Emilia de Varmont, or The necessary divorce; and memoirs of Curate Sevin. A moral and political tale. Founded on facts. / Translated from the French of M. Louvet, by Melatiah Nash. ; Three volumes in one. ; Vol. I[-III]. ; [Three lines of verse from Pope] — Emilie de Varmont. English

Author: Louvet de Couvray, Jean-Baptiste, 1760-1797.2007-10

EMILIA DE VARMONT.Co …

[Page]

EMILIA DE VARMONT.

Copy-Right of this Translation secured.

[Page]

EMILIA DE VARMONT, OR THE NECESSARY DIVORCE; AND MEMOIRS OF CURATE SEVIN. A Moral and Political Tale. Founded on Facts.

Translated from the French of M. LOUVET, By MELATIAH NASH.

THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. VOL. I.

Virtue alone has charms that never die.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Vice is a monster of such frightful mien,

That to be hated needs but to be seen.

POPE.

NEW-YORK: Printed by T. & J. SWORDS, No. 99 Pearl-street. —1799.—

[Page]

To the Reader.

THE following Letters were published in France in 1791. They contain a relation of events which are said to have taken place in that country in 1782. Although the work is probably in some degree fictitious, and has every appearance of a novel, the reader may be assured that it is, in a great measure, founded upon facts. The author seems to have had it in view to remove many religious and other prejudices from the minds of the French people, and to show that several institutions of the Roman Catholic religion were, in their nature, injurious to national and individual happiness. This he endeavours to do, by giving the history of several persons who were extremely unhappy in consequence of the absurd laws and religious institutions of their country, and thereby convince his readers that a reformation was necessary.

The custom of forbidding marriage to the clergy, and the institution of monasteries, by which many persons were excluded from society, are here shown to be absurd and unnatural; and the time is anticipated when the prejudices of the people should be removed, and those despicable establishments at an end.

On reading the title-page, the reader will find a part of it to be, "The Necessary Divorce." This has reference to an instance mentioned in the [Page vi] history, where it is thought to be suitable and necessary that a husband and wife should not only be separated, but even obtain a divorce, although they are persons of the strictest virtue, and their conduct unimpeachable. This the Editor acknowledges to be a curious question, which he would choose to leave to the decision of the reader. But he will venture, for himself, to affirm, that the law of divorce granted by the French National Assembly, can no more be justified than that of Moses, and that they can urge no better reason to palliate their criminality than "the hardness of the people's hearts."

The unparalleled profligacy of manners this nation has manifested in the course of the late revolution; their open and daring professions of atheism, and trampling on every divine precept; but more especially their wanton depredations on our commerce, and refusing to come to an amicable settlement of differences between the two nations, has filled the minds of Americans with an abhorrence of the French name. This has, in some instances, injured the success of the work: But the Editor has, on the whole, received such ample encouragement, by subscriptions, that his fears of not succeeding in the publication, merely because the author was a Frenchman, are entirely dissipated.

Wishing his countrymen and their posterity a perpetual continuance of that portion of civil and religious liberty they have hitherto enjoyed, and at present experience—conscious that the following work is calculated to show the deformity of vice, and the beauty and advantages of virtue, the Editor cheerfully commits the publication to their candid perusal.

[Page]

A LETTER From the Translator to * **.

SIR,

WHEN you first put Emilia de Varmont into my hands for my amusement, I was far from expecting that your favour would be productive of such serious consequences. On the first perusal of it my mind was sensibly affected with the interesting nature of the events it related. After communicating the substance of the history to several intimate friends, and finding their opinion of its merit accorded with mine, I was led, by an almost invincible impulse, to think of translating and publishing it, for the perusal of my countrymen at large. This, as I have informed you, would have been long ago accomplished, had I not been obliged, by a languishing state of health, to defer the undertaking.

By comparing the translation with the original you will find that I have taken several liberties. To the title-page I have made several additions, and instead of "Les Amours du Curé Sevin," I have put, Memoirs of Curate Sevin. Several names of persons which I supposed could not be pronounced by mere English readers, so as to have an agreeable sound, I have supplied by others, which I think may be pronounced with less difficulty.

As far as was consistent with a free translation, I have, through the whole work, with few exceptions▪ [Page viii] endeavoured to render the exact sense of the original. In several instances I have given an idea similar, but not strictly the same. In one or two places I have had the extraordinary presumption of giving a meaning directly contrary to that of the author: but I have made no alteration that will so materially affect the merit of the work as the lustre that it will unavoidably lose by appearing through the medium of a translation.

In reviewing, as well as perusing the work, I have frequently, and with much pleasure, observed the very natural and striking contrast between the vicious and virtuous characters; such as Madame de Varmont and Madame Florival; young Varmont and Bovile; Murville, who is an instance of libertinism, and Dolerval, his brother, who is a pattern of sensibility and virtue. The two sisters, Celina and Emilia de Varmont, are, upon the whole, two excellent patterns of religious life and virtuous conduct, though not free from the prejudices of education, and the little errors and failings inseparable from human nature. As they are victims of misfortune, in consequence of the cruel customs of their country, by which a hard-hearted mother exercised over them an undue authority, their history will afford an instructive lesson to our youth: for it will show them, by comparison, the salutary nature of the laws of their country, the superior advantages we enjoy for national and private happiness, and may teach them to prize, as they ought, those inestimable blessings.

In the letters of Murville, you must be sensible, are some expressions which could not, consistently with our notions of decency, be admitted in the translation. Some of these I have totally expunged from the work; others I have so modified as to render them less exceptionable.

From what I have here mentioned, it seems natural to remark the great difference between the sentiments [Page ix] of different nations respecting matters of decency. I would not be understood to have any reference to the unpolished part of any country; for we know that in all countries there are some low characters, who, in open violation of all established rules of decorum, will make no scruple of using language which the more refined part of the community would esteem highly indecent; but I would refer to the most polished part of a nation, by whose writings and conversation we may form an opinion of their prevailing taste. If we look into ancient authors, who were doubtless as virtuous as the moderns, we there find many expressions, which, if used by the writers of the present day, would bring on them the contempt of every reader; and yet those very authors, owing to the great difference of manners between the former and latter ages, could make use of those expressions without any impeachment of their characters. In the scriptures of the Old Testament, which you have doubtless read in our language, every subject is treated of with the greatest plainness: nor was there any need of reserve at a time when every subject might be spoken of without giving the least offence. Amongst all nations where civilization has extended its sway, perhaps there are none more scrupulous in these respects than the English and Americans. Perhaps France, your native country, considering the advantages she has enjoyed, has felt the effects of civilization as materially as any nation in Europe; and yet, in the instances before mentioned, we can discover in the conversation of the French people, almost as great simplicity as prevailed in ancient times. From what has already been said, which is much more than I at first intended, I would infer, that although we ought always to have in our writings a sacred regard to the prevailing taste of our country, and avoid everything which excites impure sentiments, we ought not to conclude that other nations are less virtuous than we, [Page x] because they exercise more freedom in their expressions.

Through every preceding age, the friends of humanity have had to deplore the perverseness of human nature, which has been the occasion of bloody and innumerable wars between different nations. These wars, which have been caused by the clashing interests of neighbouring powers, have brought on the dreadful necessity of inspiring the individuals of each contending nation with mutual hatred; we also, even in this enlightened age, have to lament that this frightful policy is still prevalent. Out of numerous instances which might be given, there are none more remarkable than those of England and France. It is well known to you, that it has often been the practice of the two different courts, while France was a monarchy, to teach their subjects that the opposite court and their subjects formed a nation of brutes. And notwithstanding the late friendly disposition which the people of the United States exercised towards France, it has also become fashionable amongst us, since we have received so many injuries by the detestable policy of the French Directory, to stile the French a nation of barbarians. Although it is probable that the late extraordinary war which France has had to sustain against internal and external foes, may have rendered the French people more so than at any period since Europe has been civilized, I am far from believing that the term will universally apply. The one to whom I am now writing, with whom I am proud to be acquainted, whose mind is richly fraught with all the knowledge necessary to render him an agreeable companion, and a valuable citizen, can evince to the world the absurdity of such an opinion. For myself, I am always best pleased with those who entertain as favourable an opinion as possible of nations as well as individuals. Tins disposition inclines me to believe there are many worthy charters in every nation; [Page xi] and that, in all countries, human nature is much the same, allowing for the difference of climate, modes of living, and prejudices of education.

Lamenting with you the wretched degeneracy of the French nation—a degeneracy which is the unavoidable consequence of war and civil commotions, I cannot leave you without expressing my warmest wishes that France may soon be restored to peace and good government. Of this, however, there is no promising appearance. Whilst many are expecting that the war will continue till Europe has reverted to her former state of barbarism, and others are looking for a more extensive civilization, it seems fruitless to hazard an opinion: for the great events which have followed each other in such rapid succession, since the revolution, have often baffled the prophetic skill of men who have formed their conjectures, on passing events, from the history of former ages.

I am, &c. M. NASH.

New-York, January, 1799.

[Page]

INTRODUCTION.

THE probability that the following letters may fall into the hands of some readers, who may not understand many allusions to the ceremonies and institutions of the Roman Catholic Religion, induces the American Editor to prefix a few sketches to the work, to render it more intelligible.

In the early ages of Christianity, after it had spread its benign influence, and become, in a great degree, prevalent in almost every nation on the eastern continent, it gradually lost ground, and its happy effects were greatly diminished, by reason of the wickedness and lukewarmness of many of its professed votaries; and the churches were rent with heresies, and torn asunder by headstrong, contending parties.

In this state of things, the Roman government, whose conquests and power had been coextensive with the world, undertook to connect the Christian religion with the civil power, and mold it to a system of state policy. The better to effect this purpose, [Page xiv] it became necessary to mingle the Christian, Jewish and Pagan religions together. The temples of the Heathen deities were converted into churches; the images of those deities, such as Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Minerva, &c. were taken away, and replaced with images of saints, male and female. The pure doctrines of the gospel were clouded with a multitude of superstitious ceremonies, by which its original simplicity was almost subverted. The ministers of the gospel, who before this time had been in an humble station, and, like Jesus Christ, their great Master, of a meek disposition; like him, never interfering nor meddling with civil government, any farther than practising, enjoining and enforcing obedience to it, were many of them, at this time, advanced to high offices in church and state, and invested with great wealth and civil power; whilst lower orders of the clergy were nearly as indigent as the common people: All of them, however, acting under the authority of the Roman Emperor, called the Pope, who assumed the title of supreme head of the church, and exercised complete and uncontrouled authority over all orders and ranks of men, both in a civil and ecclesiastical capacity. Every possible method was taken to throw all the wealth of the people into the hands of the church and state. [Page xv] The priests had the pretended power of forgiving sins, and, by their prayers, releasing the souls of wicked men from purgatory; for which they obtained frequent and sometimes large sums of money from the people. Religious houses of men and women were established, called by the different names of abbies, cloisters, convents, or monasteries. To these houses multitudes have repaired in every age of the Roman Catholic church, bestowed their fortunes on these institutions, or cast them into the bosom of the church for charitable uses, took a vow of living single through life, and spent their days in this retirement. This they have been persuaded to do, sometimes for the purpose of atoning for heinous crimes, or gaining, by their piety, extraordinary merit in the sight of God, to entitle them to a better place in heaven. The better to effect these designs, the people were kept in great ignorance; prayers were made in an unknown tongue; the common people were not permitted to read the scriptures; all the decrees of the church and declarations of the clergy were deemed infallible.

Thus the pure, benign, and heaven-born light of true religion was greatly obscured; and the true church, consisting of a small number of faithful and enlightened followers, like a forlorn, though beautiful and [Page xvi] chaste, female pilgrim, was constrained to wander here and there, without any resting place, to escape the defilement and persecution of ecclesiastical tyranny. It would require many and large volumes to enumerate the many instances of societies and individuals, who, in every age of this dreadful usurpation, nobly defended the cause of true and uncorrupted religion, and who, by the intolerant spirit of this corrupted church, were persecuted and slain because they would not adhere to its anti-christian principles.

Millions succeeding millions have been mangled and tortured to death by this MOTHER of ABOMINATIONS, because they would not subscribe to principles which they viewed with abhorrence, (the embracing of which they believed would expose them to everlasting misery in a future world) and renounce those on which they founded their hopes of eternal felicity. Candour obliges me, as a protestant, to acknowledge that this spirit of intolerance is not peculiar to the Romish church alone; nor would I affirm that it is any article of that religion to butcher the heretics. Every different sect of protestants which have arisen since the reformation, have discovered a degree of the same spirit: every one, in their turn, have accused the other of popery, and persecuted [Page xvii] each other, at least with sentiments of hatred, if not with fire and sword. In this particular, every candid protestant will allow that we have all had a little popery. This principle of persecuting another for a difference of opinion, whether in politics or religion, when it actuates a body of men, and is blown up into a flame by some ambitious and unprincipled demagogue, will always lead them to persecute or destroy those who think differently from themselves. The enemies of all religion have often urged this as an unanswerable argument against the Christian system. But surely nothing can be more unjust. We might as well argue that riches and health, which in their own nature are the greatest of all temporal blessings, are in themselves a curse, because some men pervert them to the vilest of purposes: or we might join with those mistaken politicians who would assert, that rational liberty is not a blessing to any people, because the modern government of France has disgraced the name of it by embracing a system of tyranny, and, under the mask of republicanism, committed the most enormous crimes. The fact is, that such is the wayward disposition of man, that every faculty of body or mind, every peculiar blessing or acquirement, is often, by a misimprovement of it, rendered a curse instead of a blessing.

[Page xviii]The limits prescribed me, will not admit of enlarging on this subject. It must suffice me to say, that it required several ages for this corrupt system to arrive to its highest state, and that, since the reformation in Europe, its influence and power have been gradually decreasing; and although in several nations, its influence in sentiment is yet considerable, the power of the Pope, as a political prince, seems to be annihilated.

The convents are large, strong and spacious buildings, some of which, with numerous apartments and grates to the windows, have almost every appearance of a prison. Adjoining these buildings are large gardens, surrounded with strong and high walls, especially those appointed for women. On the top of these walls are pieces of glass, or other sharp substances, fastened into them, so that no person can get over them but with difficulty. In the front of these buildings is a large hall, called the parlour of the convent. To this numbers of the religious belonging to the cloisters, sometimes repair for conversation. And when a father or brother wishes to see a daughter or sister who has become a nun, they go into the parlour, where they can see and converse with her through the grates of the windows. Some are distinguished by the appellation of royal convents. These are buildings of [Page xix] the noblest structure, and have all the external beauties of a palace. The royal convents, which are distinguished by the name of Abbies, are supported by government. They are established for the support of young gentlemen and ladies who are descended from the nobility, and whose fortunes are so small that they cannot live in the world in a splendor suitable to their rank.

The persons who are intended to lead the monastic life, remain in these houses for a considerable time, in a sort of probation, called the novitiate. The term of the novitiate is a year, but it may be lengthened at the pleasure of the candidate or director of the convent. It is required of both sexes to be uniform in their dress. The uniform of different monasteries is various: For instance, some orders of nuns wear a white dress, with dark coloured veils; others a black dress, with veils of a different colour. The veil is formed of a long strip of gauze, or some other thin stuff, which comes over and below the face to a considerable length. The ceremonies at the time of taking the vow are performed with great solemnity. One of them is, that after the woman has taken the vow of perpetual celibacy, and solemnly dedicated herself to God and a life of religion, she lies prostrate before the altar [Page xx] for several minutes, and is covered with a pall, to make the ceremony resemble a funeral, and signify that she is dead to the world. The women, at the time of taking the veil, cut off a part of their hair, and put upon their heads a sort of bonnet or cap, to which they fasten the veil, which they must wear to the end of their lives, and is to be considered as a badge of their profession. When a woman has once taken the veil, she can never go beyond the walls of the convent or adjacent gardens; nor can she, especially if she belongs to the stricter orders, ever see any man, not even the nearest relation, besides the priest and physician, except through the grates. She may, however, be removed from the convent to which she belongs to another of the same order, if she is displeased with her situation, and can give sufficient reasons why she is dissatisfied; but she cannot remove without permission from the bishop, to whom she is obliged to state the reasons why she wishes for a removal.

The monks have the same permission, but with this difference, that instead of applying to the bishop, they need only apply to the general of their order.

Time would fail me to enumerate all the various orders of monks; such as Capuchins, Bernardins, Jacobins, Benedictines, &c. [Page xxi] some of which shave their heads entirely, and wear long beards; others that leave only a narrow lock of hair on the back part of their heads, so contrived as to resemble a crown; others that wear nothing but sandals upon their feet; and some that go entirely barefoot.

At the head of these houses are placed persons of austere piety, who are to keep a strict watch over the persons committed to their charge, see that the conduct of their lives is conformable to their profession, and give them all the instruction necessary for their situation. To assist them in devotion, and serve them as a confessor, a priest is appointed to every convent. There is also, for every religious house, a church or chapel. Although in all the convents the priest has permission, at times, to visit every apartment and every person in them, he is not permitted to sleep within the walls of those appointed for women, but has a house appointed for him without.

The religious houses of women are sometimes made use of as seminaries of learning, for the instruction of young ladies. The nuns are employed for teachers. Here they can be instructed in every useful and ornamental branch of knowledge; such as reading, writing, plain needle work, and every thing belonging to an ordinary education, [Page xxii] music, painting, embroidery, &c. belonging to an education more refined: and if the nuns cannot teach them, they hire masters for that purpose. These privileges they can enjoy without taking the veil. Other ladies, at any time of life, having met with misfortunes, or any cause inclining them to retire from the world, if they are persons of good character, may occasionally repair to the convents, and, by paying for their board, may enjoy the privileges of retirement for any length of time, and leave it whenever they please.

In most of the large cities throughout those countries where the Romish religion prevails, there are one or more convents. Before the late revolution, the city of Paris,^* in France, contained three abbies of men, five of women, fifty-three convents and communities of monks, and seventy nunneries and communities of women, which amounted to one hundred and thirty-four in that city alone. It has been said, that the general of the Dominicans in Spain, has boasted that he could bring 200,000 monks into the field without any great diminution of their number in the convents. From this we may safely conclude, that the number of those in the aforesaid countries [Page xxiii] who lead the conventual life, must, in all, amount to several millions. Besides those built in large cities, there are some monasteries built in places of retirement, sometimes adjoining or in the midst of large forests, at a considerable distance from any inhabited part of the country.

Some convents are of an order who possess great wealth, enjoy the comforts and conveniences of life even to luxury, and are only restricted to certain rules, which are not very severe; others are extremely poor, and are necessitated to employ several persons to go into the adjacent country and ask charity for their support: some, on the contrary, are restricted to rules which have ever been esteemed, by protestants, to be exceedingly superstitious and severe; much more so than the mild and benevolent system of the gospel requires: for instance, there are some orders who sleep in their coffins every night, and every day visit their graves, out of which they throw a small quantity of earth to keep them in perpetual mind of death. The stricter orders never eat any flesh, have frequent and severe fasts, live upon a spare diet; but fish are sometimes allowed to all. There is an order of monks who make a vow of perpetual silence, and are, accordingly, compelled never to speak on any occasion until the time of their [Page xxiv] dissolution approaches; when, if any part of their history is thought worthy of being communicated, or any momentous affair lies upon their minds, they are at liberty to reveal it: of this the Benedictine Abbey La Trappe is a remarkable instance. It is seated in the diocess of Seez, which is a town in a territory of France, called Perche, in a large valley encircled by mountains. The monks in this abbey cover their heads with a large hood, spend most of their time sitting in a stooping posture, and looking downwards, by which means they seldom see each other. It seems to be a necessary caution, or an established rule amongst them, not to look at one another; for the expression of the features is sometimes so commanding, that it would be more difficult to keep silence. The description of the garden belonging to this monastery, as given by an ingenious English writer^* who has visited it in person, is so worthy of a place, that I shall here transcribe it in his own words: "Both the garden and monastery are encircled with a wood; it participates the gloom of the order it belongs to—every member cultivates his own solitary spot—instead of the luxuriant beauty of odoriferous flowers, is seen [Page xxv] only beds of herbs and vegetables, and plantations of tobacco, which all monks are particularly fond of. Around it are long walks of pines and cypresses, here and there intermixed with clumps of the same kind of trees; and benches placed at the roots of several of them, designed for repose or meditation."

There have doubtless been instances of persons, who, by a due improvement of the advantages these religious houses afford for contemplation and retirement, have carried their piety to an extent which can seldom be equalled by those who are embarrassed with the cares, business and customs of the world. But the condition of these devotees is so perfectly unnatural, so contrary to the original design for which man was created, that many have considered the cloisters better calculated to promote the purposes of impiety and impurity of life than those of religion. When we consider that the strength of human passions is not always diminished by privation, but is most generally increased in consequence of it, to the eye of reason it seems clear, that the convents cannot be favourable to religion or morality. The circumstance of the Romish priests being constrained to live always in a state of celibacy; their frequent occasions of entering the religious houses of women; [Page xxvi] their custom of being in private with every person at the time of confession; the probability that they are not all virtuous men, nor all the women in the cloisters of the strictest piety, have given ample grounds for persons of a suspicious temper, to form an opinion of their characters and conduct unfavourable to their reputation.

