was no more! The fatigues of a premature journey, and the embarrassments under which he saw himself for our sake, had brought on a slow distemper; his wounds re-opened, he [...]ad just given up the ghost in his mo­ther's arms, to whom he had wrote, and who left Dreux with the greatest precipitancy, to come and close the eyes of what was most dear to her in nature!—That woman left the house of the relation where she had put her son to board, immediately after the death of the latter, and without doubt she returned again to the country.—What had then became of my son?—Who could tell me where he was?

An old housekeeper of that relation, who had observ­ed my grief, and heard some exclamations, took me in private one day: "Sir, said she, are you not uneasy about a little child?" Alas! my good woman, could you give me any intelligence? "Here, sir, my mas­ter's nephew entrusted me with this letter, a moment before his death, and ordered me not to give it to any person but you." I hastily took the billet, and read in it these words, traced by the most generous friend, by that friend I had murdered!—Judge of my remorse!

I imprinted a thousand kisses on this letter, and ad­mired my friend's generosity, who had still my inter­est at heart, even when my barbarity caused his death!—How all this aggravated my guilt! How I abhor­red myself!—Arzelia shared my sorrows, and we both gave tears to the most feeling and most generous man, who, perhaps ever existed on earth!

Meanwhile, I was determined to follow the last ad­vice of Dulys, and, however repugnant I found it to dissemble, I yielded to necessity. In consequence, I and Arzelia spread the report of the death of our friend and the child; and our sorrow, of which Dulys was the sole object, appeared so natural to count d'Anfort and his son, that they believed it, and made no farther enquiries.

We lived five years in our hotel, Rue de Richelieu, not without finding that the count and his family had for us a great regard. In compliance with their re­quest, I and my spouse inhabited each a different a­partment. I might as well have freed Arzelia from that restraint; but the fear of a law-suit, which we should have been forced to stand, in order to have our marriage confirmed, made us wait till the death of the count d'Anfort should remove that obstacle.

I was afraid of going too often to Vitry; I en­trusted my son's nurse with the secret of his birth; and lest the little innocent should betray himself one day, I had him brought up by the name of Alexis, and would not permit the least hint, with regard to his family, should be given him. Thus I hoped to enjoy the sweets of a tranquil life, when a certain circumstance came to [Page 247] rouse my prudence, and overthrow all my projects. I was one day walking with the count and his son, in the yard of the hotel, when a milk-maid, who came from the kitchen, stops, stares at me, and cries out with a naivet [...], which she could not refrain; O lord!—Is it possible there can be such a likeness between them! What do you say, good woman, asked the chevalier? I say, my lord—I beg your pardon!—O good God!—if he was his father! Whose father? Why, we have a little child at Vitry—he is an orphan, and such a pretty boy! he is absolutely like my lord there! Sure, the woman is mad, replied I—What is there to be wondered at?—Many folks resemble each other. I beg your pardon, my lord;—my little Alexis! he is so pretty!—Ah, you cannot think.

The milk-maid was going to continue her chat, which wounded my soul, I take, without ceremony, the father and son, to another part of the premises, and endeavor to change the subject of the conversation; but my confusion had betrayed me. A ray of light came to illuminate their mind; they began to suspect the cheat, and growing cooler by degrees, left me, no doubt, to consult what measures they should adopt in that conjuncture. I was fortunate enough to read their design in their eyes, and, without losing time, I mount on horseback, fly to Vitry, take away my son, and bring him to the Royal Botanical Garden, neither knowing what to do, or where to hide him. It was twilight, and not chosing to pass through the streets of Paris with so precious a treasure, I determined to enter the garden, and concert some means of conduct in my present dilemma. I was sitting on the turf, in the little grove; my son was in my lap; I bathed him in my tears, and pressed him to my heart, when an old lady stops, looks at me, and addresses me as follows, in so moving a tone, which tore my secret from me, even in spite of myself. Alas! my dear sir, are you the father of this pretty child? Yes madam. What a lovely little creature!—But you weep, have you met with some sinistrous accident? Oh! I have indeed! Well, it must be consolatory for you that you never met with so many as I!—Mayn't I know the nature [Page 248] [...] your misfortune? but I beg your pardon! I was [...] once, and still should me, had not death [...] from me a most amiable son!—Ah! let flow my tears for a moment, and then I will endeavor to dry yours? Madam it is a secret! Oh, you can safely trust me; I am a stranger in this city; I have only been in it two months; and, besides, who knows? I may be able to render you some service: I am alone, I have neither husband or children; I am absolutely solitary, without acquaintance; and without the least wish of having any—Speak, I beg, speak, my dear sir?—I am concerned for you—I feel a very singular concern!—Generous stranger, what could you do for me? Whatever lies in my power. Well, then, please to save that child from those cruel wretches, who will ravish him from his father! Who will ravish him from you? Ambition, the covetousness of a brother! I understand you—Oh, what a pity!—Is this child your natural son? No, he is the offspring of a lawful union; but alas, that union is crossed by unfeeling rela­tions. Pray, is it not a clandestine marriage? Yes, that is our only fault. A fatal misfortune it surely is; but it should not be punished with death.—Give me the child, I will be his mother; I will bring him up; Poor innocent babe! he puts me in mind of my son's age! Was he born in Paris? No, madam, in Besancon. How long since? five years. Five years! Good God, you must have lived there at the same time when my son—O cruel remembrance! Your son! Have you known him, sir! he was sweet, amiable and generous! Alas! he was barbarously murdered! Murdered? Yes by a fellow-collegian! What was his name? Du­lys; did you know him? A little, madam▪ Have you heard of his case? I shall never forget it! Pray, could you give me all the details of it. Madam, I beg—In pity excuse me! These were the self same words he told me when he expired in my arms: he was at Besancon to re [...]der some service to a certain marquis de Corsange, whom he many times had men­tioned to me in his letters. A giddy headed young nobleman with whom he got acquainted at college, began a quarrel with him, and run his sword through [Page 249] his body! is not that the real account! It is much like it. My son added, that he would have bled to death of his wound, had it not been for the marquis de Corsange, whom he always described as a good- [...]tur­ed and humane young gentleman. Ah! Heaven! What do you bring to my remembrance?