But the custom which prevails in all countries that have embraced the Romish religion, of parents sending their daughters unwillingly to the convents, and obliging them, by compulsory measures, to take the veil, that they may bestow their fortunes on a favourite child or children, or preventing a daughter from marrying a person they do not approve, is an instance of extreme barbarity. To behold an amiable and engaging daughter, possessed of every attraction, both of mind and person, compelled, by cruel custom and unfeeling parents, to linger away her golden morning of life in a conventual prison, where the expressive look, the enchanting smile, and every pleasing quality of her mind and features are all lost to the world, must be painful to the beholder. Those charms which were given her by the creator of the world for the wisest and most benevolent designs, and which some admiring youth of the other sex would have deemed an invaluable treasure, are secluded, [Page xxvii] by impenetrable walls, from all the endearments of society. Such a spectacle must excite in the bosom of compassion, the tenderest pity for the victims of tyrannical custom, and the liveliest indignation against those abominable institutions.

It is generally known in protestant countries, that celibacy is enjoined upon all the Romish clergy; but if it were not known, the necessity of saying any thing upon that subject in this place, is superseded by a note annexed to the 66th letter of the following work.

Respecting divorce, the law in Catholic countries is, perhaps, more strict than even the christian religion requires. Our Saviour himself admitted of one instance in which it is allowable. But amongst the Catholics it has generally been unattainable in any case whatever. In some few instances it has been obtained by a special license from the Pope, who, for a large sum of money, would give indulgences for dispensing with every sacred obligation. By reason of the many compulsory marriages which took place in European countries, the strictness of this law became a subject of frequent complaint. This has been eminently the case with France; and it was not late in the revolution before they attempted and obtained a repeal of this and several other ancient [Page xxviii] laws: but, unfortunately for the nation, the French, in their rage for a reform, have, in many respects, gone beyond all reasonable limits. Yet, if we consider that they were a people who were generally destitute of much information, and had long groaned under a vast weight of oppression, which would make even a wise man distracted, and often misled by artful and intriguing wretches who deserve not the name of men, we shall not be astonished at their excesses; nor shall we be over-liberal in ascribing peculiar depravity to the natural disposition of the French people. Perhaps it would well become the citizens of the American states, before comparing the conduct of the French with that of our own countrymen, and exulting in our superior virtues, to view them as emerging from the dark clouds of ignorance and superstition, whilst we, though not free from prejudices, are reposing in a clearer sunshine of moral and scientific light.

From what I have said in any part of this introduction, I trust I cannot be accused of wilfully misrepresenting the Romish Church; and, if I am inaccurate in any particular, the candid reader will impute the error to want of information. I am sensible that even that system, when unconnected with the civil power, is as little injurious to society, and, perhaps, blended with as few dangerous [Page xxix] errors as that of some sects of Protestants. Nor is it to be doubted but there have been, amongst the Catholics, men of very liberal sentiments and genuine piety. From many writers who profess that religion, especially in France, have proceeded sermons, and other writings on moral and religious subjects, that would do honour to any Protestant divines. They believe, in common with Protestants, in some of the most important doctrines of divine revelation. But we believe, notwithstanding, that they are in most egregious errors, in teaching for doctrines the commandments of men, and making religion too much consist in external show and ostentatious ceremonies.

[Page]

EMILIA DE VARMONT.

LETTER I. Celina de Varmont to Emilia de Varmont.

From the Convent of La Providence, at Paris, May 11, 1782.

WEEP for me my dear Emilia! commiserate the victims of the convent with sympathetic tears! Thou art no longer the consolation of thy sister—thy wretched sister, whose life is prolonged but by sorrows that will be lasting as its duration.

It was but this morning—yet it seems already an age, an age of grief and anxiety—this very morning I took the veil; the eternal sacrifice has arrived to its consummation.

And it was, my dearest Emilia, with the most cruel intentions, that the widow of our father, (who deserves not the endearing title of mother) on the very day in which he breathed his last, caused thee to be snatched from the convent where we had the miserable consolation of sighing together: it was necessary we should be separated to render us a more easy conquest; whilst we were united, we were too strong against her tyrannical persuasions. Not that I was blinded to such a degree as to believe your courageous counsels could [Page 32] have always protected me against the fierce passions of our enemy, or my own imbecility: for, having never seen the barbarous wife of my father but to sigh and tremble in her presence, I have not, in any encounter, been able to conquer my timidity or my terror. Sensible I am, that Madame de Varmont, with one threatening look, or one frowning word, could, at any time, overcome my firmest resolutions; and, sooner or later, notwithstanding your resistance, and even before your eyes, that she would succeed in forcing her victim to the foot of the altar: yet, as the day of my oppression became that of your deliverance, my great misfortunes should offer me a powerful motive of consolation. Ah! if you could bear witness to the despair which seized the breast of the unhappy Celina, at the hour she was compelled to be immolated, how soon would that just reluctance you have always manifested for this tedious, indolent and abandoned state which they call the conventual life, be changed to everlasting hatred? and if they had succeeded in forcing you only to try these fatal garments,^* this mourning habit to which your sister has been condemned for a year, alas, and now condemned forever! if they had succeeded in this, and you remained with me, by what means could they have ever forced me to pronounce those vows which, against my will, my lips have uttered, and which my stifled sighs would have rendered unintelligible?

But the woman who is called your mother and mine, was present. But how can she be called so when she has neither educated nor supported us? She is not so, for her hatred has constantly been [Page 33] employed to drive us from her, and pursue us wherever we went. For her darling son, and for him alone, she has reserved all her maternal tenderness. Of this he is a proper object, for his heart is an exact image of her's.

You have much to fear from this cruel brother; although he is scarcely twenty years of age, yet his heart is destitute of pity, and his eyes are incapable of tears. Could you have believed, that he also could come and attend the sacrifice of a sister? He attended it with an air of satisfaction! When the arches of the temple resounded with my cries, even strangers who were present could not but weep, and Madame de Varmont herself turned pale; but the young man was perfectly unmoved. Great God! I am terrified to think or his future destiny! for what dreadful fate dost thou reserve him? for what unknown crimes was he brought into existence?

Let this picture of my grievous situation, O loveliest Emilia, be always before your eyes—let it constantly maintain in your mind the liveliest anxiety. Do not forget, that the unhappy lot which has been cast for me, is the same they are preparing for yourself. You are not, I am sensible, so feeble and timorous as I am; this makes me hope you will spurn their wicked solicitations, their cruel intreaties, and odious threatenings. But I have still greater fear from their artifices, and warn you to be guarded against them; for they are capable of trying the most shameful artifices that can be imagined; for instance, they may tell you that Celina lives peaceably and contented; but Oh, if they should presume thus to tell you, shew them this letter, obscured by my tears and signed with my blood!

[Page 34]

LETTER II. Madame de Varmont to Emilia de Varmont.

Paris, May 1, 1782.

YOUR sister, sometime ago, reconciled herself to the only condition which become her fortune, and that of her parents; and I expect you will not be tardy in imitating so good an example.

I am so well convinced of this, that I have just now dismissed all your masters: For I did not suppose that a nun had any need of music, nor dancing; nor did I think it necessary that she should be deeply skilled in foreign languages; and as to your own language, you already know more of it than is needful for pronouncing your vows.

To-morrow morning I shall send for the principal part of your clothes. Your father delighted in inspiring you with a taste for luxury, and ideas of coquetry, by which he would certainly have ruined you. Besides, what benefit would it be to you at present, to have such an elegant wardrobe? for in eight days, at most, you are going to wear the dress of the novitiate. It this should chance to be a situation to which you can never be reconciled, do not accuse me of having forced you to accept of it; your reproaches are all due to the memory of M. de Varmont, whose shameful extravagance and dissipation have so far diminished his fortune, that the remainder is barely sufficient for the advancement of my dear son; the interesting youth who is the only solace of his mother, and the only hope of his family. But you, and your [Page 35] sister will continue your former idolatry for your father. And why should I be surprised at it? he was all simplicity, and you adored him because he was the torment of my life.

I must tell you, young lady, that I have but a few words to say to you. You are untractable, opinionative, and have a mighty talent for argument; but you must know that the tyrannical power of your father has ended with his life; that now it is my turn to command, and my commands shall be obeyed.

LETTER III. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

From the Convent La Providence, at Paris, May 17, 1782.

THE inclosed is a letter I received this morning from my mother, sent me from the parlour of the convent, which I send you in haste, being overjoyed to find that my two last have reached you by the way you pointed out, and that you consider it a safe means of correspondence. Although the cruel orders of my mother gave me no surprise, I was much astonished on recognizing the person by whom she sent them; it was M. Bovile, that young man of elevated stature, noble figure, and pleasing deportment, whom our father called his pupil; whom he sometimes brought home with him, and whose exploits he mentioned with unusual delight, when he returned from his late campaign.

[Page 36]"Alas!" said I, "with what a dreadful commission they have charged you! and you, Monsieur, the friend of my father, do you think he would have heard, without sorrow, at the close of his life, that they would soon open a grave for his daughters near that of his own?"

"I understand you," answered M. Bovile, "but I desire you, in the first place, to hear my defence. Do me the justice, Madamoiselle, to believe, that I had no sooner received the intelligence of M. de Varmont's illness, than I neglected no means of obtaining permission to leave Brest, where the duties of my station detained me. I have, unfortunately, arrived too late to embrace your respectable father; too late to save your elder sister, but not too late, I hope, to defend you."

Having said this, my dear Celina, he left me without further explanation.

LETTER IV. Emilia in continuation.

May 19th, 1782, 11 o'clock A. M.

ATTEND, my sister: he returned this morning, and you will be surprised at the extraordinary declaration he has made me.

"I come," says he, "to ask you whether you had rather marry than comply with the arbitrary will of your mother; and whether, from what you have seen of me, you have any objections to my person? As I have seldom had the happiness of seeing you, and am to you almost an entire [Page 37] stranger, I can expect nothing more. But what I say of myself with respect to you, I can almost say of you, Madamoiselle, with respect to me. If I should swear that I adored you, it would be a falsehood which you could not believe. But with sincerity can I declare, that whatever is interesting in your youth, beauty or misfortunes (and greatly interesting they are) makes a sensible impression on my heart. You are, I make no doubt, capable of inspiring the heart with livelier sentiments than these, and I am convinced that I might hereafter experience them; but this is what I cannot engage before hand. Many women who were, perhaps, as handsome as you, have never been passionately beloved, and were not less happy in consequence of it. All that I can promise you, therefore, if my offers are not rejected, is this, that none of those women who believe themselves the idols of their husbands, will have more reason to boast of their kind and faithful attention than yourself: for my wife, next to my country, shall always be the object of my tenderest care and most anxious solicitude."

When this extraordinary man had thus spoken, he was about rising to take his leave, whilst I, Celina, overwhelmed with a confusion and surprise, to which nothing could be compared but my embarrassment, stood listening, in silence, as if he had not ended his speech. After a few moments of silence, he thus resumed his discourse: "I have to lament, Madamoiselle, that I can give you but a few hours for deliberation; my ship is in readiness, and waiting for me, and the war calls me away. Reflect on this matter till evening: this evening I must return for your answer, and if it is favourable, I shall hasten to Madame de Varmont [Page 38] to obtain her consent; to-morrow we must be married, and the day after I must depart."

He then bowed respectfully, and went away; but in an instant afterwards he returned.

"Do not," said he, "put off the execution of my designs till the end of the campaign. I will not deceive you, young woman, concerning my profession; you must be sensible it is a dangerous one. Do not, inconsiderately, risk the repose of your life with the dangers of mine. But who will decide for you in this critical moment? Will you be guided by the customs of the world? I believe you will not; for they are preposterous, and will be of no avail. Decide, then, for yourself, and decide with calmness. Never shall I be tempted to believe you were in haste to marry, nor do I make these proposals on such a supposition; but I have taken the liberty to believe you are desirous of being freed from this confinement, and the persecution of your mother. I must now take leave of you till evening."

O my sister, what advice can you give me? it seems that I ought not to hesitate in accepting his person and protection; but I know not what answer to give him: I shall, therefore, wait until I hear from you.

[Page 39]

LETTER V. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.

May 19, 1782, 2 o'clock P. M.

EMILIA, if my memory does not deceive me, our father has been the benefactor of M. Bovile, and done him many good offices; and M. Bovile, in proposing to be your protector, acquits himself of every obligation. From a man who is capable of paying the debt of gratitude with so much generosity, you may expect every thing virtuous and good. Accept, then, his generous proposals: Bovile merits the great reward of obtaining Emilia. Accept his proposals—the idea of your happiness will sooth my misfortunes.

LETTER VI. Bovile to Madame Florival▪ ^*

Paris, May 19, 1782, 7 o'clock evening.

PARDON me, my once lovely, but now long lost Eleanor! I am, for the first time, about to afflict you with a subject which shall never be recalled to your remembrance. Yes, that Bovile whom you so tenderly esteemed—that Bovile who so passionately desired to obtain you—whose desires and endeavours would have been crowned with [Page 40] success, had there ever been a father disposed to give his daughter to the one who best knew how to merit her, by a love at once the most ardent and respectful—that Bovile, whose despair, when they gave you to the arms of another, threatened to cost him his life—that Bovile whom your ever respected commands, and yours alone, after such a misfortune, could have persuaded to live; yet had determined to live single, that he might always have it in his power to worship your image without distraction—that Bovile has altered his mind.

You wrote yesterday, if I mistake not, that my intended wife must be an engaging person; but you, more easily than any other person, will be persuaded that this is not the reason why I have changed my former resolution. I know otherwise, and what truth may not be told to you, Eleanor, whom no truth can offend, if it is not flattering nor dishonourable? there is nothing, I am sensible, more deceitful than the physiognomy of a young girl; I know that the most handsome are seldom the best. But if the one in question were the best amongst the greatest beauties, I could not marry in a country where the bands of Hymen are bound with such a frightful indissolubility, without some diffidence: nor am I insensible how necessary it is to know our own minds before we enter into an engagement which nothing but death can dissolve. Nevertheless, every thing conspires to convince me of the propriety of my conduct in hastening my marriage with this young stranger, the daughter of my benefactor, and rescuing her from the unhappy condition which they are preparing for her. But can she, in good faith, ever cause me to repent the hastiness of my proceedings? Admitting that this woman may one [Page 41] day be guilty of ingratitude, and wanting in due respect towards me, I shall then console myself, and justify my present conduct, by recollecting the motives which, at that time, gave me no liberty of choice nor reflection. On the contrary, what happiness, what supreme felicity for us both— what an inexhaustible source of enjoyment it would be, if I should find she possesses those virtues which I may justly expect! if I should find the sweetest recompence of my imprudent sacrifices in their very object! But be this as it may, can I, in this extraordinary instance, give way to personal considerations? Have I any right to deliberate when it is incumbent on me to fulfil an obligation? And if I should, in this instance, neglect the performance of my duty, would it not be one, amongst many instances, wherein self-love has given countenance to ingratitude?

We shall neither of us forget, Eleanor, that a ridiculous and discouraging prejudice threatened to make me languish in the obscurity of an inferior rank, in which obscurity I might have died, and been of no service to my country: but a brave man disdained not to take notice of the little merit I possessed, without inquiring into my birth and rank in life. Those officers who were noble fearing I might become their equal, did all in their power to prevent it; but my generous benefactor procured my advancement, and made me their superior; raised me in spite of prejudice, and shielded me from the shafts of envy. Did he listen to the mean counsels of personal interest, when, for my sake, he incurred the reproach of his fellow officers, and the enmity of men in power? Was the courage he exercised in not abandoning me to the power of my enemies, less than that by which I should now be [Page 42] actuated on marrying his daughter? That M. de Varmont, Eleanor, was a man superior to the present generation. Notwithstanding the enmity of a few individuals, our navy may well lament his loss: but to me, the loss is quite irreparable. To him do I owe my good fortune, my talents and fame. To him do I owe the unexpected happiness of having, in early life, rendered important services to my country. I am now going in haste to obtain the answer of Emilia.

LETTER VII. Bovile in continuation.

May 19, 1782, 11 o'clock evening.

HER answer was short and decisive: "If you can find any means, Sir, of persuading my mother to let me live in the world, it shall be the employment of my life to promote the happiness of yours."

Then I hastened to Madame de Varmont, and found her in company with her son, who were both struck with amazement on hearing my proposals.

The young man haughtily asked me whether I was noble?

"Yes," answered I, "the enemies of my country both know and fear me."

"I consider it of no consequence," said the mother, with an air of disdain, "whether the husband of my daughter be a peasant or a nobleman. [Page 43] But I must tell you, Sir," continued she, "I am far from being willing to rob my son."

"I do not ask any dowry for his sister, Madame; and to make you easy on that point, I consent to acknowledge that you have given me, for your daughter's inheritance, the sum of —."

"Two hundred thousand crowns!" said the generous brother, hastily interrupting me. "Two hundred thousand crowns let it be."

"Can it be possible," said Madame de Varmont, with an air of increasing astonishment, "that you are so strangely smitten with little Emilia?"

"I am not strangely smitten, Madame: but I consider that she deserves a better fate than that of being doomed to the solitude of the cloister. Her father—"

"Her father!" cried she fiercely: "perish his memory, and all that brings him to my remembrance!"

"What! maledictions against a worthy husband! What crime has he committed to merit such treatment?"—"What crime? I have had two daughters by him."—"Good heaven! is he not also the father of this son, whom you love so tenderly?"

"My son!" replied she sternly—"what right have you, Sir, to interrogate me about my son? Do you design to make me discover my secrets? Perhaps the time may come when they will be made known. But till such times as they are, I determine they shall be kept inviolably."

"I did not come to discover your secrets, Madame; I came to ask your consent that I may obtain Emilia."—"No; she shall share the same fate as her sister. An eternal obstacle forbids my consent."

[Page 44]Here the excellent young man conceived it his duty to interrupt his mother.

"If M. Bovile, however, will acknowledge the receipt of two hundred thousand crowns, I conceive that the greatest obstacle to the marriage is removed."

"Well," replied she, with an irresolute air, "but she must live in the world, and I should be exposed to the continual torment of seeing her."

On hearing this my indignation was excited to the highest degree. "No," said I, "God forbid! never, never will I give you that torment!"

"What security will you give me that this shall not be the case?"

"All the security you can desire."

"Could you consent that your wife should dwell in a foreign country?"

"If it was absolutely necessary—if you should exact it."

"Indeed I should exact it, and will give my consent on no other terms."

"Well, I give you my word for it, that your ill-fated daughter shall quit her native city the day after to-morrow, and her country in less than eight days."

"And never return to it?"

"I have but too well understood that such were your intentions."

"What security will you give me for the fulfilment of these promises?"

"A written engagement. The forfeiture of an hundred thousand crowns in case of non-fulfilment."

Upon this she turned to her son, and said, "Let a servant go and call the scrivener."

During this afflictive conversation the son, overjoyed at the success of their good contrivance, [Page 45] kissed his mother's hands. And now the scrivener has arrived, the agreements are drawn, and we have signed them.

Oh Eleanor! you ought to both pity and applaud me. Before you can receive this letter I shall be married to Emilia.

LETTER VIII. Madame Florival to Bovile.

Tours, May 24, 1782.

WHERE is the woman so insensible to the charms of laudable actions, as not to applaud your noble conduct? Generous Bovile! if I had observed the same conduct in any other man, it would have gained my admiration, but observing it in you does not excite my surprise: How I pity and despise young Varmont! How justly is he punished for his hatred of the interesting Emilia! How happy might he be if his heart was not unnaturally cruel! From how many, and what contrary motives to his, would some brothers have rejoiced on seeing you married to a sister!

And where can we find such a mother as Madame de Varmont? Fortunately for mankind, nature has seldom produced her like.

You have just given me great chagrin, Bovile, without intending it. Receive my confidence, for I do not desire to conceal from you any of my sorrows or anxieties but such as I am not permitted to reveal.

[Page 46]This young Varmont is counted a bad subject, and I was not ignorant of it; but I could not have believed he was so despisable as you have represented him. What gives me the greatest uneasiness is, to consider that Murville, my elder brother, is one of Varmont's intimate friends. Although my brother is of a good disposition, and a well-meaning person, he may be corrupted in his morals by such a dangerous connection.

I wish you would do me the favour of forming an acquaintance with Murville, and as he is in the navy you can easily find him. When, by your good advice, and the example of your virtues, you shall have preserved him from the dangerous counsels, and vicious practices of your brother-in-law, I shall be satisfied.