This conversation, my friends, overwhelmed me with shame and confusion! To claim the support of a woman, who is the mother of the friend I have im­molated! The mother of the friend whose proceedings were most generous! Far from denouncing my guilt to his family, he had that grandeur of spirit to men­tion my name only to be my eulogium. O God! I was then in one of those indescribable situations which can only be felt.

Mrs. Dulys seeing me turn pale, asked me the rea­son of my confusion. I answered her, that I was that marquis de Corsange, whom her son had so advanta­geously pourtrayed in his letters. Mrs. Dulys ex­pressed the joy she felt at seeing me; invited me to step in her carriage, and begged for an account of my adventures, promising to take every maternal care of my son, from that very night.

The sting of remorse was going to make me commit an indiscretion; but after a mature deliberation I began to think better. I would not therefore undeceive Mrs. Dulys, as such an avowal would not only have kindled her wrath and indignation, but have hindered her from undertaking to conduct my son's education. Such a dissimulation laid, however, hard upon my feelings. After having related the story of my misfortunes, and intreated her to take every care of my Alexis, and above all, to conceal from him his real parents. I withdrew, after having received assurances of friendship, secrecy, and an implicit observance of my injunctions.

CHAP. IX.

THE count's whole house was now in confusion: The chevalier, my inveterate enemy, just arrived from Vitry; he had threatened the good nurse in such a manner, as made her confess the whole affair. He heard, that a few minutes before his arrival, I had taken away my son, but was ignorant of the place to which I had conducted him. Having therefore had a council with his father and aunt, they unanimonsly resolved, that Miss d'Anfort should conduct Arzelia to a castle, situate in the environs of St. Germain, and there keep her a prisoner till I should have delivered up my son, the object of their common hatred and pursuits. I was not informed of this new disaster, till the two ladies were gone. Nevertheless, Arzelia found means to send secretly a few lines to me, in which she hinted that it was time for us to free ourselves from the controul of our tyrants; she also sent me a gold repeater, which she begged me to look at every hour, that I might remember her.

We were really intimidated to the highest degree: Why should not we have courage to shake off the chains in which our three cruel tyrants held us fettered?—Indeed, the fear of seeing our marriage dissolved, re­tained us; this apprehension, and the deed of renunci­ation which I had signed, and of whose invalidity we were still ignorant, bade us so much defiance, that we even dared not to consult a lawyer, for fear of making ourselves liable to a law-suit, whose final issue we consi­dered as very fatal.

Thus I was forced to bear this separation, without making the least complaint; but I found means, by the adroitness of suggestion of Mrs. Dulys, to inform my spouse my Alexis was safe. At night, when every body had retired to rest in the hotel, I mounted my courser, and fled to the castle d'Anfort, near St. Ger­main. An avenue of trees conducted to its entrance, and was covered with gravel. I contented myself with [Page 251] tracing in large characters upon the gravel the word well! I set out immediately after, reached the hotel before day break, and went to bed, not to incur any suspicion. Every morning, Arzelia left the castle, un­der the pretext of a walk, for which she chose the av­enue, alledging, that she liked it better than the park. There she read what I had written over night, and sometimes made use of the same expedient to let me know her thoughts. It was utterly impossible for her to write, or to find means of conveying letters to me, because miss d'Anfort never left her an instant. Thus we lived, till the moment when I sent my son to the college of Navarre, where I put him under your care, Mr. Dumont: I saw you; your physiognomy an­nounced an honest man, and you have not deceived me!—It was then that affairs took a different turn at castle d'Anfort.

Miss d'Anfort, who could not conceive how I could live parted from my spouse without seeing her, even without enquiring after her, (for she was ignorant of my nocturnal excursions) began to let her enjoy more liberty: she changed her lodging, and assigned her another more gay and pleasant, in the front of the first yard of the castle, quite adjoining to her own. This made my spouse invent a scheme of receiving me by night, unknown to every body. It was a bold stra­tagem; and the more ludicrous, as we made it succeed. After a written instruction of the intentions of my spouse, which she flung over the walls, I behaved in the following manner.