Yes, your brother-in-law! for by this time, without doubt, you are married. Oh that this union may be a recompence for your former misfortunes! Oh that you may be as happy as I am satisfied with your conduct! I weep, O Bovile! my tears are the effusions of a heart overflowing with tenderness—Farewell! and enjoy all the felicity so justly merited by your virtues.

LETTER IX. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Brest, May 28, 1782, 5 o'clock P. M.

MY mother, O Celina, has determined that I should quit France—that I should abandon my sister—that my exile and separation from you should be perpetual! All-seeing God! whose [Page 47] piercing eyes can read the thoughts of men, imprinted on their hearts, to thee can I appeal, and declare that I have never merited her hatred!

Of this circumstance I was unacquainted till very lately, even at this critical moment while we are preparing for our embarkation. My husband, wearied with my importunities, was not able to conceal any longer that horrible circumstance.

You may now behold in me an instance of a wounded imagination, surrounded by persecuting phantoms. No sooner was I acquainted with the dreadful engagement my husband had made, than I leaned forward against the window, upon my elbow, and gave myself up to grief. A young man, standing in the street facing our inn, gazed at me with so much attention that he attracted mine. Judge how great was my terror when I supposed it to be my brother, and was ready to shrink from his sight! yet, terrified as I was, my eyes were every moment mechanically turned towards the object of my fear; but he presently turned round and went away, when, by observing his hair, I discovered my error. My brother's hair is of a deep red, but that of this young man was brown.

In a few minutes we shall be ready to sail. I am going on board one of the ships belonging to the fleet of merchantmen, which is to be escorted by a squadron of armed ships, in which Bovile commands a frigate: for he chose not to expose me with himself on board a ship subject to the terrors and dangers of a naval engagement. We are bound to the West-Indies, and at the end of our voyage he expects to leave me at Martinique, where he owns some plantations. He purposes to spend several months with me every year, at that place, and will devote to me every hour he can [Page 48] spare from the duties of his station. Kind Heaven, that takes pity on the unfortunate, has reserved for me a recompence for my former unhappiness, and has given it to me in the best of men, and most generous of husbands. But ah, my dearest Celina! what will become of thee? Thou art now alone. Methinks I now behold thee in gloomy solitude! Thou hadst but one sister, and she is torn from thee forever. It will prove true, indeed, that on the day of my marriage I embraced my sister for the last time.

A letter has just arrived in the well-known hand of Celina, and with eagerness I am going to read it.

LETTER X. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.

Paris, May 25, 1782.

THE day before yesterday, Emilia, some hours after our parting, and your departure for Brest, the son of Madame de Varmont—indeed she insists on my calling her by no other name than Madame de Varmont; and since she, as well as her son, are nothing to me, and I have no longer any mother nor brother, he ought to be called M. de Varmont—M. de Varmont, then, has presumed to make me a visit; but before I had time to reproach him for his hard-heartedness, his avarice, and that thirst after riches which made him suffer, or rather desire, I should be sacrificed; before I could say one word against it, he said, "Your sister, I [Page 49] hope, is well married, and my fortune, in consequence of it, is greatly diminished; you cannot, therefore, any longer accuse me of ambition; for it was I who persuaded Madame de Varmont to give little Emilia a dowry of six hundred thousand livres."

As your had informed me that the generous Bovile, in order to obtain you, was obliged to acknowledge the receipt of a sum they had never paid him, you can easily conceive what an effect his speech had upon me. Desirous of knowing whether he was undauntedly persevering in falsehood, and whether he could support the weight of unmerited praise, I praised his benevolence, and extolled his justice. I can assure you, Emilia, that he seemed to hear me with that innocent and mild serenity, with that noble and virtuous modesty, which a few days before I had seen in your husband, and which I should have thought had never been observable in any men but such as were really benevolent. But learn, my sister, for it is necessary you should be warned how much you ought to mistrust this most fatal enemy you can have; learn, I say, with what reflections he rewarded my approbation of him: "Doubtless," said he (strutting about with an air of self-importance) "one would not willingly pay so handsome a sum, but it is likely that it may be repaid me at some future time: your sister is of a weakly constitution, and if she should die without any children, her husband is able to repay me her dowry."

On hearing his last expressions, I trembled with indignation, and could scarcely forbear in loading him with reproaches; but cautiously checking my [Page 50] resentment, I gave him an indignant, significant glance, and withdrew.

A short time since, a domestic of Madame de Varmont came to inquire of me, whether I had seen her son on the day before yesterday. It seems, from this circumstance, that he left Paris almost immediately after making me that visit. All that is known respecting his departure is, that he took post horses, and, for a servant, he took with him the insolent Lafleur, whom he has made his friend and confidant. Although Madame de Varmont has been accustomed to the absence of her son, she seemed, in this instance of it, to be more anxious than usual. The reason for her being peculiarly anxious seems to be, that he went away, this time, without taking leave of her: and I also, I must confess, am astonished at a precipitation so great, and so full of mystery. If he had nothing in view but going on those parties of pleasure which have sometimes occupied him for whole weeks together, and with which our father was so much displeased, it seems strange that he did not acquaint his mother of it, for he generally informs her of all his movements. What then can be his intentions? Where can he be gone? Indeed I care not, provided he will go so far that he will never return to terrify either you or me with his odious presence.

[Page 51]

LETTER XI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Brest, May 28, 6 o'clock P. M.

AH! what have I read? There never was a letter that came more seasonably than yours; but it has redoubled the terror and anxiety with which I was agitated before. Can it be that it was Varmont whom but just now I saw? Heavens! how tormenting it is to fear those we would wish to love! Can it be possible? It is possible, indeed, for I have been told that he might have painted his hair: and if it was he, most certainly he has not come here after me. What does he want of me? What more can he exact of a sister, who is going into perpetual exile? Although I cannot imagine what his designs can be, I cannot but tremble, and shall feel restless till I am on board the ship; alas! on board the ship which is soon to measure the immensity of ocean between the destination of Emilia and her abandoned sister! Pardon me, Celina, for mentioning the gloomy apprehensions which overwhelm my soul.

Cruel Varmont! he hopes my death; and perhaps he wishes it, that he may practice his knavery on Bovile! I must instantly warn him of our danger. Adieu, my dear Celina; the winds arise, and the officers of the fleet are impatient for our departure. Farewell—farewell!

[Page 52]

LETTER XII. Murville to Varmont.

Chateaulin, May 29, 1782, 7 o'clock evening.

YOU have become very humorous, M. de Varmont. Did you ever before come into a city where I was without making me a visit? And when was it ever known before that your hair, which I have seen of a beautiful red (not wishing to offend you), has, chamelion like, changed to so dark a shade, as to indicate some intended mischief at heart? However, lord Jupiter, in spite of your simple disguise, I knew you at the first glance of my eye; and if you please, you may ask M. Lafleur, your Mercury, whether I have lost my skill in physiognomy. At first he lied, evaded my questions, and swore it was neither you nor he; but I brandished my cane over him, and made him confess that he was Socia, and that you were really at Brest, acting the Amphitrion.^* I beg of you, my dear Varmont, to tell me the name of that happy girl who is the object of your metamorphoses.

But your rogue of a valet has ended in making [Page 53] me his dupe. I obliged him, as I supposed, to direct me to your lodgings; but, instead of that, he gave me a false direction. Yesterday evening I looked for you every where, but learned, to my vexation, that your honor was not to be found. This morning, at break of day, being called home by urgent business, I left Brest, wishing you, my disloyal friend, all the bad success in the world.

Are you not surprised that I have made so little progress in my journey, that I am no farther than Chateaulin this evening? I'll tell you the reason, my friend: 'tis because I am born to good fortune as well as you: for at day-break this morning, between Brest and Doulas, I found a prize, a sweet young female, upon the highway. You will be ready to inquire what she was doing there. I'll tell you, my friend: She was most gently winding her way towards the other world, and if my postilion had not taken care, he would wonderfully have assisted her in finishing her course; for he partly rode over her, which so affected me that I could not be comforted. Only consider, that even in a swoon, apparently dead or dying, her hands bloody, and her face wounded, she had still a thousand charms. Must she not then be supremely beautiful?

But who could have left her in such a situation? Some savage beast, most certainly! for it is impossible but such beauty must have disarmed the fiercest barbarian amongst men. The next question is, to whom does she belong? I cannot tell, for she is yet speechless. What I most wish to know is, whether she is a wife or a maid. But I hope she will speedily recover, and then I shall soon settle that point without perplexing her with questions. In such cases I prefer searching; [Page 54] and have more faith in its result than a thousand interrogatories. I love to see for myself.

In expectation of that happy moment, and as a preparatory step to it, I put the fair cripple in my post chaise. For that purpose I engaged fresh horses from thence to Doulas; for in the miserable village where we were there was no physician to be found. We came as far as Chateaulin: here I am, writing to you near the bed of my fair patient, who is scarcely any better.

I can now acquaint you with something quite singular, and which has not a little alarmed me. Whilst writing to you I chanced to mention your name, and had no sooner done so than she repeated it. Overjoyed at hearing her speak for the first time, I ran precipitately to her bed. She, seemingly, exerted all her strength to look at me; but with a look full of anxiety and confusion, "Varmont!" said she, "do you know him?"

"Know him," answered I; "yes, I am his intimate friend." Upon this she sprang to the other side of the bed, as if terrified at the sight of me. "Are you also acquainted with Vermont?" continued I. But the poor little creature was gone. Notwithstanding her swoon, the physician, who has not discovered any dangerous wound upon her, expects that in a few days she will be able to give us her history; and I have made a stand here, in order to wait upon her: she is well worth the pains; and when there is a fair prospect of her recovery I shall take her away with me.

Now I think of it, what a deal of noise they made last night in the harbour of Brest! Some infamous rascals attempted to burn the fleet and the convoy, which was soon expected to sail. It was said that the Pallas had been on fire, but the diligence [Page 55] of the captain had saved it. That Bovile is a prodigy of vigilance and activity, and although I do not like him, I am forced, in spite of me, to esteem him and do him justice. Well would it be for him if all his enemies resembled me; for he has a multitude of them, and some are most implacable. When I left the captains of the squadron they were in a disposition which forebodes nothing good to him. I will bet an hundred against one that he will not have a prosperous campaign. And what silly demon advised your father to take a subject who was but a common sailor in a merchant ship to incorporate him with us? Why should he wish to have him outstrip every body else, and support him as a captain against wind and tide? It was shocking to serve a man so; he might as well have drowned him.

Ah! I had forgot; I was told that one of the merchant ships in the fleet had blown up. Fie upon it! the accounts were exaggerated. As for myself, I had too much and too urgent business to permit my longer stay, so that I was obliged to come off without going into the harbour for particular inquiries. That the Pallas received but little damage, and the rest of the fleet remained unhurt, is important. But as for the ship blown up, it was but a merchantman, a mere trifle! As for commercial affairs, I don't concern myself with them.

Farewell, Varmont; I am going to feel the pulse of my little patient. If she does not run distracted on hearing the name of Varmont, and proves to be an acquaintance of yours, I will inform you. You must inform me who she is; what is the best mode of commencing an attack upon her, and what hopes I may entertain of being successful. But never fear; I trust that by the time [Page 56] your answer will arrive, I shall have nothing to hope for. You know I am not fond of long sieges, but best pleased with a sudden assault.

Since you are so prudently concealed in Brest, I shall not send this letter to you there, but shall, in great innocence, direct it to M. de Varmont at Paris.

LETTER XIII. Murville in continuation.

Chateaulin, May 30, 1782.

I REALLY believe she knows you; but am sure she does not love you: you must have given her some very ill treatment.

She passed the last night in almost continual faintness. Her attendants understood nothing she said, for her speech was incoherent, and her voice extremely feeble. Only in some instances, when her fever increased so much as to give her unusual strength, she cried out: "Fire!" and a moment afterwards, by a striking contradiction, she complained of a villain, who, she said, assassinated her, and cast her into the water.

That a daring young fellow might have wished to burn her, I can easily conceive, and, without difficulty, can conceive with what flame; and, provided he had not been unsuccessful, I could pardon the attempt. But to assassinate her! to drown her! to destroy heaven's master-piece, and give her the waves for a sepulchre! If the whole universe contains one man who could have conceived such a [Page 57] horrible thought, he might deservedly be called a villain. But I determine, for the honor of human nature, to support it as an impossibility, until such times as the existence of such a monster can be proved.

Could you Varmont, (a name she cannot hear without shuddering with horror), commit crimes of this nature? No; it is not even possible. What seems most probable is, that you have innocently conspired against what she, like all other girls, undoubtedly calls her honor; and as you are not very skilful in the art of pleasing, I can easily divine how the whole romance was carried on. In the first place, she repulsed your aukward addresses with firmness; then my poor friend called hastily to his aid the principle, that when flattering caresses will not avail, he may be justified in employing force. This, between you and me, is a little brutal. But avoiding digressions; in the next place, the affrighted fair one, finding every door fast shut, made her escape by jumping out of the window; and if, by misfortune, she met with any other accident on the highway before I found her, she will tell me what it was. But as for these surrounding flames, these pursuing waves, and the cruel assassin who wishes to destroy her, they are but consequences of her delirium in a burning fever. We know how greatly the mental powers are disordered when the body is tortured with pain.

This morning, as I went into her chamber, she opened her eyes, and in some measure recovered her senses: then she asked me, "Where we were?"

"At Chateaulin, Mademoiselle," answered I. I said Mademoiselle, because it is so agreeable to say what we desire may prove true; for greatly did I desire she might prove to be a girl.

[Page 58]"O that I might be carried to Brest again," cried she.

"Impossible," answered I; "it is impossible to take you to that place."

"Though I should die there," continued she, "I could wish to rejoin the fleet."

"The fleet has sailed."

"Sailed!" cried she: and with a deep sigh and a look of unspeakable anguish, she again closed her charming eyes.

This evening, having come to herself again, she asked me, "Where we were?"

"At Chateaulin," Mademoiselle, said I.

"But who are you, Sir?"

"I am Murville." Like an echo which reverberates the last syllables in a sentence, and multiplies them, she several times said, "ville, ville!" Then a little recovering her strength, she half-raised herself, and leaning on her arms, exhibited the most exquisite figure I ever beheld; her eyes were fixed on me, and her air was so engaging, that it touched me to my very soul. She had not, as yesterday, an air of terror and anxiety, but of interest and satisfaction: "ville, ville!" repeated she with a most charming accent. "Pray repeat your name, Sir; I heard but the end of it."

"Murville, Mademoiselle." She seemed to be fatigued by reason of the extreme attention she gave me, and could no longer support herself against her weakness, but fell down upon her bed almost as lifeless as before.

It is reasonable to suppose that the charming girl has some attachment, and although I cannot divine whether it is an attachment by love or marriage, yet I am confident she is some way attached to a happy mortal, whose name terminates like mine. [Page 59] So much the better for me; it is a fortunate conformity, which I consider as a favourable omen. Your name, my dear friend, sounds not so agreeably in her ears: hear what has just passed between us, and judge for yourself.

A short time since she asked, with tears in her eyes, "Is the fleet departed?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

"What! all the ships and all the Captains?"

"Yes, all."

"Then I must die! now I am bereft of every hope, and every support; and into what hands have I fallen!"—"Into the hands of a civil man," replied I, "who swears that he will never do you the least injury."

"No injury!" repeated she. "Can it be possible that I have been deceived? Have you not mentioned the name of a certain person?"

"Yes, I mentioned my own name, which is Murville."

"But another, another! Ah! it is possible that in my fearful delirium I might have been dreaming; and now I am awake, suppose it to have been a reality. Did you not tell me, Sir, that you were the intimate friend of —"

"Of Varmont; yes, young woman, I did tell you so." Poor Varmont! I am grieved for you! But painful as it may be, I must tell you the truth: This is the second time she has fainted on hearing your name mentioned.

[Page 60]

LETTER XIV. Murville in continuation.

Chateaulin, May 31, 1782.

BELIEVE me, Varmont, she does not love you at all. Hear the conversation we have had together, and you will be convinced of it.

"What have I done to you?" said she. Believing she was still delirious, I made no reply.

"What have I done to you, M. Murville, to deserve your hatred?"

This speech was so well directed to me that I instantly replied: "You have done nothing to displease me, young woman, and I am very far from hating you."

"Why then are you connected with the cruel men who persecute me?"

"I am not connected with them—I am alone."

"How! are you not in the interest of some person?"

"In truth I am not; I am in no one's interest but my own."

"Who delivered me into your hands?"

"You came into my hands by mere accident; you was dying on the public road. There it was that I found you; I took you up, and spared no pains to restore you to your senses."

"What were your motives?"

"Your situation excited my pity, and I was charmed with your beauty."

"But have you no intention of delivering me into the hands of him you call your friend?"

[Page 61]Observe this, my friend; seemingly dreading to mention your name, she avoided it by a circumlocution.

"No," replied I with earnestness, "I would not deliver you into the hands of the greatest monarch on earth; believe me, I should be supremely happy if I might be permitted to keep you for myself."

"And would you defend me against him?"

"Against him? yes, against the whole world."

"Will you take that engagement upon you?"

"Whilst you confide in my protection no one shall do you the least injury, I give you my word for it, and pledge my honor."

For a while she seemed to be more easy, and somewhat relieved from a load of anxiety; but a little afterwards, with an anxious look, she said,

"How can I rely on the word of a man who is his friend?"

"Truly, young woman, I cannot do myself justice without acknowledging that I am not a very good subject, but I should do myself no injustice by saying that I am a better one than he."

"Alas!" replied she, "where can a worse than he be found?"

This last reflection of her's shows how little she esteems you, and proves her to be well acquainted with your merit: but this is a matter of your own concern, and you must take it upon yourself.

For myself, I have sworn to defend her against every enemy. By these assurances she was so much encouraged, that her physician, in a few hours afterwards, found her much better; her fever was greatly diminished; she no longer appeared to be the prey of continual perturbation; those fits of [Page 62] extreme anguish which made us despair of her life had subsided. Her body, however, was still in a languishing state, and her mind alternately labouring under some weighty affliction. The departure of the fleet was to her a cause of great grief; insomuch that she sometimes cried bitterly.

Forbear, Varmont, forbear to lay claim to her, for if she don't cordially detest you, may the devil fly away with me!

Tell me, then, vain miniature of self-love, tell me, Varmont (in a whisper), whether you had not a rival who went away in the fleet whom she preferred to you?

In further conversation with her, I plunged her again into her former sad condition, by one unfortunate word. Who could have foreseen so great an accident?

"You are continually speaking of Brest, young woman; have you any family connections there?"

"Alas!" cried she pityfully, "I have lost all my relations!"

"Did your father go away in the fleet?"

"As for my father, I have but too soon lost him?"

"Your mother? your brother? Have you any brother?"

"My brother! my brother!" repeated she in a frightful voice; and on a sudden her countenance was entirely changed, and by a convulsive motion she threw her arms forward and her head backwards in a frantic manner; drops of cold sweat ran down her face, increasing with paleness to such a degree that I feared she could live but a few moments.

It is clear, Varmont, that amongst all those whom she considers as her persecutors, you are not the most detestable. It is evident that she has a [Page 63] brother whom she views with still greater abhorrence; and this is a consideration which gives me no small anxiety.

LETTER XV. Murville in continuation.

Langey, near Saumur, June 7, 1782.

YOUR silence astonishes me, my friend; you ought to be perfectly satisfied with my conduct. For three days past I have written regularly by every courier. Whenever I have quitted a public house, I enjoined it upon the host to send forward immediately any letters which might arrive from Paris, directed to me; but I can hear nothing from you after all my pains. Without examining any further into the reasons why you have denied me the information I might justly have expected from you, I am still willing to repose in you some confidence.

For a beginning I will take the trouble of reading over my former dispatches: after this inform you that a part of my conjectures is verified, but that the other was destitute of common sense.

This terrible brother who gave me so much uneasiness is the object whose departure she mourns, whom she often calls from on board the fleet; it is he whom she holds most dear: you have therefore no rival in the fleet. It seems, then, that the poor creature has had no admirer but you. This was quite unfortunate for her; she deserved a much better fate. But for me, who must be a great [Page 64] gainer by a comparison with you, it will be singularly fortunate. As to the conformity of that name, which terminated so much like mine, and which I considered as such a lucky circumstance, I feel more happy on that account than ever, for it happens to be the same as her's. She calls herself by the name of Terville. But what gives me the greatest satisfaction is, to learn that she is really a maid. M. de Varmont, I hope she is so in every sense of the word; I hope, that since you had the ill address of letting her get away, that she did so before you accomplished what she calls your crime.