Miss d'Antfort used to send every day to St. Ger­main, a large covered cart, loaden with the sundry productions of her garden. James, the driver, a sim­ple, harmless boor, sold them upon the market place, and returned to the castle every night at twelve. It came into our mind to make use of that man to pro­cure ourselves without his knowledge, the pleasure of seeing and conversing with one another, and for that end concerted these measures:

Champaign, my valet, disguised himself one day as a countryman; he knew the inn at St. Germains, where [...] put up every night; thither he repairs, [Page 252] enters in conversation with him, proposes a bottle, and makes him boozy. At midnight, James wants to return; I will accompany you, answers Champaign, for I have now to go a league beyond the castle. While they are on the way, the clown leaves the cart a hundred yards behind him. I mount and squat in it. Before the gate of the castle, Champaign wishes his comrad a good night. Will you come this way, in the morning? asks James. Yes, at four o'clock. Aye, we'll go together to my mistress's great kitchen garden, it is not a quarter of a league from here, I take my cart there every morning, I spend the day with the gardener, and in the evening I go to St. Germain, where I get very good customers for the garden stuff. Well, if that's the case, we'll meet often, because I come this way every day.

Our men part, James conducts his carriage into the yard, unteams his horses, takes them into the stables, and goes to bed. He is no sooner gone, than a woman makes her appearance, and comes to me in the cart. It is Arzelia! What transports! What charming and painful moments! We could only entertain ourselves with the tale of our woes. At three in the morning, Arzelia returns to her apartment. James comes back, puts his horses to the cart, and carries me back as he brought me. Champaign stands waiting for him at the gate: mutual civilities are passing; and, drinking is the favorite topic. Whilst they enter a public house de [...]ched from the highway, I jump out of the cart, and run to a neighboring inn, where my trusty Cham­paign soon comes to join me. We both mount our horses, and reach the hotel before six.

You must grant, we exposed ourselves much! Well, we carried on the stratagem two whole years, with as much success as on the first day. Honest James even contracted such an intimacy with Champaign, that he would be sorry to have missed him a single night. This my Alexis is the enigma of the gold repeater, of which I made you a present; and, which I could not explain, without coming to such illustrations, as neces­sity required us both to avoid.

[Page 253] Now, my son, I shall make a digression to relate the catastrophe which made me be so barbarous to you; it was the instrument of my present happiness. You shall see how forcibly maliciousness operates upon a feeble heart, at the same time naturally inclined to sus­picion.

Before I enter upon my narration, I ought to par­ticularize the events secondary to it: events which did not reach my knowledge till long after. Count d'Anfort once having a restless night, rises with an in­tent to walk about the premises; a mere motive of curiosity leads him towards the stables; he is surprised to find the door open, and still more surprised upon entering, to find my own and servant's horse missing; What is all this? is Corsange fled? The Count wakes all the domestics, intimidate them by his threats, and is informed that I leave the hotel every night, and do not return till six in the morning. The count, who wanted no penetration, suspects me of going to St. Germain, and of having apparently found means to get access to my spouse. His indignation is kindled, he calls his son; both mount their horses, and reach the castle about seven. They fail not to load Miss d'Anfort with a thousand reproaches, though the poor lady knew not why. Equally fired with indignation, she promises to use all efforts to bring the matter to a discovery. James had often mentioned among the domestics, his good friend, who went every night with him to St. Germain, treated him with wine, and return­ed each new morn to regale him afresh. Miss d'An­fort suspected, that this good friend of James, could perhaps be myself or one of my men. She ordered James an escort of two tall and stout laborers for the ensuing night—These have orders to seize James's good friend, and bring him before her. These orders are executed:—Champaign is caught, and brought be­fore that old daemon, who knows him at first sight. After many threats and offers of reward, she tears from that faithless valet, a confession of our nocturnal interviews:—she also inquires for the place where my son was concealed; but Champaign can give no sat­isfaction on that part of his examination, because, for­tunately [Page 254] it is the only thing I have concealed from him. Miss d'Anfort, in a furious transport, meditates a cruel revenge, and easily prevails upon that sordid wretch to become her accomplice. Oh heaven! why are there souls so base as to become tools to the crim­inal manoeuvres of the great, though ever sure to fall either sooner or later victims of their guilt. This was the lot of Champaign.

Not suspecting their horrid designs, I arrived at St. Germain at the usual hour, and was not a little sur­prised at finding neither James nor my valet.—I en­quire without any ceremony, and am informed they went away half an hour before my arrival. Amazed at what could make them be in such a hurry, I advance to the gate of castle d'Anfort, and stand waiting. Half an hour after, out comes Champaign. Ah, sir, said this wretch, I bring sad news for you! How so? The countess had me called up by James, and told me this: Go Champaign, go and tell the marquis that I am heartily tired of the slavery in which I am held for his sake. I beg him not to see me again, and forth­with he need not think of me any more, because mis­fortune forces us to part. O heaven!—Is it possible? I wish to God it were not!—but, my dear master, to give you a convincing proof, I can show you the pre­sent she made me, to acknowledge, she said, the trou­ble I had taken. "Here, Champaign," added she, "here is a purse of twenty-five louis d'ors, rely always on my gratitude; but have nothing more to do with this affair. All is over, I am determined to leave the marquis forever!"

I leave you to think what impression this discourse of Champaign made upon me.—Far was I from sus­specting his treachery; and, besides, his report, as to appearances, had too, much the tincture of truth, that I should have called it into question.—Grief over­whelms me; I break forth in reproaches and impre­cations upon the perfidious Arzelia, and return home with a bleeding heart.

Two days after, I receive, by a servant of miss d'An­fort, a billet from my spouse, to the following purport:

[Page 255] "All is over, my friend: follow the only reasona­ble advice I have in my power to give you; it is to fly from me till heaven please to dispose matters more favorably."

This laconic billet confirmed me in my fatal opini­on; I imagine that Arzelia, impatient of slavery, would break her chain and renounce me forever!—What inconstancy!—what perfidiousness! For several months these cruel ideas have haunted my fancy, and I got rid of this situation only to be involved in a more deplorable one! Champaign, (for he was always de­puty) accosts me one morning, and, with a most bod­ing and dismal air, says: Alas, sir, how will you stand the blow I am going to strike? What blow? Gather all the energy and strength in your soul to hear me!—Arzelia—Well, Arzelia—has proved faithless to your bed. Faithless, traitor!—darest thou? Yes, sir, your friend Dulys, who is dead, had gained her graces and affections. Villain, tremble! Don't be in a passion, my good master! I can prove it, prove it so as to strike you into conviction!—James, whom I see every day, and who is now in our interest and confidence, has found two days ago in the place where Arzelia has been sitting, this portrait and this letter, which he saw her kiss several times.

I was quite crest fallen, when I really saw the por­trait of Dulys, and at the bottom, the following words, in my wife's own hand writing: Him I shall never forget! Gods! What a ray of light strikes the horizon of my understanding!—I hastily peruse the letter, it comes from Dulys himself; I know his hand!—What are the contents?

"Take care to conceal the secret from every eye, most worthy and beloved lady!—Let this offspring of the most faithful union, be delivered to me alone.—Prevent every suspicion of the marquis—his passion might be productive of the most fatal effects—indeed, who is intitled more than I to the right of receiving that lovely infant! Farewell, I have given you full instructions!—Take care, above all, that nobody dis­covers our secret correspondence."

An hundred times I re-peruse that fatal letter; I look for expressions which might destroy my suspicion, [Page 256] I only find such as serve to confirm it!—For, consid­er well!—was it not a manifest proof of the treachery of Dulys and my spouse? Such a letter, and from my friend's own hand; for his hand it was, and I had well examined it.—Suddenly, I recollect the speed which Dulys made to reach Besancon, his zeal in snatching the child from my arms, to carry it to Paris, as it were, without my consent, and to have it christ­ened and educated there! Add to this, the silence of my spouse in the convent, and the very letters of my friend, which seemed to have no other tendency, than to alienate my own heart from Arzelia; all this was like so many proofs to corroborate the self speaking ev­idence before my eyes!—She never told me, that she had the potrait of Dulys in her possession,—All these reflections made such an impression upon me, that I found my affections suddenly detached from my spouse and son. Methinks a veil dropped from mine eyes jealousy fired my weak heart, and I was foolish enough to go and ask my guardian questions on that subject, he having so often railed at me for my con­fidence in Dulys, and the intimacy which I suffered him to keep up with my spouse. The count is a man of sound judgment, said I; he is incapable of base calumny!—I was upon the point of going up to his apartment, when I saw him come towards me. Pray, what means that kind of a tomb, said he, which your spouse has erected in a grove of her park?—My sister made me remark it:—What, is Arzelia going mad? How, a tomb? Yes, indeed, one would think she is a widow!—She spends right and day before it, moaning and uttering the name of Dulys! Yes, Dulys: he was a rare friend, I declare, well may she be sorry for him; but, by the bye, she carries her sorrow too far.

When the count had said these words, I withdraw for fear of hearing more, and my heart wrung with grief; I retire to my apartment, weeping most bitter­ly!—Every thought adds to my despair. When Ar­zelia spoke of Dulys, it was always with such warmth, with such animation—he was the pattern of men, the most amiable and most perfect of mortals!—Alexis [Page 257] owed him his preservation, &c. all seemed to evince the possibility of Arzelia's crime.

At last, my friends, I formed the barbarous project of getting rid of Alexis, who, on a sudden, became odious to me; nothing could move me, neither his strict resemblance of me, which I deemed the effect of hazard, his tenderness, nor his virtues!—I sent for Mr. Dumont, to meet me in Luxembourg gardens, and you know the orders, I gave him.

Thus I lived for a considerable time without seeing my wife, or even without enquiring after her, and, my tyrants, to whom I had owned my having parted with the child, yet, without telling them what had be­come of him, were tolerably satisfied with the appar­ent success of their stratagem, till one day I saw them both come home very much fatigued. We have seen him, said the chevalier to me, his eyes glancing with fierceness, we have seen to day Mr. Dulys' son! Where? In the royal Botanical Garden—He is very tall! but, brother, as you are so sure that he is not your son, why do you suffer him to be thus in Paris? What is it to me where he is? Very true, but is not he christened by your name? he may discover you some day, and force you to acknowledge him for your son; put him out of the way, join with us, we will send him to the West-Indies. To the West-Indies!—Never! Whence that blind tenderness?—he is either your son, or a stranger's! But sir, what proof have I that he is not my son? Why did you reject him, then? Alas, I don't know—who will explain me that cruel enigma?