Ah, the cunning little gipsy! because she wishes to spare herself the blushes that a relation of her tribulations and your insults might occasion her, she has besought me never to pronounce your name in her hearing, nor say any thing about you in any conversation. She has my promise that I will not; but I am not so much her dupe as to fulfil that promise; for I expect in your great frankness, that you will readily make known all those circumstances which her discreet modesty forbids her to reveal.

There is also another engagement she has desired me to make with her, which is, that I am never to give you any information concerning her, and above all things, not to acquaint you with her being in my possession: and as soon as I informed her what I could not but acknowledge, that you already knew how she came into my hands, she manifested the strongest desires of leaving Chateaulin and flying to this place. We came here yesterday, and the poor creature was so full of misery that we were forced to make three short journies of it. Since our arrival at Langey she has been much better; her wounds are almost healed; her [Page 65] nights are more comfortable; her fever is almost gone; and her appetite returns. How I rejoice to think, that in a few days she will recover her health, her winning graces, and florid complexion! then shall I behold her in all her native beauty; then she will be worthy of all my attention!

She has made me swear to protect her until she is entirely restored to health; but I rely on protecting her a much longer time: and though I promised not to give you any account of her circumstances and place of retreat, I see no necessity of keeping my word, because I do not fancy those inconveniences which she imagines may arise on account of such a disclosure. Can it be possible that M. de Varmont will be so unreasonable as not to yield to the influence of my stars, which have, in this instance, gained over his such an evident ascendency? No; certainly he will not be so obstinate as to pursue a handsome girl to my house, when she has only escaped from his arms to fall into mine.

Would it be just in you to look surly at me, in case I should not be willing to let you have her again? If you should, I would publish your extravagant behaviour. Am I to blame because you were never capable of winning the affections of one woman? Must I, when I have found means of winning those you cannot, immediately abandon them to gratify your spleen? Here, for instance is a lovely girl whom you have tormented and frightened to death; but I have found her, cheered and coaxed her, and prepared her for myself. You could never have done any thing with her; but I, in a little time, shall do all I can wish to do. In such a case you ought to give me a complete resignation. If you can derive any consolation from it, [Page 66] lament the loss of her. Cast a longing look out of the window from which she made her escape; but give up all thoughts of ever seeing her again. Are you desirous of trying my candour and justice on this point? if so, come to-morrow and see whether the weak creature will give you the preference to me; and, if she will, I will immediately give her up. Come, come, Varmont, say no more about her, but answer me without delay.

LETTER XVI. Bovile to Madame Florival.

Brest, May 29, 1782, noon.

O ELEANOR! fortune was soon weary of regarding me with smiles! so great are her first reverses, that it requires all my courage to endure them!

We were yesterday almost ready to sail, when the wind arose with such violence as to make us fear an approaching tempest. So great were our alarms that we remained in port, not daring to risk the convoy in such a dangerous storm as we apprehended would take place; but there was only a sudden gust of wind, which we ought not to have feared; yet, in obedience to the signals, we were obliged to come to anchor. This delay has cost us dear. There is every reason for believing that if we had sailed last evening, according to our intentions, our merchants would not have to-day to regret the loss of the richest ship in the fleet; nor I, Eleanor, the loss of a treasure unspeakably more [Page 67] precious than theirs; a treasure of whose value I had begun to be very sensible, although it had been but a short time in my possession.

About midnight, the Centaure, the ship in which my wife was embarked, blew up with a dreadful explosion. So violent was the explosion, that several broken, flaming parts of it were driven to the Pallas,^* and it was with the greatest difficulty and the most speedy exertions, that the burning of that ship was prevented. Conceive the horrors of my situation; the interesting Emilia is lost, whilst the salvation of my ship requires all my attention. Even at the present moment, whilst I am writing to you, I must not, and cannot without distraction, give way to grief for my loss. The interest of my country compels me away; I must depart; I must fulfil my duty.

This morning, whilst the necessary repairs of the Pallas were in forwardness, I went on shore, and made fruitless and melancholy searches for Emilia. The sea brought none but dead bodies to the shore; but neither the body of Emilia, nor any trace of her was to be found.

Unhappy woman! why did I not leave her in the cloister? In taking her away from what she called her tomb, I have more certainly brought her to an untimely end. When I put her on board this ship, I placed her on her funeral pile. Every precaution I have taken for her safety or happiness has produced a contrary effect. Alas! how unavailing is human prudence!

A consideration which increases my affliction is, that there probably are amongst my implacable [Page 68] enemies, some who are such accomplished villains, that no means of revenge would be left untried by them, were they ever so base. They had no hopes of beginning the fire on board of my ship, for they knew that my vigilance never slumbers; but they flattered themselves that from the Centaure, near which we lay at anchor, the flames might be communicated to the Pallas; they knew also that I would sooner perish with my ship than abandon it. This conjecture, horrible as it is, appears but too well founded. There was but one man saved out of the whole crew of the Centaure; and, if we may believe him, he was saved by nothing less than a miracle. But we all know the character of this sailor, and how disobedient he is to the orders of the Captain; for he jumps into the sea at the least appearance of danger. However it may be, his deposition is as follows:

"That he slept like the rest of the crew till he was disturbed by a light noise. He saw a boat, conducted by one man only, coming on board the Centaure, and one of the passengers received the watch from the side of the ship as he descended from it, and jumped into the boat. At the same instant he, the deponent, gave an alarm; but it was too late, for the fire was instantly discovered in several parts of the ship at once, and, in a moment afterwards, it blew up with a horrible explosion, although it was not laden with any warlike stores."

Now, Eleanor, tell me what you think of it, whether you do not believe the loss of the Centaure was more likely to have been effected by a horrible conspiracy, than the inexcusable negligence of the Captain. Tell me whether you do not believe they had been plotting my destruction. Cruel men! if they had nothing more in view than, [Page 69] by adversity, to soften the stoicism for which they reproach me, they have but too well succeeded. I lament the loss of my young wife, so soon snatched away from my enraptured eyes—perhaps from my growing affection. My young spouse is now no more—one of the world's fairest ornaments has been a mere hasty passenger through it. Alas! it has appeared but a moment to leave a more lasting remembrance of it, like a rose which we have seen in a fine vernal morning, ready to unfold its beauties to the sun, whose fleeting lustre and transitory graces we remember with liveliest regret in the winter, whilst surrounded with ice and snow. I mourn her rare attractions forever lost; but the most lasting sorrow I shall feel, will not be on account of her youth, talents, nor perishable beauty, but the train of amiable and substantial virtues, whose germ was implanted in her heart. I married her precipitately, without knowing her character and disposition. But whilst another possesses you, ah! how long a time would be requisite for making another choice so good as the one I lately made! I cannot but weep! Deign to think, Eleanor, that there are some misfortunes so great as to vanquish the greatest fortitude—deign to think that Bovile's situation requires the consolations of friendship!

[Page 70]

LETTER XVII. Varmont to Murville.

Paris, June 10, 1782.

INDEED, Murville, I cannot tell what to think of your sublime nonsense! A dear brother called from the fleet—a rival in the fleet—a girl escaped! May heaven confound me if I understand a word of all this!

Your Mademoiselle de Terville has many tribulations and fears. So much the worse for her. Does she have more comfortable nights? Does her appetite return? So much the better for you. Do all you can and all you please with her health and graces, it will divert me; and the devil take me if this is not the first time I have heard any thing about her.

To continue: my great frankness, Sir, will not, in this matter, nor any other, have any thing to do with your dull impertinence. I have told you a thousand times before, and now tell you seriously, that you make use of language so insulting that I shall not put up with it. Upon the whole, Murville, it seems you have written to me, I know not from whence, several letters before these I have received, which have not come to hand, and I consider it of little consequence whether they do or not.

[Page 71]

LETTER XVIII. Murville to Varmont.

Langey, near Saumur, June 12, 1782.

AHA! you disown the pretty girl, and are affronted. You are then more in love than I apprehended. That you are in love, I can easily divine, for I who am writing to you, am often ready to yield to its influence myself. Excellent person! how much more should I be pleased with her sincere and modest airs, if they gave less uneasiness? And since she seems so affected with my careful attention, so charmed with the least respect shown her, how can I tell her that I am disinterested? It would be much more agreeable to hear her speak of her gratitude, if she did not accompany the expression with assurances of her esteem. This begins to bear hard upon me; for the esteem of an innocent girl is to me an intolerable burden; and she is, I believe, as perfect a picture of innocence as I am of libertinism.

When I am not in her presence, I come to myself and return to my natural feelings; and in order to reduce my adversary, form admirable projects; projects sometimes so violent as would become a character like yours: but let her come into my sight, and I stand confounded in the unactive contemplation of her charms. Her charms, which even now, in the beginning of her convalescence, are superior to the vast idea I had formed of them! I stand struck with amazement, view and admire her, but can proceed no further!

[Page 72]But of what can I accuse myself? Is there at present any thing better to be done? The time for enterprises most certainly is not yet come. To attack her now would be the wrong way of obtaining her affections—this would be no better than downright violation.

I cannot deny that her presence confounds me: she speaks only, and I am disconcerted: she looks at me, and I am melted into tenderness; the agitation of my thoughts is instantly dissipated; I no longer feel any other than those silly emotions, the emotions which come from the heart. What an enchantress! How easily are the most ardent passions calmed by the accents of her sweet voice! What bold resolutions are vanquished by her timid looks! In short, how powerful is her weakness!

Good God! what have I been writing! it frightens me. Hah, it is done! it is all over with me! undone forever! I have become—amorous; in love after the manner of certain folks whose situation has often excited my mirth▪ Soon, without doubt, soon shall I be reduced to the blest condition of those amusing gentlemen whom we have often seen, and for a long time, dying with Platonic love: going perpetually from door to door, boasting of the innocence, severity and chastity of their mistress to every person they meet.

O no, Mademoiselle, no! you shall love after my fashion; if you don't, zounds! you shall go to M. de Varmont again; he'll attack you in a soft, polite and delicate manner, and will not shrink from your prudish airs.

In fact, I wonder at myself! what needless blotting, what wasting of paper is this! when I first began I intended to answer your harmless epistle in a word or two. Now I am not surprised that you [Page 73] pretended, as I supposed, not to understand my late letter; my valet, a Briton blockhead, who took charge of my dispatches at Chateaulin, instead of carrying them to the post-office, took it in his head to go and treat his countrymen at the tavern; having just felt in his pockets, I found my three first letters again, and now send them inclosed. Read them, my dear Sir, and you will find that Mademoiselle de Terville is really an old acquaintance of your's, and that all dissimulation on your part will be fruitless. To conclude; I make no doubt, but after a little reflection, you will get rid of that fit of ill humour with which you was possessed; but if, on the contrary, you determine to take the thing in earnest, M. de Varmont, beware of taking needless trouble.

LETTER XIX. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Langey, near Saumur, June 13, 1782.

YES, 'tis Emilia who writes to you; Emilia, by a prodigy snatched from the most threatening dangers.

You remember how I was terrified at the sight of my brother, and still more by your letter which informed me of his mysterious departure, and scarcely breathed before I went on board the ship, which I considered to be the safest of asylums. Senseless wretch! there it was that the snares of death surrounded me.

I slept there, however—but oh, with what sleep! what dreams disturbed my repose! an assassin holding [Page 74] his naked sword at my breast, demanded my life and inheritance. It was the young man I saw in Brest; but I was no longer deceived by the false colour of his hair; it was red; his hands also— merciful God! his murderous hands were stained with my blood!

On a sudden I was awaked by a frightful tumult, and beheld the ship in flames; I called aloud for Bovile, but he could neither hear nor assist me. My fear increasing as fast as the rapid conflagration, in order to escape the flames I fell into the sea. The sea in great commotion rolled with boisterous waves; often was I plunged as it were to the bottom of the deep, and as often raised again to the surface of the waters; at length being driven against a boat, I clung to it, and implored the assistance of two men who were in it, but who were scarcely visible, to take me in; one of them held out an assisting hand, the other—Oh, Celina! Celina! the pen falls from my trembling hand—the other— Ah, my sister! for pity's sake make me believe, that overpowered by a too real danger amongst the raging billows which re-demanded their prey, my imagination, tormented with dismal forebodings, and harrassed with the ideas of my troublesome dream, has formed an imaginary enemy and unreal dangers. Strive to persuade me, that though in the fearful disorder of my senses, I was not mistaken as to the frightful words I am going to relate. I might at least have been deceived as to the terrible voice that uttered them. With trembling, my sister, I confess that I recognized—I believe — I consent to say so—that I recognized the voice of the hard-hearted young man who lately came so often, in behalf of Madame de Varmont, to tell me that I also was born to die in the cloister. [Page 75] What I heard, and but too well understood, was, "What are you doing? Perhaps it is she! push her off! strike her!" O my sister, I hear those dreadful words a thousand times in a day! and in every interval of recollection the dreadful voice of Varmont resounds in my ears!

Believe me, Celina, however horrible my suspicions may appear, they are so well founded that I shall not be tempted to seek further information. Ah! I beseech you, let the execrable secret remain eternally between my sister and me!

I am yet so feeble and so dejected that I cannot possibly continue my relation; for those painful ideas which are frequently represented to my mind in all their horror, still overpower me. Besides, it grieves me to consider that it will be a long time before you can receive any intelligence from me, for I cannot, with safety, commit to any person the charge of my letters to the Post-office, and when, O when shall I have sufficient strength and liberty to carry them thither myself!

LETTER XX. Murville to Dolerval.^*

Langey, near Saumur, June 13, 1782.

WELL, how fares it with you, my dear Dolerval! you have not written to me in [Page 76] a long time. What has become of you? Will neither music, painting, geography, botany, nor a thousand similar trifles, give you one moment of leasure? That I neglect you a little myself is a thing of course, for I am constantly in pursuit of commendable objects. At present I am peculiarly engaged, having now in my mind, and hoping soon to have in my arms, the rare attractions of a young lass about sixteen.

How you would be charmed with the sweet creature! She seems to possess, in a supreme degree, that precious sensibility which has so tainted our unhappy sister, and which you are so abundantly full of yourself—yes, you, my poor Dolerval, upon whose beautiful countenance it may be seen at a mile's distance. Don't you know, my brother, that this effeminate tenderness of yours gives you an air of innocence that makes you look shockingly? So shockingly you look, that I am sometimes forced to confess to myself that you must have, in one respect, more sense than I have, or you could not, in spite of that good natured mien, appear to have so much sense remaining.

But let us return to the dear girl, for I strive in vain to speak of any thing else. Leap for joy, my brother! there is in the world one virtuous girl, and so virtuous as to make one tremble on approaching her. She is also possessed of such uncommon modesty that I cannot but laugh whilst her presence overawes me. Very bashful besides, as bashful as Dolerval by the side of a young girl! There is one thing between you and her, that puzzles me beyond measure. How is it? Do you take it upon you to mimic her prudish airs, or has she, on the contrary, really stolen them from you? When I behold her I can scarcely persuade myself [Page 77] that I see any thing more than a copy; but when I reflect on the innocence of your manners, I tremble lest she may be the original in disguise. It would be a fine affair to see you side by side! What an excellent subject for the imitation of a painter! Upon honor, Dolerval, she was made for none but you, and if I were but a little less taken with her, I would send her to you to-morrow in the stage.

But of this, my friend, there is no possibility; for I find myself in so good a way, and so far advanced in it, that I cannot stop. This morning I presumed to make her some proposals. That she was not surprised at them is very well; but I am very sorry she was not offended, for I could much better resist her anger, than overcome her mild confidence. Worse than this, she turned my attention to noble sentiments, and talked in awful language. I acknowledged to her, that I had a great veneration for the sublime virtues, confessing, at the same time, my inability of attaining to their heroism. But the presumptuous little creature foolishly replied, that she had too much esteem for me to despair of teaching me the practice of them. Tell me then, Dolerval, is wisdom ingrafted by accident? You who are so full of it must certainly know.

But a little while ago I was speaking of your innocence. What has become of it, Dolerval? What do you do with it? Excellent fellow! What a memorable example you will leave to the present corrupt generation!

The truth is, you are walking gravely along in the footsteps of your romantic sister! and as she is also mine, I could wish for her own good to advise her to change her course. Let her learn then, [Page 78] that when an old fellow marries a young woman, to bear his pocket expences, he must expect to put up with the little inconveniences of matrimony: and provided his young wife bestows on her old husband what little he stands in need of, she may in good conscience dispose of the innocent but troublesome superfluity that remains—a superfluity which her bosom friend has the privilege of using or neglecting at his will. Tell her this from me— understand me—let her consider it well. It will happen very naturally, that Bovile, whom, upon your word, I believe to be very amiable, may, at his next return, become very happy. Old Florival will have nothing to lose by this arrangement, but his wife will have every thing to gain. Then she will revive; then she will leave off pining in such a pitiful manner. Let her determine upon it immediately. This should have been done seven years ago.

I am not going to forsake you; upon you shall I be lavish in bestowing good principles—Oh that somebody would do the same by me! Give me your opinion, Dolerval, concerning the conduct I must observe towards Mademoiselle de Terville. Let me see whether you advise me to use violent measures with her or not.

Give me your sentiments, Dolerval, I beseech you. Varmont will soon give me his in writing. Take care that his letter does not come before yours. He will advise me to try my strength with her; but you will counsel me to effeminate behaviour. What shall I do in such case? I will tell you. Wisdom reposes in the medium of two extremes. I shall vigorously push forwards then towards happiness, which is the eternal goal of wisdom. And when the medium has given me complete satisfaction, [Page 79] I shall impudently tell Varmont he was a villain for his advice, and you, Dolerval, a poor simpleton for yours.

Farewell, my dear young brother; accept the assurances of my kind attachment to you, and present them to my sister. You are both of such an extraordinary make, that at times I cannot refrain from laughing at you. Nevertheless, you may be assured that I love you with the tenderest affection.

LETTER XXI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Langey, near Saumur, June 14, 1782.

HAVING recovered a little more strength, I am going to mention more concerning the crimes of which I began a relation. Recover yours also, that you may have fortitude sufficient to hear it.

The barbarian who pronounced the sentence of death upon me, finding his accomplice, less unmerciful than he was, delaying the execution of it, rose up and stood in the posture of striking me himself. I had a glimpse of an arm or something raised over me, and thought it necessary to quit my hold of the boat; and in order to save my life from the fury of a barbarian, once more to commit it to the raging waves, which were less void of pity than lie. Being not far from the shore, I was driven against it by one wave, and carried back by another, till at length I was cast upon it almost lifeless. In imminent danger nature is capable of wonderful efforts. Destitute of strength as I was, I found it not impossible [Page 80] to remove from the shores where I feared the parricide would find me. I rose up, and dragged myself slowly and heavily along for almost an hour, going all the while directly from the coast, lest I should meet with a brother, and getting further into the country in hopes of finding strangers, whose assistance I should not implore in vain. Methought the whole world could not terrify me, if I could only avoid the merciless Varmont. As soon as I felt the ^*pavement of a road I felt secure, and the little strength which was left me suddenly forsook me with the idea of my dangers. Not more than ten steps did I take upon the high way before I fell down deprived of my senses. Farewell, my sister; my eyes grow dim, my hand trembles, and I must take repose.

LETTER XXII. Dolerval to Murville.

Tours, June 15, 1782.

YOU are ever the same, Murville. What need was there of subscribing your letter when you are so easily discovered by your stile? Your satirical epistle was at first sight somewhat amusing; but the serious commentary upon it, given by Eleanor, most sensibly affected me. The sentiments of my sister are totally different from yours. Her powers of persuasion have much [Page 81] greater influence upon me than your satirical letters.

You seem to take pleasure in laughing at my sensibility. Are you not sensible, then, that from this source I derive my sweetest enjoyments? It is this which attaches to my innocent studies an infinite charm. It is this which invites me to delightful reveries amongst our smiling meadows and fields. Were I destitute of this I could not take delight in weeping with compassion in the cottage of the unfortunate. Without this I should not so often mingle my tears with those of my sister, whose secret sorrows have sometimes been soothed by me. Can even the pleasures you boast of be much more enlivening than these? You will, in the end, find them to be far less durable, and, depend upon it, you are making way for long and severe repentance.

My unhappy sister is now consuming with grief. M. Bovile, whom it is desirable you might have known—M. Bovile, who, by a long separation from her, has not been rendered less dear, has lately married the sister of a man whose friend you cannot long remain. What is then this passion of love that can so much disturb the purest and calmest souls, and change the most excellent of characters! What is it but this fatal passion which, even in the heart of Eleanor, resembles envy? Alas! my sister cannot bear that another should enjoy the object she cannot obtain!