You see, my friends, I was always wavering between doubt and certainty—You tremble! you detest me! well, I deserve it! This circumstance of my history does me no honor: it is my crime, my only crime! it will ever be my torment! Happy if my spouse and son will ever condescend, if not to forget it, at least not to call it to my remembrance?

When I left the count and his son, I perceived they had some project.—My tenderness for Alexis returned and as I never lost sight of him, I engaged that same Champaign, that monster of a traitor, to carry him a letter and purse from me. Whether or not Champaign [Page 258] followed my advice, I know not. Nevertheless, the instant you left the capital, the count and his son had already got notice, that you was going to Valence. Is it possible for a man to be thus cruelly deceived?

Meanwhile, the crisis approached which was to de­cide my fate, and re unite Arzelia with her ungrateful spouse!

Long since, miss d'Anfort had fostered a tender in­clination for me. This particular, which I have for­got to mention, has been partly the cause of all our misfortunes. That vindictive and jealous termagant had declared her passion twenty times; and twenty times I treated it with indignation, and contempt. Her passion, my disdain, my union with Arzelia, all had rendered her my deadly fiend—so that she took delight to be our torment, and used every effort to bring me to the point where she desired to see me.

On the evening of the same day, when you left Pa­ris to go to Valence, I was never more astonished than to see her alight at my house! she, who kept my spouse a prisoner in her castle; she, in a word, I con­sidered as more despicable than her brother and ne­phew. My dear Corsange, said she with an air of sweetness, I doubt not you are surprised at my visit; I come to do you some service; only hear me.

I know all; the count and his son have seen Alexis in the king's garden; you have ordered him instantly to [...]uit Paris; he has taken the road to Dauphiny; in short, I know all; but what you don't know is, that my brother has this very afternoon obtained a littre de cachet from the minister, to have him taken up with his preceptor for two vagabonds, and as such they will be sent to the Bastile—Heaven!—Stop, I will save them, if you chuse. Pray, h [...]w? How, ungrateful man!—don't you guess what I mean? Promise me to answer the sentiments you have inspired in me; I will set ou [...] with you for Valence, and hope, by the autho­rity I have upon my brother, to hinder him from exe­cuting that cruel order. How, madam! They are just gone to Valence. But what a barbarity!—With­out my consent? Let us not lose a moment; I have got a post chaise waiting below.—Let us join them.— [Page 259] I have used all my endeavors to break their resolution, but to no purpose. Ah, madam, what concern can you have for a child, which is fully proved not to be my own? Very true; I have forced Arzelia since to own it;—but that youth is only unfortunate, and not guilty; ought we to undo him? Madam, I don't go to save him, but poor Mr. Dumont, his worthy preceptor, who is involved in his misery! What, will you suffer him to be carried off? Let him depart, be his fate what it will!—but that honest man, who is attached to him much!—Well, let us set off, my dear; you do well!—Let them exercise their rage upon Alexis, and we will save the honest man in question.

So great was my perplexity, and so importunate miss d'Anfort, that, without further reflection, I slept in the post-chaise; miss d'Anfort places herself next me, my footman and Champaign mount behind, and the possi­tion whips away. It was but some time after I per­ceived my companion.—I expressed my surprise, but she answered me with smooth language, and promised to discomfit all their intentions by her bare presence, and to save the innocent Dumont from the hands of our enemies.

I observed silence, and sighed all the way. I hope, my friends, you will look with the eye of pity upon my barbarous conduct towards Arzelia and Alexis, and lay the guilt upon the authors of that infernal plot, who have taken the advantage of my weakness. I shall, therefore, draw a veil over my conduct at Valence, which I hold in horror and detestation.

Meanwhile, the count and his son had suffered some delay on their journey; they only reached Valence af­ter me, where, to all appearances, they did not find Alexis. Enraged in the idea of my having saved their victims, they pursued me in my way to Lyons—my chaise is overtaken; Champaign who was behind, be­trayed us, and that very instant I saw myself surround­ed by a set of horsemen; among others, by the count, his son, and an Exempt of the Police with a proper escort. Traitor, cried I to the chevalier, convinced of his com­ing to carry off Dumont, "Coward! what has that [Page 260] poor gentleman done to thee?—Alight, I must either have thy life, or thou mine!"

That instant we began a bloody combat, in which I see my dear Dumont drop. Champaign, who attempt­ed to disarm me, is slain by my hand, and my brother himself shares his fate—the cruel chevalier drops down lifeless!—The Exempt and his followers rush upon me; I am bound, hand cuffed, thrown in my chaise between miss d'Anfort, who had fainted, and the count, in des­pair, who loaded me with threats. The dead were taken up in haste, and thrown in the other chaise; but whether from the obscurity of the night, or from ter­ror and consternation, my poor Dumont was left on the field, the mistake was discovered some time after; but, upon returning to the fatal spot, they [...]ound he had been taken away!