You consult me in such a manner respecting the conduct you should observe towards Mademoiselle de Terville, as to acquit me from giving you the most indirect advice. You shall, however, be told, that had it been my good fortune to be in the presence of such an angel as you described, I should [Page 82] then set a higher value on myself for being in possession of that sensibility which would incline me to adore the woman deserving universal homage according to her merits. Then, with a timid and respectful deportment, I should endeavour, in her company, to avoid every thing which might give her the least displeasure, and, by every respectful attention, endeavour to gain her affections. Perhaps I might then succeed in obtaining a lover, an idolized wife—and my sister a tender, compassionate friend! O that this may one day be the lot of your then most fortunate brother—of him who would then be the happiest of men!

LETTER XXIII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Langey, near Saumur, June 15, 1782.

MY misfortunes were not so soon to be terminated. I was reserved to endure, at the same time, the most grievous pains of body, and most dreadful anxieties of mind. Judge how great was my anguish, when, on coming to myself, I heard somebody near the bed where I lay distinctly pronounce the name of a detestable person whose name was lately my own. I was apprehensive that I had fallen into the power of my enemy. The parching fever with which I was seized became more ardent, and in a long delirium which it occasioned, my assassin seemed to threaten me with both gestures and voice. At one time (and I shall long preserve the pleasing remembrance of it) [Page 83] some person, as I thought, mentioned the name of Bovile. I flattered myself that my deliverer was at hand, and expected an immediate relief from all my sorrows. Alas! I learned but too soon that the fleet had sailed; that the young man who had taken me into his possession was an intimate friend of Varmont, and I was ready to die with despair.

What course to take in such critical circumstances I knew not. To give an account of my misfortunes, and reveal my name, would have the same consequences as a particular indication of Varmont's crimes. Presumptions might lead to absolute proofs, and you know what a dreadful fate awaits the guilty in instances of this kind. It is true that I should run a great hazard in concealing these circumstances from him, although I am not under any obligation to let him know them. But would it not be equally, if not more dangerous, to make myself known? What reasons could I give sufficiently plausible, to persuade this friend of Varmont not to inform him that his sister had just escaped from shipwreck? Was it then advisable to let him have a glimpse of my fearful story? The advantage of greater personal safety could never incline me to do this, for I have supposed the more heinous the crime, the more I should strive to cover it with an impenetrable and mysterious veil. Why should I run the risk of falling a victim hereafter to a pardon too generously granted? Therefore, in order to remove every suspicion, I tried every means of deception. I told the young man who found me, that I was a girl; that my name was Terville; that I mourned the absence of a dear brother who went away in the fleet. A dear brother! Just heaven! why didst thou not give me one that I could forbear hating? To [Page 84] conclude; I permitted this stranger, into whose power I had fallen, to believe, as he already did, that Varmont became an object of my aversion by pursuing me with a criminal passion.

LETTER XXIV. Madame Florival to Bovile.

Tours, June 13, 1782.

THAT you need the consolations of friendship, Bovile, is undeniable; but why did you solicit them in such a cruel manner? Why did you, in addressing your complaints to Madame Florival, so far forget your Eleanor, as to oblige her to read all you have written in that letter? How happy must be that Emilia, though consigned to her watery tomb, whose apparently inimitable virtues have rendered her so dear, and whose all-powerful attractions have so suddenly inspired you with a growing affection! How happy must she be, if, after having borne your name but a short time, she still enjoys your tender, affectionate remembrance! Consent, oh consent! in behalf of any one who regards you as much as she did, not to be too much cast down with a sense of your loss, which, alas! must be quite irreparable! Strive to render your life as little burdensome as possible. Perhaps you cannot, without some sort of ingratitude, refuse this last request to an unfortunate woman, whose tender and perpetual attachment to you must have given her many painful hours.

[Page 85]

LETTER XXV. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Langey, near Saumur, June 25, 1782.

YOU shall now, my dear Celina, be informed of my real situation, and what are my designs. My husband's character was too well known to me to give me any reason for believing his speedy departure to be occasioned by indifference. I make no doubt but Bovile has sincerely mourned for me, whom he believes forever lost. Yet how could he, let his grief be ever so great, delay his departure on an expedition which he expected would greatly contribute to the success of the French arms? He never entertained a single thought of delay when the interest of his country required his departure. Bovile is not a man who would stand reasoning with his duty. For my part, as soon as my health becomes less languishing, I purpose to go to Brest, in order to embark there for the West-Indies. M. Murville, I am sure, will not refuse to assist me in going thither. The fleet was to put in at Martinique, and it will not be difficult, I suppose, to rejoin my husband at that place. There shall I bid defiance to the dark designs of Varmont: for he doubtless, by this time, entertains suspicions of my being alive. M. Murville was too hasty in telling his friend his late adventure of finding a young woman dying not far from the shores of Brest. But if I may give credit to what M. Murville has told me, my enemy is, at least, unacquainted with the place of my retreat.

[Page 86]There is one circumstance of which I had forgot to inform you, which adds much to the difficulty of my situation, which already has become extremely perplexing. This young man is a libertine in sentiment, and has already made me some proposals that alarmed me. I must confess that appearances seem to be against me, and may be plead as a palliation of his insulting behaviour. The mysterious circumstances attending all the events of my misfortunes before he found me, have, according to my relation of them, given a vast scope to his imagination. Nor can he be fully satisfied, although he knows me to be young, and may think me somewhat handsome, what those attempts of Varmont were which have rendered him so odious in my sight. But methinks this young man should shew more regard for my misfortunes, let him attribute them to any cause whatever. Although I might excuse him for conceiving a favourable opinion of me, and, since he knows me so little, for entertaining an affection for me, yet never can I pardon him for attempting to take an ill advantage of an unhappy woman accidentally put into his power.

LETTER XXVI. Madame Florival to Murville.

Tours, June 17, 1782.

O MURVILLE, Murville! to you do I address myself in despair! Take pity, my brother, on my wretched condition! An alarming account has been in circulation concerning the squadron [Page 87] which lately sailed from Brest. They have had an engagement with the English, and it is reported that the Pallas is lost. Bovile, alas! Bovile is no more!

Hasten, my brother, to procure the speediest information you can, and forthwith send it to me; for I had rather die than much longer remain in such painful uncertainty. Above all things, Murville, let my affection for Bovile remain a secret. Heaven knows the sincerity of my heart; Heaven knows that I have done nothing disgraceful. But oh, how unjust are mankind! they perpetually confound an involuntary passion with a premeditated intrigue; instead of pitying the misfortune, load it with reproaches; and condemn the virtue that resists its passions, as severely as the weakness which yields to them. Should my circumstances be known, the prejudiced, ungenerous world would only consider me as harbouring a criminal passion. They would not listen to the reasons which might be pled in its justification; nor would they believe how much I have resisted it, nor what evils I have suffered in its consequence. Then let them never know, let those hard-hearted mortals never know the secret pains of my heart which threaten to destroy me—the sorrow which will hasten me to an untimely grave. O that it had been in your power when you all constrained me to give my hand and fortune to a stranger—Oh that it had also been in your power to constrain me to give him my heart!

[Page 88]

LETTER XXVII. Varmont to Murville.

Paris, June 17, 1782, midnight.

SCARCELY had my letter gone out of my hands, than I repented that I wrote it. Do not, my friend, attribute the ill natured sentiments it contained to any thing but vexation for the loss I have met with. I could not believe the young girl you spoke of had fallen into your hands; but supposed you had been informed of my bad luck by the indiscretion of some friends, and was making yourself merry at my expence. This was the reason why I was in a passion, as I confess I was, and am sorry for it.

The letters which I have all at once received from you, have well convinced me, that I ought to dissemble no longer. Hear, then, a confession which I was ashamed to make. It is too true that I am acquainted with Mademoiselle de Terville, and have foolishly entertained that sort of affection with which you confess you are taken yourself. For the first time in my life I confess myself in love, and it is enough to tell you that I love to distraction.

How I bless the kind stars which have put her in the power of my best friend! Had it not been for this fortunate event, Murville, I should have died in despair. Make haste to restore me to peace, by sending back the charming girl. You are not yet so foolishly bewitched with her as I am, nor does the happiness of your life depend on the possession of her. On the contrary, it is impossible for me not to adore her. It is impossible to live without her.

[Page 89]

LETTER XXVIII. Varmont in continuation.^*

Three o'clock in the morning.

HEAR me, Murville: this is not the first time I have had reason to admire your penetration. It is true, that, inflamed with love for the little girl, I have handled her a little too roughly, and, as you justly imagined, gave her some ill treatment. I will tell you all about it in a little time, when I shall feel more at ease. It is also true that I never intended to do her any real harm. You found her, you say, with "her hands bloody and her face wounded!" But my friend, it was not my fault. She must have been benumbed with cold and wet to her very bones, and you forgot to tell me of it. And when you come to know the means she used to make her escape, you will be convinced that she escaped by a miracle, at the risque of being drowned ten times over. At some future time I will inform you more about it, and how she came to be my property; for she really belongs to me. This was the reason she detested me, or at least had the appearance of doing so. You know, my friend, q'il n'y a que le premier pas que coute. I am confident she will not be sorry to find herself in my power again, on account of what I have done to her. However, as she may at first be startled on seeing me, I shall [Page 90] have so much self-denial as not to come after her myself. I have a domestic, devoted to my interest, whose name is Lafleur, and I will send him after her. You may safely commit her to his charge. You can and must, Murville. I repeat it to you, that she is my property, and I cannot live without her.

LETTER XXIX. Varmont in continuation.

Five o'clock in the morning.

THERE is one thing, Murville, which makes me feel uneasy, and I hope you will have the goodness to enlighten me in this matter; for there is nothing which concerns her that can be indifferent to me. Are you certain that she loves this brother as much as she pretends to do? I should rather suppose she would not so much regard his departure with the fleet if he was not the only person on whom she could rely for protection against me. I desire you would not go to stunning her ears with any thing of this, but be so obliging as to inform me of every thing she says concerning this brother; whether it is really he on whom she relies for protection from the fancied evils that surround her. You have justly remarked, that the assassins, &c. at whose appearance she was so much dismayed, were consequences of her delirium in a burning fever. For where can a monster be found so savage as to attempt taking her life? He must, as you said, be a ferocious beast! a [Page 91] beast of unexampled stupidity! for what being, in human shape, would not instantly be sensible that nature had never formed such a beautiful girl to be assassinated?

LETTER XXX. Varmont in continuation.

Seven o'clock in the morning.

THERE is one cause of solicitude remaining, concerning which I wish you would question Mademoiselle de Terville. But has she not fallen into other hands than yours before my letters arrive? I should be grieved to the heart if the least accident should befal her, although, by her imprudence, she has merited great misfortunes. Why should she fly me when the most difficult part was accomplished? Wherefore escape, when, if she had stayed where I put her, all had been well? But you will soon send her to me again. I shall presently call home my servant who travels about the country in my service, and to-morrow I will send him after her. Delay not to send me my mistress by him. It would be dangerous for me to permit her to remain much longer in your hands; you would soon conceive a most violent passion for her. Besides, I am so sensible of your superiority, as to know that when she has once had a taste of Murville, she will be more unwilling to return to Varmont than ever. I thank you ten thousand times for not telling her that I know where she is: it will also be in my favour if you should not inform [Page 92] her that you are going to restore her to me. But make haste, Murville; there is not a moment to be lost. You ought, I confess, to both love and please her; but I must repeat it that she belongs to me, that I adore her, and stand in need of her.

LETTER XXXI. Murville to Dolerval.

Langey, near Saumur, June 18, 1782, 10 o'clock evening,

YESTERDAY your poor sister's letter was brought me, and in such a doleful style, that I was turned topsy turvy on reading it. I who have so long and so often disdained the idea of shedding tears, have just seen the time when I was almost ready to weep. But before I had time to begin my lamentation, I detached my courier, But O, with what news did the infamous blockhead return! such excellent news that I ought to be commended for killing two horses in obtaining it.

"It was said that the Pallas was sunk: that the miscreants of Albion had saved but seventy men from the wreck, whilst the rest of the crew, both captain and soldiers, had all gone to the shades."

More, and worse than all this; it was said that the misfortune of losing the Pallas was imputed to Bovile, by reason of his refusing to obey the signals. This is what I cannot give credit to, because Bovile has given many proofs of his respect for subordination. But he was abused—he is now in the bottom of the ocean. Long ago have I [Page 93] been heard to say that it was a silly piece of business in old M. de Varmont to put him in the navy. To put a raw, unexperienced fellow in the royal navy, is like leaving a beautiful woman in a forest to be protected by chance.

To complete the calamity, it happens that the same cursed frigate which drowned my sister's lover, has also drowned the brother of my mistress. Poor Mademoiselle de Terville! how could I be so beside myself as to interrogate the infernal messenger in her hearing? In such sort have I interrogated him, that one has fainted away, and is waiting for you to bear the deadly message to the other.

Dolerval, 'tis a sad commission which I give you; and although you must perform it, you would be but little better than a murderer if you should perform it abruptly. You must therefore exercise discretion when you go to her with this fatal message, and gradually prepare her for the completion of her misery. But see now! these are the sweet fruits of that thing called virtue, with which she was so infatuated! Had your sister, instead of sighing and pining away during seven long and tedious years with an useless flame, during only as many weeks set apart a few minutes in gratifying it, she might either have totally extinguished it, or greatly diminished its force. For say what you will, you sensible folks must pardon me, when I tell you that the wounds of Cupid are not incurable, provided the patient disdains not the necessary remedies to heal them, when well understood. Had Eleanor taken this method, Bovile might have taken leave of her, and she would have taken no more than ordinary notice of it; or, if the obstinate mistress could not but lay it to heart—alas! are there no [Page 94] more young men upon earth? And if they cannot be serviceable in running to the assistance of afflicted widows, what are they good for? And if a score of them will not suffice, perhaps a hundred will be sufficient, and they are easily to be obtained. Were this method once put in practice, you would find that the sorrows of a woman are not so inconsolable as you have been pleased to imagine; and that none of them are so lasting and severe as not to be overcome by a reasonable number of consolations. But the situation of our Eleanor has become so desperate, that I am reduced to the necessity of giving her no comforter but you. O wretched alternative!

But I have heard a piece of intelligence which puts me more out of humour than all other adversities saddled upon me at once. You doubtless remember that pretty girl, Dolerval—that little angel, as you called her—that little angel of such modest deportment, such timid looks and chaste mien, that I really believed she was a maid? No such thing, Dolerval! the agreeable news has just arrived by the post. Now tell me, credulous fellow, what female countenance we may henceforth believe in. How it vexes me! How it enrages me! Ah, M. de Varmont is the only one who can feel well!

[Page 95]

LETTER XXXII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Langey, near Saumur, June 18, 1782, 11 o'clock at night.

AT length I am left alone—at length I am at liberty freely to weep and complain. To this paper do I commit the relation of my new afflictions, which I hope, at some future time, may reveal to you every severe incident of my fate.

There was but one support reserved for me on earth. That support, O Celina, which was a hope of Bovile's protection, is, by his death, irrecoverably lost! Perhaps the consideration alone of the circumstances in which I am left by his misfortunes, might excuse me for being most sensibly affected with my own. Perhaps it might be thought, that because I had been with him but so short a space, and was, by his untimely death, delivered into the power of my enemies, I had therefore less reason to lament the loss of him as my husband, than as my protector. But the benevolent and nobly generous Bovile required but a short acquaintance to affect my heart with the warmest gratitude and most tender esteem. And how readily adversity enables us to form an opinion of mankind! The sister of Varmont, and prisoner of Murville, has little reason to believe that there are many who possess amiable qualities, and much reason to believe that she will forever deplore her recent loss. But so great are my present embarrassments, that [Page 96] they affect me almost as sensibly as my regret for the loss of Bovile. What, O Celina, will become of thy sister? Persecuted by the hatred of Madame de Varmont, and narrowly escaped from the fury of her son; a widow almost as soon as married; doomed by hard fortune to conceal from all she is connected with, the name of her family and that of her husband; without any resource, without strength or experience—What then can she do with the fatal liberty which remains? Alas! would it not have been better to have remained with thee in perpetual confinement?

But I was speaking of remaining liberty, whilst I do not enjoy any! This M. de Murville so far abuses the weakness of my sex, and takes such advantage of my unfortunate situation, as to keep me in confinement. Nevertheless, I entertain hopes that the omnipotent Preserver of men, who pities the oppressed, has not wrested me from the hands of a parricide to abandon me to the designs of an impious man. Let my strength be restored, and I shall elude the vigilance of my tyrant. I shall make all suitable inquiries and obtain all possible information necessary to my escape. Alas! was there but one virtuous man upon earth? Must I never meet with another Bovile? Although I would not solicit the disgraceful pity of any person, I ought not assuredly to blush when imploring relief from the truly benevolent. Is it not probable that I might find means of supporting myself by hand labour as many others have done before me? The meanest employment in hand labour, I am confident, would not discourage me. My courage would enable me to undertake it, and habit would render it supportable: so that, at length, I should be capable of enduring every thing, except the disgrace of leaving [Page 97] the paths of virtue. Be calm, my sister; a ray of hope has again enlightened and cheered my soul, and whatever event may take place, my fortitude shall not forsake me.

LETTER XXXIII. Murville to Varmont.

Langey, near Saumur, June 20, 1782, midnight.

IS she really your property? Have you committed what she calls your crime? Have you sullied her charms? If so, I am disgusted with them; she is no longer worthy of my notice. Take her again. Let your foot ambassador appear, and I will give him the little crippled princess—and may a thousand curses light on the head of that ^* Bulgarian who crippled her.

LETTER XXXIV. Murville in continuation.

June 20, 5 o'clock in the morning.

OH, Varmont! have you really had the hardiness of profaning so many charms? Alas! could not her timid modesty, native reserve, nor [Page 98] guarded innocence restrain your insulting passions? Could neither her ardent prayers nor tender tears affect you? This was no time for prayers and tears, young woman! you should pinch, scratch, bite, cry, and even swear! you should have raved and torn like a little fury! you should—you should have rather died than endure all this!—But, Mademoiselle, you proceed no further than crying and beseeching! you are then but a little fool with your large cunning eyes. But what do I say? I ought to blame none but the savage Varmont. You only are to blame. What feeble resistance must the frail creature make against such a powerful enemy! You have overpowered, crushed, assassinated her, in the true sense of the word assassinate! This was downright wilful murder. Poor girl! charming creature!—When I view her more attentively, and figure to myself your contemptible person in her arms, it sets me in a rage! At such a time I would restore her to you for nothing. But, at the same time, I would willingly fall on my own sword for the opportunity of plunging it into your heart.

From such men as you there is nothing to be expected but violence and dark deeds. You command, when you ought to solicit: instead of obtaining by persuasion, you wrest by violence: meritorious behaviour with a witness! The lowest bred fellow in the kingdom can do it as well as you.

But to soften the sorrow of a sweet girl in order to lull it to sleep; to flatter her self-love in order to lead it astray—her prejudices for the purpose of destroying them; to praise her virtue with a design of rendering it less rigid; to excite her gratitude by pretended benefits—her love by a feigned sensibility— her confidence by a well supported, respectful behaviour [Page 99] —her generosity by a benevolence without limits; to awaken her desires by raptures sometimes discovered, but immediately suppressed; to warm her tender heart by degrees with a thousand flames, suddenly kindled, but as suddenly extinguished—and at length reduce the goddess not only to yield, but cast herself into your arms, and voluntarily bestow the treasures of her beauty. This is what I now undertake, and what I call the master-piece of the art.

This I am sensible will not soon be effected; but, upon reflection, I find that I shall have sufficient leisure for that purpose. I have already too much worn out my youth with ordinary intrigues. At present I am willing to repose in the languors of an engagement half serious. I shall attempt to feel a sort of passion. What a glorious reward shall I receive for my labours! Never was there a more commendable attempt, nor any attempt ever made upon a more excellent object!

You may therefore be convinced, that if you should send your trusty foot-boy again, he will take a most fruitless journey. I cannot give up my precious treasure. Methinks I hear you cry out, What, what are your reasons for detaining her? You say, that you stand in need of her. Ah! your necessities are the necessities of nature! Fie upon you! it is morally impossible for me to forego the privilege. You are much taken with her, you say. What of that? I am an hundred times more so than yourself. I am inflamed by the passion with which she inspires me, and which she is calculated to inspire. You have, in the end of your extraordinary epistle, endeavoured to claim her as your property. I tell you it is false. Is it ever [Page 100] affirmed of property robbed or stolen, that it is the property of the robber?

No, no, M. de Varmont! you pray in vain; conjure, ask pardon, and exercise every mean art as much as you please, it is a settled point that you will not have her again.

To conclude; expecting I shall be at leisure to answer all the insignificant questions with which you may please to vex me, I consent to receive your apologies, and will stoop to hear your expressions of reverence for Murville. However, when you deign to acknowledge him superior to Varmont, I cannot tell whether you mean it for a compliment or not. Be it as it may, I can freely indulge you in such an employment; but as to the pretty girl, I shall keep her myself.

LETTER XXXV. Murville in continuation.

June 14, 1782.

IF you have any doubts remaining, my friend, concerning my veracity, your trusty messenger himself will tell you that the poor little creature does not love you at all.

Notwithstanding the ridiculous disguise of your valet, she seemed to know him, and she filled the castle with her cries. The amiable girl embraced my knees. This is no hyperbole, my dear; she really embraced my knees, beseeching me not to give her up to her most mortal enemy. This was [Page 101] unnecessary. Her better friend could not obtain her. But after your worthy emissary had tried, in vain▪ [...] artifice which a foot-boy could devi [...]e, [...] it in his head to assume the majesty of an ambassador! Like the Roman who carried peace and war in the skirt of his gown. M. Lafleur haughtily turned his pockets—when lo! a flood of plagues suddenly issued from it, in the form of a challenge in your hand writing! At first I received your manifesto with becoming respect; but your messenger growing rather too insolent. I threatened to commence hostilities, and intended to put the diplomatic spectre gently out of the window. Fortunately for him, a word from the girl was sufficient to put him to flight. She cried out, Monster! if you are not gone in an instant, I will discover all! And in an instant the monster left us.

After he was gone, and I had a little recovered from my fright, I read your billet over and over again. Your billet tells me, Varmont, that you have become very crazy or very crafty. Crazy, if you are willing to expose yourself so far for the little girl as to lose your ears in a quarrel with your best friend: crafty, indeed, if you propose our meeting on the frontiers of the country, with a design of removing me from the object of my desires. However it may be, I hold myself in readiness toward off every danger. I shall obstinately defend at home the treasure with which I should part more reluctantly than ever. If, on your part, you persist in your design of getting her away, come yourself, my friend, come to me. You will find Murville waiting for you, and that with firmness. By this means we shall each of us play our own part. It belongs not to the man who is assaulted, to go from his place.

[Page 102]However, if you are willing to hear good advice, Varmont, stay at home. Beware of coming even to the end of my green plot, to defy my valour. Although I am sensible that you are celebrated in the art of fencing, I can tell you, without assuming the style of a braggadocio, that I am somewhat renowned for it myself. Listen, my friend; all the subjects of our temper are obliged to end their quarrels by the sword. And if we were to be guided in this matter by nothing but the chivalrous honor, about which we make so much noise, fencing would soon become a trifling and despicable amusement. In order to give it all its due merit, let us consider it in every advantageous point of view. ^* To this we owe the happiness of practising with impunity those frequent insults and high misdemeanors daily practised by our genteel people, and which, in a little time, we could not practise at all, if we, like the multitude of honest people, were kept in downright submission to the rules of common justice. Indeed, it is very desirable that we should occasionally have it in our power to address a man who should be tempted to resist and make any noise in such language as follows:

"I confess, Monsieur, that I have knavishly won your money in gaming; that I have publicly insulted your wife at the ball—seduced your daughter —run away with your sister. Besides, I have insulted you, and published you for a coward; and now I am going to cuff your ears and handle you as I please, and if you don't take it all in good part I will kill you."

[Page 103]We must, therefore, allow it to be, for our present occasion, an excellent invention, that what places prejudices in opposition to laws▪ and allows force to supersede authority, allows us, at the same time, to dispense with having virtue and politeness, provided we are furnished with a sword. You, therefore, do very well to strut about with yours; and if you follow my arguments to the extent of their rigour, I am willing to confess that you may esteem it more formidable than that of Murville. But I would advise you to keep a good look out. When, by your persuasions, I first ventured into the high road of libertinism, I thought within myself that I might, one day perhaps, enter also into that of vice, by your example; and, should the devil tempt me to do it, I might, in the end, surpass even you in wickedness. In consequence of this conjecture, I took my measures accordingly. Believe me, Varmont, you had better reserve your intrepidity for a less doubtful occasion. Amongst pirates there is nothing to be gained but hard strokes.

Above all things, don't send Lafleur again. On his own account, he has little reason for caring to return; and for my own part, I shall be well contented to see him no more. The young girl had, before this time, frequently demanded her liberty; and since the journey of your lackey has threatened her with a journey to her master, she has redoubled her importunity. Surprising! could you have believed she would try to get out, and at the same way your ambassador had like to have gone yesterday? This I thought fit to oppose. The leap from the window, which, had it been performed by the gross fellow, would have amused me, appeared too dangerous for the little girl. For this reason I ordered all the windows of her apartment [Page 104] to be fastened with grates: and, in return for this kindness, she calls me a tyrant. So that my business, instead of being advanced, is likely to be retarded. Varmont, let me alone; as you cannot prevent my happiness, do not strive to procure the malicious consolation of delaying it. This would be miserable! O! I beseech you, leave me in peace, and do not send any more that despicable Lafleur!

If he dares to make his appearance again, I tell you beforehand, he shall not leave my castle until he has confessed all that the young girl, when out of her senses, was going to discover: and unless your wise confident prevents it by his flight, you may depend upon it he will be forced to make the confession which he was so much afraid of making yesterday.

To be sure, Varmont, it is of itself something of an exploit to do violence to a girl; but it often happens, that an action, though commendable in itself, is attended with an infinity of circumstances which conspire to render it meritorious in the extreme. Every thing combines to persuade me that, in your affair with Mademoiselle de Terville, the manner of the transaction was worthy of its beginning. It seems that you have even outdone yourself; for in your last letter, a letter so poorly calculated to enlighten me, with a world of inclosures equally insignificant, wherein the art which attempts to seem like nature, is discoverable in every line; there was not, I say, in all this confused mass of waste-paper, a single word to convince me of the sincerity of your declaration, that you would make me acquainted with this new mystery of iniquity. Do not oblige me to search into it. Although you are much younger than I, you have [Page 105] given me such frightful examples in the high road I spoke of before, that your disciple cannot learn to follow them. Varmont; Varmont, leave me in peace, I beseech you, and do not send any more that hateful Lafleur!

LETTER XXXVI. Murville to Dolerval.

Langey, June 24, 1782.

O BENEFICENT apoplexy! Why didst thou not carry off the old man several years sooner? Or why, O barbarous ocean! didst thou not swallow up the young man several years later? What surprises me most of all is, to think how Bovile could so unseasonably take leave of his Eleanor, precisely at the time her long-lived Florival concluded to bid us a long and pleasing farewell. Cupid seldom does his work so miserably as in the present instance. But now, my dear Dolerval, our sister is a two-fold widow! Shall we pity her? In fact I cannot tell. If on one hand we ought to mourn, we ought on the other to rejoice. She is indeed berest of a lover; but she is also disengaged from her old husband. I begin to be of your opinion, that, taking events together, the lucky and unlucky form a complete balance in life. There is, I plainly perceive, a providence.

Give then, to my dear Eleanor, if you think proper, two compliments in my behalf: the one of condolence, and the other of congratulation. You may, my dear brother, without offending me, address [Page 106] me in similar language. I cannot tell, for my part, whether I ought to be congratulated or pitied. Pray tell me, Dolerval, whether this sensibility you boast of is not a fault in our blood, an hereditary disease, which I have, perhaps, only softened by palliatives, whilst the cause of the disorder is not removed. In truth, I find it to be coming on me again in earnest. It incommodes me greatly, especially when I am near the handsome girl I told you of. In her presence, to my astonishment, several sighs have escaped me. In her presence my countenance loses its wonted gaiety, and has every appearance of a man attacked with your malady. The cunning girl observes my hard task, and endeavours to take the advantage of me. She improves this opportunity of praying me to set her at liberty. I do not know whether I told you of it, but I keep the little enchantress under lock and key. Methinks I now hear you exclaiming against me! Well, what surer method could you propose for keeping an angel against her will? To return to my subject: she asks, and I refuse. Then, with a tone still softer and milder, she supplicates me so feelingly, that your tender-hearted brother is almost overcome. Let a single tear fall from her eye, and my own are ready to be moistened also! Although I cannot but confess that I sometimes derive some pleasure from this condition, yet, upon a little reflection, it disquiets me and makes me angry with myself.

However, if the girl continues to make me so distracted, it is a wonder if I do not, on some favourable occasion, assume courage enough to shorten the adventure and finish the romance.

[Page 107]

LETTER XXXVII. Varmont to Lafleur.

Paris, June 28, 1782.

I WAS certain of it. Nor was there any room for doubt. But why was you so wavering, when you had just seen and heard for yourself? What good effect could it have for you to conceal yourself in the neighbourhood, and there remain idle? You ask for new instructions! Did I not give you every needful instruction before your departure? Did I not foresee the embarrassment in which you now find yourself? The challenge, you may be certain, was serious; with a design of intimidating the man, as the last resort for bringing him to terms. Why did you, seemingly, wait till I should go and expose myself by fighting with him? This would not be a good measure till every other had proved ineffectual. We shall, doubtless, obtain revenge for the ill treatment you received from him; but it is necessary that the most important part should be accomplished in the first place.

If there were yet any reasons for hesitating about making the first attempt, whilst I am warned to make it by the anxiety which almost distracts me, perhaps I should hesitate myself. But can I at present neglect doing that for the more important concern of our common sefety, which, at first, I attempted to do only to increase my fortune? Are you not sensible how frightful are those words: "If you are not gone in an instant I will discover all?" O, stupid fellow! how can they discover any thing [Page 108] when they know nothing? What does it concern us if they have discovered every thing? What most concerns us is to order matters so that they can never discover any thing again.

Proceed then—You are furnished with money and with arms. You supposed it an easy matter to effect the design. Make haste; there is not a moment to lose. It is absolutely necessary that what you failed of doing, must sooner or later be done. Assume a little courage. Give to the earth what the sea has so unfortunately rejected.

LETTER XXXVIII. Murville to Dolerval.

Langey, near Saumur, July 4, 1782, 10 o'clock A. M.

PITY me, Dolerval. What could even a man of sense do towards withstanding the snares and ambushes of a villain, or the tricks of an artful girl? There is nothing so crafty as the former, nor any thing so lucky as the latter. Which of them has corrupted my valet, I know not; but I know, to my sorrow, that the knave of a Marcel went away last night with my fair prisoner, and set her at liberty. From whence I conclude in my wisdom, that either the ungrateful Mademoiselle de Terville has intentionally fled, or the intriguing Varmont has found means to carry her off. In such a forlorn condition I stand in need of all my gaiety. Cruel creature! How could she thus forsake me? Never was there any event so little calculated [Page 109] to amuse me. Never did I meet with any misfortune so intolerable. I feel something within me which makes me ready to sigh. Is it self-love? Or, is it love? Tell me, Dolerval, for, at the present time, I am quite as willing to confess it to you as to myself.

There is one circumstance which hurts me. I have received orders from Brest to go thither immediately, and must not fail. This makes me afraid I shall be sent away during the whole campaign. If so, it will be out of my power to pursue either the handsome fugitive or detestable robber. But I shall send a man to Paris, who I intend shall ramain in that part of the city where M. de Varmont resides, in order to find out whether the poor creature has fallen into the hands of him she detests. Should this prove to be the case, I should try to be better able to recover my property than I was to retain it.

Adieu, my dear young brother. Sympathize with Eleanor in behalf of Murville. Since our destinies have such a resemblance to each other, I love her more than ever. Like me, she has lost the object of her tender desires; like her, I tremble lest I should be inconsolable. All these misfortunes have befallen her and me, in consequence of our being too virtuous and too tender-hearted. Take care of yourself, Dolerval. Take warning by me.

[Page 110]

LETTER XXXIX. Lafleur to Varmont.

Blois, July 2, 1782, 6 o'clock P.M.

LET M. de Varmont feel contented, for nobody can discover any thing more. The business is done. Marcel would do nothing without I gave him a large sum, and I gave him all he asked for. I was sure that M. de Varmont would not refuse to give him his price. As soon as the cage was opened, the bird went out of herself. For some time I was in a difficult situation, because Marcel came away with us: but he left us a few leagues from Saumur. About break of day, in a small wood near Tours, the bird sung her last song. I left her there dead, and covered with leaves.

I write to M. de Varmont from Blois, because I am sick at that place. The commission was so dreadful to perform, that I am frightened at the thoughts of it. I had scarcely courage enough to perform it. I am sure that M. de Varmont himself, though much more experienced than me, could not have done it without trembling. The bird had such a handsome plumage, and such a sweet voice, that I tremble to think of her, and feel very ill. M. de Varmont ought, in conscience, to give me a thousand louis d'ors, instead of the five hundred he promised me; for I declare to you, that I would not do the like again for four times that sum.

[Page 111]

LETTER XL. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

From the Parsonage of St. Cyr, near Tours, July 5, 1782, 7 o'clock evening.

NO longer, my dear Celina, can I hesitate to declare the unnatural cruelty of Varmont. He has endeavoured again to fill up the measure of his crimes.

Having, for several days past, been persecuted more than ever with the insulting proposals of Murville, I tried in vain to gain over Marcel to my interest. This Marcel was a servant of Murville, who was entrusted with the keys of my prison. Judge whether I did not redouble my efforts to escape, when a message brought from Varmont by Lafleur, gave me to understand that my enemy would do every thing in his power to complete my destruction. My entreaties became so frequent and so pathetic, that at length Marcel seemed to be affected by them. The day before yesterday we agreed on the manner of my escape. About twelve o'clock on the night following, I was to be ready to go away with him. He came according to appointment, opened the doors of my apartment, and it seemed perfectly suitable to the occasion that he came without light. We went softly down stairs, and hastened across the garden, where I was at first surprised to see a chaise and horses ready to carry me away. Marcel observing my surprise at this circumstance, said, in a low voice, "You must leave the neighbourhood of the castle as soon as [Page 112] possible; for at this time of night, if you should go on foot upon the public road, you could not get far enough to answer the design of your escape. My intention is to conduct you many leagues from this place, where I must leave you as soon as day-light appears. You shall then be at liberty to go where you please."

Satisfied with this artful speech, I stept into the carriage. Marcel fixed himself upon the back part of it; and so great was my joy at the idea of being once more at liberty, that I never thought of inquiring who the postilion was. Alas! as soon as day-light appeared, I knew him but too well!

Just after Marcel left us, I began to be terrified at finding myself in the power of a stranger. The postilion left the public road and went a great distance in a cross road farther into the wood. Then I was chilled with fear, and cried aloud. He turned his face towards me, and said, "If you don't keep a profound silence, I will kill you!" Ah, Celina! conceive, if you can, the horror of my thoughts at that time! When he looked at me I beheld in his features and voice, that of the cruel domestic whose appearance at Murville's castle, a few days before, had so much affrighted me. My eyes grew dim, a cold sweat ran down my face, and I remained in the carriage as motionless as a statue, expecting every moment would be my last; for I was confident he conducted me into the wood in order to take my life.

We had not gone much farther before we arrived to a dark recess of the wood, more gloomy than we had entered before. Lafleur here stopped his horses, when I screamed aloud, but he looked upon me with such a menacing aspect that fear chilled my voice. There was, however, I believe, [Page 113] something in my countenance and attitude which softened his barbarity. He then turned his face another way. Alas! he looked away only to recover his wonted fierceness, and soon resumed his cruel resolutions. Several times did he turn his face from me, and again towards me, in the space of a few minutes, which gave me alternate glimmerings of hope and returns of absolute despair. He often slackened the pace of his horses, and, as I mentioned before, looked again upon his victim with an aspect full of ferocity. There being no hope left but in gaining his compassion, I fell on my knees in the fatal carriage, and presented to the assassin my face bedewed with tears, and stretched out towards him my hands clasped together. This spectacle seemed to affect him, but the impression of pity was of such short duration, that I expected every moment that his work would be accomplished. So great was my confusion, that I died as it were a thousand times before receiving the fatal stroke.

Lafleur then armed himself with more courage, stepped out of the carriage, and, lest my looks should again dishearten him, he turned aside his eyes when coming cowards me: but I sprung out of the carriage and looked him full in the face, by which means he was again so disheartened that he could not strike me. Encouraged by an attempt so successful, I fell at his feet, caught him by the knees, and cried out, "No, no, friend! you will not do it: you are not so unmerciful as the cruel man who employed you. Can you, who mercifully reached forth your hands to assist me when I was ready to perish in the waters, have a heart to perpetrate the atrocious crime he commands you? Leave, Oh, leave the execution of this crime to [Page 114] him who was about to plunge me again into the waves! Can you fear that I, who kept my misfortunes and real name as a secret when I was with Murville, in order to screen Varmont from the punishment his villainy deserved, would not promise never to betray you, for the preservation of my life? This I still promise to do. I will go into some obscure village, and bury my misery and misfortunes together. Nobody shall ever hear any more of Emilia de Varmont. This I swear to do by all that is sacred. Go, then, to the unmerciful man who sent you, and tell him the work is accomplished. Let him rejoice at my unhappy end. Let him enrich himself with my spoils: and I shall always remember, that, when he cruelly determined to take my life, you had the goodness to preserve it."

Whilst I thus strove to awaken in his heart the sentiments of humanity, he seemed to be in a conflict with contrary passions. I observed him with the hasty, though strict attention, which we always exercise in imminent danger. On his countenance, which at first was an emblem of audacious despair, was now painted the irresolutions of anxious suspense. Happily for me, pity almost immediately succeeded, and with pity, repentance succeeded also. At last the happy moment arrived, when my assassin, if he had been able to speak, would have desired my pardon. His lifted arm now fell, and the sword dropped from his hand. Then I arose, ready to improve the moment as that of my salvation, and ran into the thickest part of the woods—and running directly from him, hoping to find some secure hiding-place. Soon put to the necessity of stopping to take breath, I looked back, and could not refrain from so doing, to see what [Page 115] had become of Lafleur. He was yet standing in the place where I left him. But why had he changed his attitude? Why did he view me so earnestly whilst I was retreating? The idea of my not being out of danger, inclined me to continue my flight. Fear gave me new strength, and I continued this time retreating, until I had the supreme satisfaction of hearing the carriage going away with full speed. Then finding my strength suddenly fail me, I fell voluntarily upon the ground, and wept with excessive joy. Then, with an address to the throne of mercy, imploring pardon for the impious wretch who thirsted for my blood, I gave a thousand thanks to the Almighty Preserver of men, who rescues the feeble from the cruel oppressor. My whole soul was penetrated with that joy which succeeds terror at the moment when impending danger is suddenly removed. I congratulated myself on the painful trial I had just experienced, since I hoped this might be the last; since I hoped, by this price, to purchase complete liberty; since I, at the same time, escaped, and that forever, the rage of a detestable brother, and the persecutions of a libertine.

But whither, thought I, shall I direct my steps? By what means can I find subsistence? Alas! of whom can I ask it? But why should I fear? I cannot believe that an unfortunate woman, who has not merited her distresses, can look for an asylum in vain. Have I not reason to believe that the ever just Providence, which watches over the wretched, has safely conducted me through a long and dreadful storm, in order to conduct me to a harbour of safety? Will it permit all the evils which can befal human nature, to fall on my innocent youth? It is not an unreasonable hope, that [Page 116] after so many sufferings, I may find some secure and honourable retreat, in the obscurity of a life ever laborious, in which, although I could not enjoy happiness, I might find some tranquility.

These reflections renewed my courage and hope. Then I arose and walked on with new resolution, to look out for some part of the country where a less deplorable fate awaited me. Soon did I traverse the wood in its full extent; soon did I find myself upon a public road, and discovered, not far distant, several steeples, which convinced me they, were accompanied with a large number of habitations; and a little while afterwards the mass of buildings appeared to be divided in such a manner, as made me suppose there was a large city near me with an adjacent village. The latter appeared more suitable for my situation than the former. I supposed that, in a village, I should have the best chance for concealment. In a village, where reigns a simplicity of manners, we are more likely to find the virtues of hospitality. Resolved by these considerations, I left the city of Tours on my right hand, entered the hamlet of St. Cyr, and knocked at the door of the parsonage. A young man opened the door, when I questioned him as follows:

"I wish," said I, "to speak to the Curate."

"Speak to me then," answered he, "for I am the person you ask for."

"Do you stand in need, Monsieur, of a servant maid?"

"No, Mademoiselle, I have no occasion for a servant; what I most stand in need of are the means of employing and supporting one: those persons, therefore, who directed you to me, do not know what a poor, scanty portioned fellow I am."

[Page 117]"What!" replied I, "do you refuse to shelter me under your roof? Is there no room for me in your house?"

"Room, yes, as much as you please; but of provisions very little, and of money none at all."

"For my part, I want only to labour for a little bread."

"As to bread, Mademoiselle," replied he, "I have not an abundance of it; but I will not refuse to divide it between you and me. We can gather here and there a few herbs to eat with it; sometimes a little milk, and sometimes a few eggs; but remember that in bread consists the principal part of my cookery. You desire," continued he (looking upon me with more attention) "to be my servant; but if your genteel appearance does not belie you, you were not made to labour for your bread." I interrupted him—

"The most simple employment, Monsieur, is what I most desire."