We proceeded to Paris, where I was thrown into an obscure prison, and my trial for the wilful murder of the chevalier d'Anfort was soon brought forward. I know not how it would have ended, but that Arzelia, upon receiving the tidings of that fatal catastrophe, went and threw herself at the king's feet. She gave the monarch an account of our adventures, who was moved, and promised to do her justice. The count and I actually received orders to appear before his majesty. Each of us exposed his own case; and that gracious prince, moved to tears, granted me his mercy and par­don. He would not confine his clemency to this only; as sovereign, he was most graciously pleased to order my renunciation to be torn, my marriage legalized, Alexis acknowledged, and, if ever I should be so for­tunate as to find him, Louis enjoined me to present him at court.

Count d'Anfort alone was unhappy; he was exiled to one of his castles, his sister followed him, and we, loaded with royal favors, dispatched several faithful emissaries in search of Alexis.

How incensed was I against myself for my fatal jea­lousy! That portrait [...] dear to Arzelia, was only the pledge of her regard and gratitude for all the services rendered us by the [...] faithful friend! That letter which he had written to her while she was confined [Page 261] in the convent, was the mere effect of his zeal and del­icacy. Dulys said, if Corsange comes to know that he is father, his passion, already too violent, will not keep within the bounds which prudence exacts in so cruel a juncture; in consequence, he made provision to have Arzelia delivered of Alexis, at the house of a fe­male acquaintance, near the convent, from which he had planned her escape, previous to the birth of my son. In short, the generous Dulys had done all for me, and I dared to insult his memory, in accusing him and my spouse!—Oh! how often have I blushed at this crime—how often have I felt the most gnawing remorse!

This, my son, is the secret of thy birth—Thou hast [...] the tale of misfortunes, which thou hast longed [...] much to know, and which then would only have served to aggravate thy grief, or so much spirit thee up to some rash or imprudent deed. How the times are changed!—Now, thy father presses thee in his arms, thy mother smiles on thee, and thou returnest their ten­der caresses! O, my friends! O my Alexis! how hap­py am I to have been able to bring back thy Clara, thy lovely Clara! Mr. Du Monay who put her under our care, knew nothing of our adventures.—That friend, whom we had known in Paris, before his office of receiver-general of the king's farms, obliged him to fix his residence at Marseilles, knew certainly something of our misfortunes; but we had never made him an entire confidant of the whole; not that he was un­worthy of it, but because we wished to keep in our breasts secrets, the very remembrance of which over­whelmed us with woe.

Now come, my Alexis, come to the feet of a feel­ing and humane king and sovereign!—it was he who protected us, it was he who saved us from the just doom of frowning justice—and it is he who will be still thy benefactor and support!—Ah! happy would I be, if the venerable Candor were pleased to unite you with his daughter; and would thus unite in happiness be­ings whom dire fate has so long and cruelly perse­cuted.

CHAP. X.

THE marquis de Consange concluded his narra­tive, and all his hearers, who were singularly moved, began talking in divers ways upon events of so extraordinary a nature. Unfortunate father, said the generous Dumont, you have been unjust indeed; but how has misfortune soured your temper!—The wretch suspects every thing; once deceived, he thinks he always will be. The continual habit of sorrow irri­tates his nerves, and renders him passionate, hard, e­ven dead to feeling! Obliged to be distrustful again [...] every body, he believes every body will hurt him [...] Such is my point of view, my principles and philoso­phy.

Per lo caro Giesu, replies Carlo, that philosophy is good for nothing. Nothing can bid defiance to the machinations of the wicked: prudence in such cases frequently draws you into their snares: certamente, it is wiser to fly from them entirely, than to avoid them, by watching their motions! You are right, said the mar­quis; better would it have been for me and my spouse to have fled from our tyrants, and to have left a house.—You could not, Signor Corsanjo! You will pardon me, sir, I could have done it very early in the begin­ning. Eh, no, perche, you was to suffer all those mis­fortunes! it was to be, it was written—predestination! Oh, predestination breaks in Alexis, are you going to begin your nonsense, Sciocco? Pardonate mi, tenero pa­drone:—have not you yourself approved of it? How, pursues the marquis, does Mr. Sciocco think that all that happens to us has been prescribed? Si veramente Signor. Let him run on, father, replies Alexis:—he will sometimes only talk nonsense. His moral dog­mas are very nonsensical, my son. Upon that footing there would be no criminals, every body would excuse himself by predestination!—Heavens! what an error!—have you imbibed those prejudices, my Alexis? No, my father, but I entertained others of a different cast. [Page 263] Speak, then▪ give me an account of your adventures from the time you left the cottage.—You must have been concealed in some dark corner of the globe, be­cause I had searches made after you throughout the kingdom. I was not concealed, father. Listen all to me, my dear friends, and you too Clara.—I will soon cure you of the unjust suspicions you had against me, with regard of my connections with the wife of the gaol­er of St. Marcellin, and Sophia of Marseilles.

Alexis satisfied their curiosity, and when he had done speaking, the marquis and marchioness embraced him again. They were all satisfied, Duverly and Dorance alone observed the profoundest silence. Du­verly, above all, seemed to be struggling with black [...]pair. The narrative of the marquis had stolen ma­ [...] a tear from his eyes; and Dulys' good faith and generosity were so many lessons which upbraided him for his past crimes: he dared not to look at any one of the company, and seemed to wish to hide himself from his own self. Dorance had pity on him. Unhappy man, said he, here is thy daughter, durst thou give her that sweet name? Yes, I shall dare, answers Duverly!—Yes, I shall give her that precious name; but not before I have avenged thy cause! Avenged! Yes: soon.