"Believe me," replied he with as much mildness as gaiety, "although you seem to have an excellent disposition, I cannot but think, after all you can say, that you are as delicate as you are handsome. The rude bustle of household affairs would incommode you. I take the charge of that myself, and am accustomed to it. You shall assist me in some small matters of gardening; you shall take charge of my linen, which, by the by, is not very good, and wash my two surplices, one at a time. Will you?"

"Very willingly," answered I.

"You surprise me, my charming girl! Why I tell you again that with me you will want every thing." Whilst he was speaking, I observed him with much attention. His appearance, like his [Page 118] conversation, inspired me with complete confidence. "Pray, Monsieur," resumed I, "let me know my fate—put an end to my perplexity—receive me into your house."

"Indeed, young woman, I wanted no urging in this matter; I only told you these circumstances beforehand, that you might know what you had to expect▪ One word more, if you please: Will you never leave the house?"

"Do not doubt it, Monsieur, I never will."

"And will you become my niece?"

"Your niece! yes, that is all I can desire."

"Well," said he, "you are in the right. Although the rich are sometimes the most lovely, they are seldom the most happy, and are rarely the best people." (Reaching forth his hand in as inviting manner) "Come in" continued he, "you are a welcome guest. I expect you will remain with me for several years. With me you will be poor and temperate; but if your disposition is like mine, you will, in return, have a good appetite, cheerful temper, and contented mind," Upon this I went into the house. I trust, my sister, that your mind is now relieved from the anxiety yon felt on beginning to read this letter. And as I am weary of writing, I will lay down my pen till to-morrow. To-morrow I purpose to give you an account of my conversation with the good Curate whom I have chosen for my master.

END OF VOLUME I.

EMILIA DE VARMONT, O …

[Page]

EMILIA DE VARMONT, OR THE NECESSARY DIVORCE; AND MEMOIRS OF CURATE SEVIN. A Moral and Political Tale. Founded on Facts.

Translated from the French of M. LOUVET, By MELATIAH NASH.

THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. VOL. II.

Virtue alone has charms that never die.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Vice is a monster of such frightful mien,

That to be hated needs but to be seen.

POPE.

NEW-YORK: Printed by T. & J. SWORDS, No. 99 Pearl-street. —1799.—

[Page]

EMILIA DE VARMONT.

LETTER XLI. Emilia in continuation.

St. Cyr, July 6, 1782, 4 o'clock morning.

HE invited me to a breakfast, which consisted of cherries and brown bread, and gave me some water to drink. Instead of my serving him, he waited on me, his servant maid, with much attention. Alas! if he had not discovered a most sensible interest in my happiness, I could have said nothing to him. Nothing but the repeated testimonies of his goodness could have given me courage enough for revealing to him that part of my misfortunes which it was necessary he should know. "Monsieur," said I, "if you do not conceal in your breast the half-confidences I am going to make you,"—

"Wherefore half-confidences?" said he, interrupting me.

"Because my destinies are frightful," replied I. "Ah! how much less should I have reason to complain on account of my misfortunes, if they were such that I could reveal them all! But I can assure you, that the disgrace of those misfortunes which I cannot reveal, does not fall upon me. No, it does not fall upon me, I can solemnly declare. [Page 4] Do not, I beseech you, refuse to believe me, for I am not insensible of the truth, that though dissimulation may sometimes be permitted, perjury can never be pardonable. You shall be informed of every part of my adversities which I can possibly reveal; but deign to remember that the limited confidence I repose in you, requires an inviolable secrecy. One unguarded word might prove my ruin; one word might discover to my enemies the place of my retreat; and I know them to be so inveterate as to come even to this obscure and (as you made me believe) peaceable retreat, to snatch me from hence. The unjust hatred and persecution of my relations have been the causes of all my ill fortune."

"It was the ill judged tenderness of mine," replied he, "which proved my ruin."

"They determined to make me a nun," continued I.

"And mine succeeded in making me a priest."

"Pray let me inform you, Monsieur, how I escaped the cloister, where their avaricious cruelty was about to confine me."

"Worse than that!" said he, "I could not escape the seminary where their ambitious kindness imprisoned me."

"A man into whose power I was placed by my persecutions took an ill advantage of my situation, and attempted to seduce me."

This last declaration most sensibly affected his benevolent heart. As my misfortunes appeared to him in a stronger light, he became so much interested in them, that his gaiety was suddenly succeeded by seriousness. He sighed, my sister, and then in a serious tone replied:

"That upon the first view of your charms, a [Page 5] man might be so transported as to be unable to repel a sudden passion; that this passion might at first inspire him with hopes of success, I can easily believe; but after having heard you, after approaching nearer to those innocent features, and that virtuous charm which your modest discourse, your decent aspect, and every trait of your angelic figure, equally inspire—after having admired the winning graces of your ingenuous candour, if he is not then captivated with becoming respect for your mild attractions; or if he should still indulge a criminal desire, I should deem it a prodigy. But go on with your relation."

"He attempted to seduce me. A new crime wrested me from his hands to place them in yours, which I hope may prove innocent and pure."

"Which always have been," cried he, "and which always shall be."

"But now," continued I, "of all the numerous gifts of fortune which I but lately enjoyed, not one remains. I am berest of all my relations, and have even lost my name."

"Here," replied he with his former gaiety, "you may find as many names as you please. I know the calendar by heart. Come, we will look out the handsomest and worthiest that can be found. Julia, for example. No, this would be unsuitable; Julia would be too noble for the niece of a poor Curate. The Grand Vicar would complain of it. We cannot do better than to diminish it: you shall be called Juliette: and do not be dissatisfied with it, for you will feel none the worse for being called by that name. At present," continued he, "you shall have nothing to do with household affairs. The day of your arrival shall be a sacred day; I invite you to consecrate it to [Page 6] repose. If, however, you prefer amusing yourself by examining every apartment of your new dwelling, I would have you do so. For my part, I must leave you, although with regret, to go and finish some urgent business in the garden."

The good behaviour and good disposition of this young man inspired me with complete confidence. Yet I cannot but confess, after all, that I feel somewhat uneasy. If my ears have not greatly deceived me, my uncle repeated several times, last evening, in a low voice, an extraordinary phrase: "They ought even to marry the priests." After we had done supper he pronounced it more distinctly, immediately left the room, and ran into the next apartment, from whence he brought a base-viol, on which he played with a pensive and melancholy air. After it was late enough to bid him good night, and I wished to do so, he still continued playing. Too much occupied to answer me, he rose mechanically, and, without saying a word, still playing on his base-viol, he conducted me to the door of the small chamber he had appointed for me.

Now, my dear Celina, I will confess to you my great weakness. On finding myself surrounded by four walls, scarcely whitened, in a sort of garret, where a matrass, three chairs, almost stript of their straw seats, a worm-eaten table, a bit of a looking glass, and some fragments of a praying desk composed the whole furniture, I could not forbear weeping. Child that I was! Is not peace of mind the first of blessings? And does it consist in the vain decorations of our dwellings? Is not the meanest cottage, where the vices of the rich and noble cannot reach you, vastly preferable to the stately palaces of the great, which are so many [Page 7] nurseries of cruel and effeminate passions? As for me, I have lately had a melancholy proof of the latter, but at present feel the favourable situation of the former. For several weeks of late, labouring under a thousand disquietudes whilst sleeping under gilded canopies, I never closed my eyes but with trembling; now, in a garret, I have slept in peace; early in the morning awoke with a mind free from distress, a clear memory, and composed imagination; with so much composure as to give you a long detail of the events and conversation of last evening, without fearing the malignity of my enemies. This I do from a conviction that there is nothing in my new situation which can fail of exciting the tender interest of my sister, or her impatient curiosity.

But tell me, my dear Celina, what you think of this frequent exclamation of my uncle, which, methinks, I could not misunderstand, and which gives me so much uneasiness? What, my sister! can a priest have passions like other men? Will not my honour, in the house of a priest, be as secure as my life? Perhaps I am blinded too easily with delusive hopes. It would be erroneous in me to believe my sorrows at an end. Oh, Bovile! whose compassionate tenderness may yet stoop with some pleasure towards her who still cherishes the fond remembrance of thy virtues, from the regions of eternal peace, whence thou can'st descend to watch over her, deign to come, O exalted and benevolent spirit! to pity, protect, and enlighten thy once loved Emilia! Through what dreadful storms has she, by her cruel enemies, been driven into this port; where, perhaps, she rejoices with too much security in a calm which may yet prove deceitful!

[Page 8]

LETTER XLII. Emilia in continuation.

St. Cyr, July 6, 1782, 5 o'clock P. M.

I AM much encouraged, my sister. As soon as I made my appearance this morning, my uncle came hastily to me and said:—

"As many impertinent persons may soon trouble you with embarrassing questions concerning our relation to each other, it will be necessary, my niece, that you become acquainted with the family of your uncle. M. Jerome Sevin, the father of your uncle, is, in fact, the only physician of the animals in his village. His forefathers have, for a century, inherited the privilege of bequeathing farriers to Nanterre. And I also, in all probability, was made by heaven to give shoes and physic in my turn to the ^*jades of the canton. Oh, why did the authors of my being permit the rage of aggrandizement to ferment in their brains! It is true, that they hoped, by means of this black coat, to make my fortune and their salvation. O that their prayers may be heard! and may they hereafter revive in the next world, as happy as I remain poor in the present! In the present, my niece, whoever will not condescend to cringe to his betters and flatter them, will never arrive to preferment: and one who is quite incapable of flattering the passions of men, might practise the art of curing diseased horses with great success. I was, however, the [Page 9] dear vicar of a Norman Curate—that is to say, his proud tithing man. But in order to render his friendship profitable to me, it was necessary to court, with assiduity, the maid of the grand vicar, the principal lacquies of my bishop, his secretary, a man of no less influence, his little favourite dog, his quarterly man-servant, and his weekly mistress. Never could I condescend to so much cringing. For which reason, my benefactor, with all his influence, succeeded no farther than casting me into this ruined parsonage, a mere ^* apostolical by-lane, in which I am obliged to consume annually, till death ensues, and, at my own risk, the enormous sum of five hundred livres. My poor relations, notwithstanding, were all overjoyed at the news of my promotion. My mother, strong in the faith of my sacred meditation, believed herself thenceforth sure of paradise. By these means she supposed the vast doors of heaven were already unfolded, and persuaded herself that nothing was wanting in order to gain admittance, but a change of my name. My father, more sensibly affected with the good things of this life, did not derive his highest satisfaction from considering that the most topping folks in the village pulled off their hats to his son. Both of them, however, spoke with pride, respect, and admiration of their son, the Rev. Curate! How would the good people be astonished, if I should try to convince them, that Sevin would have lived more contentedly in the laborious and obscure profession of his forefathers! There is nothing, I confess, very laborious in the [Page 10] office of a priest. It chiefly consists in humming over a few phrases in an unknown tongue; and since nobody understands them, no matter how awkwardly. Nor is it very difficult to harrangue in that convenient tribune, where we have acquired the privilege of being always in the right. And I cannot but think, that my equals, who, like me, were born simple peasants, must feel their vanity wonderfully raised, when they consider what respect is devolved on one of their equals, and are not less sensible of the more profitable honor he attains to, of picking, periodically, at the table of the lady of the village. But are not these enjoyments, which we may even call imaginary, these unfrequent entertainments of my condition, too cruelly purchased by the sacrifice of those real pleasures to which nature sometimes invites us, the desire and opportunity of which we must never improve? And where can the pastor be found, who can often publish the bands of matrimony without a secret disquietude, and receive without emotion the confession of a handsome girl, after she has gone astray, and be always ready, whenever required, by the charm of sacramental words, to make man and wife of two lovers? Can he cheerfully accord thus to others that sweetest license, which he, poor bachelor, has not for himself? I acknowledge," continued he with warmth, "that you may at first be surprised at this discourse; but it would wound me to the heart, if it should much longer give you any alarm. At the first sight of your beauty, I was surprised, and found my resolution ready to forsake me. But if I am not deceived, my weakness was momentary. Could I even suppose, young woman, that you were not innocent, or could I become less sensible of the duties [Page 11] towards you which hospitality enjoins upon me, I flatter myself, notwithstanding, that I should have fortitude enough to remember my vows. Religious vows should be kept inviolably. As for mine, whatever trials and struggles they may cost me, they shall be held sacred until the happy day, which I cannot but hope for, when the most humane of laws shall relieve me from them. Whilst waiting for that happy period, forgive my complaining. Permit me, my niece, to offer you also the confidence with which I salute every visitant. Prepare yourself to hear me often stun your ears with my favourite phrase: "They ought to marry the priests."

"Do not fear that I shall be very troublesome on the occasion of these repetitions: for, by an effect of my temper, which is naturally submissive, I compose myself under the evils I experience, so as to view them in the most favourable light. Although I have not succeeeded in feeling satisfied with my lot, I have acquired, without much difficulty, the habit of supporting it with gaiety. Perhaps I might soon consider my situation almost enviable, if I could sometimes alleviate the miseries of my poor parishioners without the generous assistance of my friends."

These reflections of my adopted uncle charmed me. But I derived the highest opinion of his goodness, from the certain proof he gave me, that his desire of benevolence was not alone, but accompanied with real acts of generosity. After we had spent several hours in the garden, myself employed in propping the plants, and he, by turns, handling the rake and the spade; the good air, his exercise, and the heat of the day, had equally contributed to his ardent thirst and keen appetite. [Page 12] When we came to sit at the table, one would have thought that he alone would have devoured the plate of greens prepared for us both; that he alone would have emptied the bottle already unstopped. Then, instead of filling his glass, he asked me "if I had a relish for wine?" Almost chagrined at my refusal, he protested I was wrong in never drinking any, and that he was right in loving it. "But I tremble," cried he, "in being unable to this day to swallow any thing except pure water. At the slightest indisposition of the people in the village, they are ordered to diet, and they are well advised; but wine and broth are most needful for my peasants, who are never sick but with hunger and fatigue: and as there is in this village," continued he, "a poor infirm man, for whom this is absolutely necessary, it is clear that I ought to deny it to myself, for whom it would be a superfluity; since, thank God, I am always in good health. Go then, Juliette, (giving me the bottle,) pray somebody to show you the way to the house of Lucas the weaver. Go, let them receive the salutary present from your hands. When they see your behaviour, hear your language, and observe the magnificence of your present, his wretched family will believe you are nothing less than an angel sent from heaven. Deny yourself, my girl, the honors of deification; modestly confess yourself to be a mortal, and what is still worse, the niece of the poor Curate who sent you."

You cannot imagine, my sister, with what transports the good people received me; with how many thanks my present was received, nor what a high character they gave their excellent pastor. I believe, that next to the uncommon generosity of the benefactor, there cannot be any thing more [Page 13] humorously affecting, than the extreme gratitude of the obliged. When I returned to the parsonage I went in smiling, but with tears in my eyes.

"Very well, very well!" said my uncle, "you seem to be affected; you have then a generous heart." Then taking me by the hand, he added: "Juliette, I should have been well pleased with the commission myself; but I rather chose to give that pleasure to you."

Indeed, my dear Celina, I shall never forget this affecting interview. I begin to hope that peaceful days, and even days of real enjoyment, are reserved for me in this obscure retreat.

LETTER XLIII. Emilia in continuation.

St. Cyr, July 7, 1782.

EVERY inclination of my uncle evinces his sensibility. This evening, in a sort of hall, I observed several instruments of music: my state of mind was such as to leave me no inclination for exerting my feeble talents, and had it even been otherwise, I should have thought it most advisable not to discover them. "As little as you like music," said my uncle, "I purpose to learn you what little I know of it. Do not deny yourself this amusement. It is of great advantage in adversity. I'll maintain that there is no grief nor misfortune so great, that a fine piece of Gluck or Piccini^* will [Page 14] not charm it away. Oh it cannot be disputed! I am the friend of all mankind. And believe me, when I am cast down by the languors of my solitary condition, there is my base-viol! I lay hold of it, and saw upon it with all my might. My most violent fits of melancholy cannot resist its power during one morning. It is quite otherwise when we form a concert, for then I believe myself in heaven! Yes, my niece, as poor as you find me, we sometimes form a concert! I will tell you how it is. It is clear that this instrument cannot be mine, for it is worth three years of my salary; it is the piano of a lady who entrusted me with it at the request of her brother. Her brother is the most intimate of my friends, and I cannot but boast of it; for the excellent youth is without an equal. When his sister comes with him, she plays on the piano; he seizes his violin; their master draws from its case the divine clarinet, and the trio enchants me. But I have such strong reasons for preferring the quatuor, that I wish to become one of the party. It is true, that I sometimes discommode it, by keeping my part behind the rest. What then? Suppose I do not keep perfect time? These are the small inconveniences of measure. Where can we find the rose which is destitute of thorns? The master gives me the most uneasiness of any in the company. I always tremble when he takes notice of my part, lest he become affronted and take to his heels. Worthless man! how troublesome he is! As good luck would have it, the disciples are not so impatient, and accustom themselves, dear instrument! to thy frequent insults, And in the action of playing, my dear companion, such as it is, gives me such pleasing ecstacies, that it would be cruel to forbid it me. You shall see, [Page 15] Juliette, you shall see! there is nothing in the world so charming. Nothing so charming! I mistake. Ah, my niece, I have often wished to marry another musician! yes, my niece, "they ought to marry the priests." On saying these words, he became pensive and sad: then seizing his consolatory instrument, "Come," said he, "let us divert ourselves." As he did the day before yesterday, he now played more than an hour; and, as I did at that time, I now went away without his seeming to perceive it.

LETTER XLIV. Emilia in continuation.

July 9, 9 o'clock evening.

O CELINA! in what amazement do I still remain! What young man is this, who presents to my sight the living image of an individual of his sex whom I have reason to dread, and whom I may justly despise; yet has only given me a surprise destitute of terror? Who, nevertheless, has power to disturb my repose; to give me such lively emotions as I never felt before; and a secret agitation which gives me no pain? And, to continue; Whence proceeds this strange emotion of inward satisfaction, the cause of which I cannot divine? Alas! it is only a consequence of that condition to which I am reduced; a condition so wretched that I may esteem myself happy when any incidents affect me which are not extremely distressing!

[Page 16]This evening I was employed in a piece of family business which is needless—Ah, wherefore? Why should I wish to conceal it? How could I so soon forget what my uncle told me for my consolation? It is not an hour since he told it me. Does that sort of objection which mankind annex to every servile profession, extend to an unfortunate woman who knows how to yield to an unmerited abasement? Or is it true, that any laborious professions are disgraceful in themselves? It is an absurd prejudice which disgraces those professions which are allowed both by our manners and laws; such as cannot be despised but on account of their unnoticed utility, or their unrewarded painful labours. There are none of these despised conditions, which may justly be called mean, however low they may appear in the eyes of those men who are so ridiculously proud, as to suppose that nature has formed them for managing servants and being masters. Is there any low rank amongst mankind which may not be honored for its peculiar virtues, and those virtues united to sentiments worthy of a better condition?

No, my sister, most certainly there is not. My uncle's opinion was just. I bear witness to it with a conscience at perfect ease. I feel the truth of it by that noble pride which accompanies the fortitude we stand in need of, in order to endure misfortunes. But pardon the emotion of false shame which affected me; for I am more ashamed of intending to hide from you such an insignificant matter than any thing else. The business I was employed in was that of ironing (not the worst) surplice of the poor Curate.

Just at that time I heard a noise near the house that did not excite my attention, but my uncle [Page 17] started suddenly and cried out with joy, "My young friend has returned." He ran hastily out and came back in a moment, attended by a young man.—O my sister! conceive my amazement when I saw Murville before me!

But no, no, thought I, this cannot be Murville. However perfect the resemblance may at first appear to others, the difference is now very striking to me. At the first glance I could not quite determine; but immediately afterwards I was convinced of my mistake. I plainly saw in this stranger the stature and external form of my persecutor; but his features and behaviour were very different. The deportment of Murville is so full of assurance, that he appears more commanding: this stranger, however, is not destitute of engaging manners, and possesses natural graces not to be found in the other. The handsome figure of my persecutor discovers all the vivacity which usually accompanies a person of lively wit; but he is greatly deficient in the mildness of aspect which appears in the other; in that impression of goodness which gives him the greatest charm. Had this been Murville, he would have accosted me before now, with so much gallantry that I could hardly have endured his presence. On the contrary, this stranger stopped as soon as he saw me▪ and stood on the threshold of the door suprised and out of countenance, as if he thought it dangerous to come in: and whilst he looked at me several times, as it were by stealth, his face was covered with blushes; and Murville, perhaps, never blushed in his life: and if he should by chance appear to be disconcerted in the presence of a woman, he would probably consider it a disgrace.