At these words, Duverly draws his sword, and goes to thrust it in his body. They all prevent him! Do­rance, Dorance himself, who had just thirsted after his blood, seized the murderer's steel, and flings it far from him. Dorance, what dost thou? My duty, ungrateful friend!—The misfortunes of the marquis and marchi­oness, my own, nay, experience, the greatest of all teachers, in short, every thing shows me what passions are!—They made me commit many imprudent actions, and thee they have led to crimes! What say I [...] I am more guilty than Duverly: this hand—my spouse—my son!—But I will pardon thee more than myself: Unite thy Clara with my Alexis; and let Hymen put the seal to our reconciliation.

He says, and holding forth his hand to Duverly, sees the latter fall precipitately to his feet; he seizes his beneficent hand, besprinkles it with his tears, and utters [Page 264] the most woeful moans: the whole company join with the unhappy Duverly. Dorance himself, at last, can­not withhold his tears, he mingles them with th [...]se of his repentant friend, and they are now clasped in one anothers arms, and both so moved, as to make it im­possible to distinguish the offender from the offended!

O divino spectaclo, cries the Italian, O augustie delle vi­cende humane! What hand does conduct you!—What being, great, sublime, and magnanimous, leads thus mortals to happiness upon a stormy sea! How I can call myself happy!—An idea just starts in my mind! Signori Cavalieri, per gratia?—doubtless you will quit this dismal retreat, to live united in Paris.—Oh, give me that dear cottage, cede it to me. Here, in a brown [...] with a girdle about my loins, my days will [...] in tranquility and happiness, and you will come fro [...] time to time to see the good hermit—the travellers will stop to see me. I shall receive them, show them the cottage, and tell them: Here is the place where love and nature have long sighed; travellers, learn the for­giveness of injuries, and the respect due to the great author, who alone knows the order of things, and the law of events.

This sally of Sciocco excited the laugh in every one of the company: but Carlo was like to be angry; when he remembered that laughing was one of the sweetest pleasures of man, and ingrafted by nature: [...]his fermentation, therefore, subsided, and he joined in the general joy.

All our heroes were happy; they spent several days in viewing the different departments of the cottage, and afterwards all set out together for Paris; the good-natured Candor and his old servant, regardless of their hoariness and infirmities, would be of the party. In consequence, all the apartments of the cottage are carefully locked, the draw bridge is secured, and the journey commenced.

How pleasant was this trip! all was buried in oblivi­on: neither complaints nor reproaches were heard any more! All countenances were serene like all hearts, and the happiness of seeing Alexis presented to the king, became the general topic.

[Page 265] Arrived in Paris, the marquis and his son repair im­mediately to Versailles—they arrive before the king! Alexis trembling, dares not look up. Is this your son, Corsange? his majesty asked. Sire, it is he! He looks very shy,—Young man, be good-natured, modest, discrete, and I will never forsake you! Suppose we be­gin to give him a regiment; what do you think, mar­quis, we shall see how he will manage it! Sire, all the blood in his veins is at your majesty's service. He ought to imitate the example of his grand-father, who died in my father's service!—He was a brave com­mander. I have known him myself, and am not a­shamed to own, that fighting by his side, I have learn­ed to be a soldier.

The king spoke to them for some time longer with [...]he most condescending familiarity, and the commission of a colonel being made out, and signed for young Corsange, his majesty dismissed them, loaded with praises and benefits.

A few days after, the young colonel and his Clara stept to the altar, and were joined together in holy matrimony! how dear had they purchased that hap­piness! Alas, if it must be paid with so many crosses can we envy our mortal lot?

Meanwhile Duverly, always agitated by remorse, fell dangerously sick, and soon expired in the arms of his friends, after having begged a thousand pardons of Candor, who regretted him sincerely. On his death-bed he made a will, by which he constituted the colonel and his lady, sole heirs to his considerable es­tate, which he had much improved in America, where he had been resident fifteen years. He neither forgot to settle an annuity upon the good John Picot, whom he bad so unjustly charged with theft, at the Dolphin inn at Lyons. Signor Carlo had also a share of his property, for which he failed not giving thanks to Providence, who had so favorably conducted that event.

Candor, also bent under the superior weight of age and infirmity, soon after died composedly, and without a groan: Alexis closed his eyes, and bound himself to execute his last desire. The old man had ordered in [Page 266] his last moments, his body to be transferred to the cottage, to repose near the ashes of Adela and his son. Therefore, with the permission of the rector, in whose parish he died, Colonel Corsange, his lady, their chil­dren and friends proceeded to Grenoble with the remains of their late friend. Upon their arrival, the corpse was deposited for a while in a cathedral, till proper preparations could be made in the cottage for its reception.

On the day following, thirty workmen were em­ployed to rebuild the cottage: two wings, and another story were added to it; the windows were made wider, and decorated with balconies. Over the mysterious subterranean they built a chapel, which was soon con­secrated by the bishop of Grenoble. The form of the garden was also changed, but the rivulet, the little bridge, the grove, and the great poplar tree were suf­fered to remain. In short, the young couple left no­thing unimproved. They surveyed with pleasure and emotion the theatre of their loves and adventures. How sweet is the remembrance of the times when we were happy!—When we see places that have been dear to us, the heart dilates, and the sight wanders to and fro, with a real sensation of delight!

Thus the little rivulet, the bridge, the grove, and poplar tree, were the only objects not altered in the garden; all the remainder was transformed into a magnificent park, and the cottage into a sumptuous and splendid castle. There was but one room in it, left in its original state. It was the chamber in which Alexis slept the first night of his residence in the cot­tage, and in which he was so much frightened, when he heard the key turn to lock him up, and from here he saw, through the window, funeral rites performed by Candor under the great poplar tree. Clara's hus­band was fond of that room: and ordered his books and musical instrumens to be placed in it.

When the inside was completed, the outside was also embellished, the draw bridge was pulled down and a new one constructed, the fosse was bordered with a fine breast wall, and before the entry to the castle, a fine [Page 267] avenue was opened and prolonged as far as St. Mar­cellin.

So diligent were the searches made in the forest of Chamboran, that within a month's time, the greatest part of the robbers which infested it were apprehended▪ Several precipices and caverns were filled up with stones and earth. Thus this place once so gloomy, sad, and dangerous, became in a little time a real pleasure-garden.

When all was completed, ready, and in proper or­der, the remains of Candor were placed in the chapel, next to those of his unhappy family. The colonel and his lady returned to Paris, leaving the marquis and marchioness at Castl [...] Corsange, where their presence was required by some additional improvements they design­ed to make.

The motives of the colonel's return to Paris were some regimental concerns: two days after his arrival a man, in a very shabby dress makes his appearance at his hotel; the porter would drive him away, but the stranger insists upon an absolute necessity of speaking to the colonel, and demands immediate admittance. The servants, tired of his importunate behavior, in­form their master of his obstinate request. The sensi­ble Alexis runs quickly down stairs; trained up in the school of adversity, could he reject the unfortunate!

He accosts the stranger. Don't your honor know me? asks the man. No, my friend; yet I recollect to have seen you somewhere. Please your honour, to recollect well. It is useless, I cannot now. Have not you been brought up at the college of Navarre? Yes: Don't you recollect the beggar you one day took into your apartment to explain to you a watch! Oh lord, is it thee, my good fellow? The very same, an' please your honor: I then foretold you what has happened since, and I dare say, you remember how I told you, If you are happy one day, you shall see me at your door.

Alexis was quite [...] with amazement; he actu­ally [...] fortune telle [...] who had explained [...] in so singular a manner, that now since the [...] [...]ad been explained to [Page 268] him, he found the man had told him the truth. Well, good man, how did you come to know the change of my fortune? From the public accounts, an' please your honor; your misfortunes and your father's are known to every body, so the report must have reached me too. Well, my friend, I am happy, and so shalt thou be; yes, thou shalt be happy too!

From this moment, Alexis received the poor man in his service, and had never reason to repent it after­wards: the man had been a soldier, some foolish trick made him desert, and he was always sorry for it. The colonel obtained his pardon, received him in his own regiment, and made him immediately a quarter-master.

Alexis would not confine his generosity and gratitude to those only who had obliged him: he received also Vincent, who had been his man while he was yet at college, among the number of his domestics. Even young d'Erreville felt the effects of his beneficence. The reader must recollect this fellow student who introduced Dumont and his pupil to his father, whose secretary had robbed them in the plains of Belleville. D'Ere­ville had lost his father. His mother had since been married to a giddy young blade, who had ruined her, and, that he and his sister were obliged to live on the fruits of their industry. D'Ereville was recommended by Alexis, to an excellent place in the ammunition of­fice, and his sister was married much to her advantage. Alexis ruminated if there was nobody else whom he might have served: he forgot nobody, and was cher­ished by all, but especially by his king, who soon raised him to the most exalted station.

Clara lived happy, and became mother to many chil­dren. She was as good a mother, as a tender and faithful spouse.

The marquis and marchioness lived with their chil­dren to the latest and happiest winter of life.

Mr. Dumont, the friend of Alexis, superintended the educatian of his sons; he had renounced his pre­judices against mankind, by the habitual intercourse with the upright and virtuous.

As for poor Carlo Sciocco, I am sorry to inform my readers he went as mad as a march hare, by sound­ing [Page 269] too much the metaphysical straights, and being not satisfied respecting the equilibrium of things, he would even scrutinize their nature, and the laws of the equilibrium. There were moments when he fancied all the saints in paradise before him, to reveal him, the principle of perfect harmony. Alexis, who was ex­tremely sorry to see him in such a condition, put him under the care of some subaltern officers, paying them a considerable sum to board and maintain him.

John Picot was made keeper of Castle Corsange, where Alexis and his family spent a certain time every summer; yet, notwithstanding its recent splendor, and magnificence, Alexis and Clara were better pleas­ed with walking in the grove, or along the banks of the rivulet; that happy couple would never forget their former residence in this rural seat, and would al­ways call it their Cottage in the Woods.