No, my sister, this young man is not my persecutor, [Page 18] and though he presents to my eyes the image of him, he does not affrighten me. I could not have thought it possible ever to find in two persons such similar figures and such a different carriage.

To continue; he remained motionless, and I involuntarily gave him all my attention, till at length my unfortunate uncle, with cries of grief, called my attention to another object—"O my surplice! my best surplice, my niece! you burn my best surplice!"

In fact, when the young man first made his appearance, my hand was raised up, and afterwards, by a motion perfectly mechanical, gradually descended with the hot iron, which, being held still in the midst of my work, had made a considerable breach in it.

M. Sevin, much hurt, scolded Juliette. Then the stranger approached to stammer something in my behalf, and could not fail of succeeding: for my uncle is incapable of holding resentment for a long time against any person. At this time his good nature returned sooner than I desired, and he exercised it at the expence of his niece and his friend. M. Sevin, in his pleasantry, first complimented the young man on his eagerness in defending the blunders of a pretty girl. Then turning to Juliette, he asked her laughingly, why she was so easily distracted at the light of a handsome young man? What the reason is I cannot tell; but the gaiety of the good Curate, which, on a thousand other occasions has never displeased me, has now become so troublesome that I cannot bear it.

How I wish he was still offended! What would I not give that he would begin to quarrel with me again! In haste to get rid of his pleasantry I improved [Page 19] the first pretence that came in my head, ran to my chamber and shut myself in. Here, to find some diversion to my reveries, I am hastily writing to my sister what has just passed amongst us.

Yet I cannot but have some curiosity and impatience to learn the name and family of this young man. To know—But he is now going away, and my uncle calls me. Adieu, my sister.

LETTER XLV. Dolerval to Murville.

Tours, July 9, 1782, 11 o'clock night.

O MY brother! rejoice with me—I have just seen her! and she is quite well—Better, perhaps, than she has ever appeared to you in her happiest days! My arrival, which she expected was not so near▪ has not a little contributed to her contentment. Did I write to you that I had been a journey? I have indeed been a very fortunate one, and more fortunate than I dared to expect. For it separated me from her but a short time, and my sudden, unexpected return has given her the greatest joy. And if you knew how near death has appeared to her sight, you would believe that her joy was not unnatural to her circumstances! But her dangers, I hope, are all at an end. O happy circumstance! she is saved! She has escaped the impending danger that awaited her. The loss of Bovile will not bring her to an untimely grave!

Not that she has ceased to love him—Ah! if the heart of Eleanor was capable of changing, I should [Page 20] despair of finding constancy in women. This is too unnatural to think of—No, my sister has not ceased to cherish the memory of her lover. But, my brother, as you mentioned in your letter, sorrow cannot last forever. Sooner or later a day propitious to the unfortunate will arrive, that will wipe away their tears. Whilst I am speaking of the misfortunes of Eleanor, you will doubtless be of the opinion that she would be desirous of hearing the details of Bovile's last moments. I say his last moments, and perhaps I am wrong; until we have more ample ecclaircissements, we should say his last exploits: for Bovile's fate is not well known. Although we have strong reasons for presuming his death, it is not absolutely declared. It appears but too certain, that the enemies of this brave man have shamefully destroyed him. Is it equally true that they have received the reward of their crimes? Can any man positively determine whether he is still in being? Have patience with me, my brother, whilst I express these doubts. O that they might appear less unreasonable to me! I do but repeat them after my sister. Her tenderness delights in them, whilst her reason rejects them. Where are the unfortunate persons who do not eagerly court the shadow of hope? If, however, she must renounce this shadow; if it becomes a known fact that Bovile is lost, do you believe that his enemies, in order to finish their iniquity, will solicit the confiscation of his goods, which they cannot do, except by disgracing his memory?

Be kind enough, Murville, to answer these inquiries. In the city where you reside, it will not be difficult to obtain information. Do not fail in taking every necessary step and communicate to us, as soon as convenient, the instructions we desire.

[Page 21]Good night, my brother. Pardon me, I must leave you a little abruptly. I feel some inquietude; not on my sister's account, for her condition is no longer alarming. But I have had this evening such a singular adventure—The surprise—I cannot proceed!—Good night, my brother.

LETTER XLVI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

July 10, 1782, 5 o'clock morning.

HOW strange is my destiny! Whilst I am not tormented by fatal events, my mind is perpetually harassed with alarming accidents. At the hazard of my life was I rescued from the castle where the most indelicate of lovers confined me, to seek an insecure asylum, where I am, as it were, in the power and in the hands of my persecutor. At the sight of that young man whom I saw without fear, I ought indeed to have trembled! Not that he may have any intention of doing me the least injury; but as he is the brother of Murville, he may ruin me without designing it. Therefore the agitation of mind I felt yesterday was but a forewarning of my critical situation: and the present agitation and anxiety I feel, is only a necessary consequence of my new position. Although I may be allowed to hope that there will not be any circumstances calculated to discover the wretched Emilia de Varmont; yet, there is abundant reason to fear that Mademoiselle de Terville may be [Page 22] discovered by a thousand accidents. For instance, is it not probable that this young man, when writing to his brother, may mention some circumstances—Ah, why? Why should he? What reason can he have for mentioning me in his correspondence with Murville? What probability can there be of his speaking to his brother about Juliette, an obscure country girl? I cannot believe he will. This is nothing but a groundless fear. Ah, my sister, how we cherish the unwelcome intruder when our imaginations are tortured with gloomy apprehensions! There is not, however, an absolute improbability in it; he may, by chance, make some mention of me in his letters. In fact, I may well think so, when I have entirely devoted the present one to him. A fine comparison truly! Yet how extreme is the difference! My own security will often call my attention to this young man; but what is there in me sufficiently interesting to excite his attention? But my self-love leads me astray and shews me an imaginary danger.

Yet, after all, I have other reasons for indulging my fears, which are not so imaginary, and which are too well founded. What can prevent Murville, in an unexpected moment, from coming to spend several days with his brother and sister in the city of Tours, so near the hamlet in which I am concealed? And how can I prevent a meeting which I tremble to think of? There is but one way to prevent it and that is by flight. But I am called, and must leave you suddenly. Farewell.

[Page 23]

LETTER XLVII. Emilia in continuation.

7 o'clock evening.

I HAVE now taken that part which seems most suitable for my condition—that of bringing my benefactor to a recollection of the engagement he contracted with me, of not informing any person what little I told him concerning my misfortunes. The good Curate renewed his promises, and protested that every body should remain in the persuasion of my being his niece, and that his friend already believed it. Besides this, I entertain hopes of another expedient. It seems impossible that this young man can have manners and principles like those of his brother. Every thing in him conspires to convince the beholder of the real goodness of his heart. His outward appearance is decent and courteous; his countenance full of sweetness, with an air of goodness and candour. But it seems to me I have already told you—What matters it if I do make a few repetitions? I trust you will forgive them. He has an excellent heart, Celina, if I may believe my uncle, an excellent heart indeed. He is my uncle's intimate friend. Does not this circumstance add still to his praise? I determine also to gain his esteem, his attention, and even excite his curiosity. Before he becomes acquainted with my misfortunes, I would wish to have him feel interested in my happiness. And hereafter, if occasion should require it, I should wish, with complete assurance of his friendship, to [Page 24] tell him a part of my sorrows and apprehensions, so as to acquire another protector who will warn me of Murville's approach, and turn him away from the place of my retreat, and who will continually watch over my safety. In such a critical situation I cannot provide too many resources, nor conduct beforehand with too much caution. Methinks I hear a noise at the door—I run to it—but I am mistaken, nobody knocked. It is now almost seven o'clock, and my uncle tells me the young man generally come by six at latest. What is the reason he is not here? Surely the presence of a third person would not render the society of his friend less agreeable. But perhaps my presence would discommode them. Yet I should not disturb their conversation, nor meddle with it. Yesterday, for instance, I did not say one word during his stay. This might have given him some displeasure. Perhaps he thought me sovereignly disdainful. Scarcely had he taken his seat before I went away and left him: and when I retired it was with so much eagerness, that he must have believed I designedly treated him with unpoliteness. If so, he is much mistaken. I am afraid he is offended, although he knew not the cause of my plight. To-day, therefore, it will be necessary to take away that impression, by giving him a more favourable reception, and, above all things, not to leave him. I determine, by all means, to keep him company, and not leave him till he goes away. How now! the parish clock strikes, and I can count but six strokes! Then I look at the index, and that points to six also! It must then have been but five o'clock when my ears—Indeed I cannot tell what is the matter with me, for to-day I have heard and done every thing upside down, and in [Page 25] such a manner as makes me feel impatient with myself. But I feel well contented to think it is no later. I begin to be afraid he will not come at all. I cannot but feel desirous of seeing him again, and it is perfectly natural that I should; for I am not yet acquainted with him. It is also true that I feel desirous of anticipating a favourable opinion of him, but—Somebody knocks! now, certainly, I am not mistaken. Adieu for the present.

LETTER XLVIII. Emilia in continuation.

July 11, 1782, 5 o'clock morning.

YOU cannot tell how I am grieved, my sister! How cruel it is to be capable of forming good resolutions without a power of putting them into execution! I am displeased with myself to such a degree, that I am out of all patience!

With regard to what I wrote you concerning the young man, I was not mistaken. He was certainly offended: I am sure of it. His address was graceful and respectful; but there was something in his behaviour so polite and reserved, as to make it appear cold and forbidding. There was one observation I made, much to his advantage, which I cannot forbear mentioning. There appears in his countenance a sort of timid anxiety, which discovers an inward fear of offending; such a mixture of noble pride and exalted goodness in his heart, as inclines me to admire him. I was preparing to give him a kind reception. Soon did [Page 26] I perceive that he considered me in the light of a person desirous of retrieving my errors; soon did his features resume a look of satisfaction, an expression of benevolence unspeakably charming. And, at the same instant, I experienced an inward emotion of satisfaction difficult to express. Thus far all was well. But, unfortunately for me, my uncle took it into his head to ask his friend, "whether the object of his late journey would remain a secret much longer?"

"This journey," answered his excellent friend, "is peculiarly interesting to my sister, and this is all I am permitted to tell you. You would urge me in vain to tell you the motives for which I undertook it. This is a secret of Madame Florival: as for my own secrets, they shall ever be yours, but those of my sister I have no right to reveal."

You will, I believe, be well satisfied with his answer. As for me, I was delighted with it; and, as for my uncle, he seemed well satisfied with it himself. In the mean time M. Dolerval continued to entertain us with his sister, and seemed as if he would never cease praising her. It is said that lovers are enthusiasts. As for myself, I am not acquainted with their language; but if they use expressions in praise of the persons they admire, similar to those which the tenderest of brothers employed in praising his sister, their language must indeed be captivating. Whilst I listened to his conversation, it inspired me with unspeakable satisfaction. Ah! why should a sudden return to myself so cruelly dispel my infatuation! How happy, thought I, must be this Madame Florival, whom heaven has favoured with such a brother! And what is my crime that I should be sister to the inhuman Varmont? However it may be with you, my dear [Page 27] Celina, this painful comparison, this dreadful contrast, wounded me to the very soul. In vain did I struggle to calm the fatal agitations of my mind. Oppressed with the weight of my sorrows, I was ready to sink under them: so that I was obliged to quit my place and retire to my chamber, where I shed a torrent of tears. After indulging my grief for a considerable time, I reflected on my absence, and fearing it would appear to M. Dolerval as another unpolite retreat, I wiped away my tears and returned. At my return, he seemed to be interested in my sorrow, and earnestly desired to know whether I was indisposed. He questioned me with a tone of sympathy suitable to my wretchedness, had he even been acquainted with it. His countenance changed, and he did violence to his feelings in order to conceal the interest he had in mine: and it was but a few minutes after my return before he went away.

And what sleeping fury took possession of my uncle! he now declared it was time to go to bed. True, the clock had struck eleven, but I am certain something had deranged it. How can it be possible that five long hours have glided away since the young man's arrival? The clock surely goes too fast. Yesterday I was of the same opinion, and that opinion is now confirmed; for the remainder of the night has seemed of an extraordinary length. Twenty times did I awake thinking it was day; but it was nothing but the eternal moon, whose never ending light deceived me. I was ready to think the sun would never rise. What folly is it in my uncle to be so particular about the hour of rising! I pity those people who cannot measure time without the assistance of a clock.

I will, however, except my uncle and M. Dolerval. [Page 28] M. Dolerval went away as soon as I came back from my chamber. What urgent matter called him away so soon? He must have been offended with me. Thus it happens: one apparent breach of politeness after another have I seemed guilty of towards this young man. Why did I not repress my grief and stay with him? How can I ever obtain any friends while I conduct so unwisely? And if my cruel enemies should chance to come and assault me, I should find no person who would care to engage in my defence, and look around me in vain for assistance. Perhaps I shall be forced to fly from my enemies before they appear. Perhaps I shall be driven from one place to another, and I know not whither to hide my shame, confusion and despair.

LETTER XLIX. Murville to Dolerval.

Brest, July 13, 1782.

WHAT detestable writing is this! Full of deceitful and equivocal phrases! "I have just seen her; she is well; her dangers are at an end!" At first I imagined some casualty had brought you in the way of my ingrate Terville, and you was going to cheer my heart with a relation of that happy adventure. No such thing! Your honor deigned not to mention it! Nor do you so much as think of offering me a single word of consolation. You was only speaking of a sister and brother, as if you ought not to know that the [Page 29] dearest, and, perhaps, the only object with which you can entertain a lover, especially an unfortunate one, is his mistress.

Yet I cannot but thank you, Dolerval, for the good news you sent me. I am overjoyed to learn that my sister has recovered, but am not at all surprised at it. Although I knew her sensibility was extreme, I never thought she would die of it. As for the sweetness of those charming passions which inclines an afflicted woman to follow her deceased lover to the grave, I do not believe in it. But I am astonished beyond all expression, to learn that the happy Eleanor is well, and, at present, better than I have ever seen her in her happiest days! What, such a speedy and complete return of health and happiness already? Whence comes this prodigy? You, however, affirm it to be true, and I am bound to believe it. But after all, I must persist in believing that my sister has had good sense enough to take my prescription, and Bovile, having been entirely forgotten, has, at last, obtained a successor.

Why do you exclaim with so much vehemence? Not one circumstance in your letter has escaped my notice. You awkwardly endeavour to make it appear that "the unfortunate delight in caressing shadows." Very well; I congratulate the unhappy in having such a pleasant amusement, but still insist upon it, that it is high time for our sister to caress realities. And notwithstanding your discrete writing, and her long-tried virtue, I am persuaded this is the part she has taken. How much better for society! To its great advantage I see a good effect, which being cast into commerce, will infallibly increase its funds. How much better for the amiable widow! By this means, perhaps, celibacy [Page 30] may be agreeable at twenty-two years of age. Give her my sincere congratulations, Dolerval; and, in the successful career which attends her, may she never forget what great acknowledgments are due to my counsels, too lately followed.

The reasonings which your foreknowledge ingrafts on Bovile's future resurrection, are excellent. But read the following, and the latest intelligence, which was given me by an eye-witness of the fact, and if you cannot give as much credit to his testimony as I do, then do not divulge it. "We were," says he, "off against the Azores when the English fleet hove in sight. Notwithstanding our inferiority, it was the duty of our Admiral to protect the convoy, and he has done it. But when the signal of retreat was given, it was evident that the Pallas was not in a situation of obeying it. It was likewise true, that if they had continued the engagement half an hour longer, they might have gained the important advantage of disengaging her from the English fleet, and entirely saving the convoy. But instead of this, they left her exposed to the cross-fire of three frigates and a ship of the line. Then the brave commander of the Pallas, zealous of washing off the stain which cowardice had imprinted on the French flag, with the enemy's blood, sustained, for a long time, a most unequal combat. At the close of the day his frigate was cut down to the water's edge, by the incessant fire of the enemy, and ready to sink. A few sailors were saved in the boat. But bound by the oath which obliges every Captain to remain in his ship till the last extremity, the intrepid Bovile determined to bury himself and his ship together in the waves. O cursed thirst of gold! the avaricious [Page 31] conquerors, in their greediness for plunder, pursued our merchant fleet, and left a number of men to perish for want of assistance. There were not saved from the wreck of the Pallas more than seventy men: and, to complete our misfortunes, the Captain was not in the number of prisoners. The vile enemies of this brave man have completely succeeded in their detestable plots, and the unfortunate Bovile has perished.

"But this dreadful success has not assuaged their revengeful spirits. They have put in at Terceira to repair the French squadron, where they have held a council of war, disgraced the memory of Bovile, and, horrible to relate, have confiscated his property."

I do not transcribe the reflections of my correspondent, because they might sully my imagination. But here, Dolerval, are facts which speak for themselves. Let us now leave these gloomy subjects, and refresh our weary attention by viewing cheerful pictures.

To take it all in all, your late letter was void of common sense. It must have been that when you wrote, you was a little crazy. It must be so. You have either become a fool, or you are in love. What can it be but something in your late journey, of which you did not acquaint me? What can it be but that extraordinary adventure which gave you such a mixture of anxiety and surprise? Come then, Dolerval, acknowledge the fact—acknowledge that there is some lass^* on the carpet. Do not endeavour to be too discrete: if you do, you will have reason to repent of it. It will not be sufficient that fortune should throw you into the [Page 32] way, unless you have such a guide as your inexperience requires. Consider what advantage Eleanor has derived from my counsels. Depend upon it, my brother, that I have an equal friendship for you. Be not then so unkind as to hide any of her affairs from me, nor any of yours. The affairs of your hearts I shall govern with the tenderest care. As circumstances require▪ I shall instruct both of you in the best and readiest means of arriving to the end proposed. Provided your sister will not discourage the assailants, I will reveal to her all the wiles of attack: and, as for you, I will enlighten you in all the little mimicries of defence. Thus will both of you, retrieving the time you have lost, attain to my experience in the career of happiness, and the hopes of your success already softens my misfortunes.

Yes, my brother, I also am in misfortune! I cannot hear any thing from Mademoiselle de Terville. A spy whom I keep in the neighbourhood of M. de Varmont, assures me she is not at Paris▪ My good friend, therefore, did not run away with her. The little gipsy wanted no assistance in order to escape me. This matter acquires a good deal of probability, and it vexes me extremely. More than once have I surprised myself regretting the perfidious maid. Then, in milder mood, I tell myself that it is nothing less than a serious attachment. This idea torments me. Oh! if ever I should find her again—if I should find her, I would hold her so closely that she could not stray from her happiness!

In hopes of finding her, I have made an acquaintance with one in this city, who occupies some of my leisure hours. This affords me a little amusement, and that is all. I feel a void in the [Page 33] company of the handsomest women. O! let Mademoiselle de Terville but make her appearance again, and for her sake I would suddenly quit every other!

LETTER L. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.^*

Paris, July 15, 1782.

DEAR Emilia! what a mixture of horrible and consoling narratives do I together receive! What matter of extreme affliction and inexpressible joy are united in this long series of letters, which I receive as the book of your destiny! Those fearful suspicions which appeared so full of horror, that I sometimes reproached myself for entertaining them, were but too well founded. Infamous monster! when he boasted to me of the great riches your death would leave him, he pronounced your sentence! He departed, O barbarous man! to take your life! When he bade me adieu, he departed to destroy the most amiable, the sweetest, and most excellent of women—his sister and mine! O God! a God terrible to the [Page 34] wicked, where are the punishments inflicted on the murderer who imbrued his hands in the blood of Abel? When will the bottomless pit be opened to swallow the monster which nature groans to bear? Where is thy lingering justice? What withholds thine avenging hand? But my Emilia still lives! To her, whilst in the abyss of sorrows and danger, the Most High extended his arm, and graciously drew her from thence. To his wonderful goodness do I owe the warmest praises.

Yes, my sister is yet in existence. Happily for me, my eyes were assured of it; happily for me, the characters of your dear hand—those well known characters, had given me a certain proof that you was still in being, before the perfidious monster had come to rejoice at your death. On this very morning the wretch presumed to trouble my parlour with his presence. Being desirous of knowing what new enormities he could have in contemplation. I did myself so much violence as to affront his aspect. Ferocious tiger! what joy brightened in his sanguinary eye! He had just received from Brest, and immediately brought to me, the verbal process which proved the destruction of the Centaure, and consequently your tragical end. "Her husband," said he, "soon followed her; the hero, of whom your father had such a high opinion, is dead. Yes, he is dead; and what may seem worthy of remark, before dying he was dishonored. Justice has taken hold of his property; but that of his wife is seized by distress. Thanks to the persecutions I have begun, her dowry will be given up, to remain safely in my hands; so that if she should happen to be alive, and should ever return, she may have it again." At this last expression, I could not restrain the indignation I felt, [Page 35] and cried out, "If ever she returns—O barbarous man!"

At this moment I had well nigh betrayed both you and myself. But in a moment I became sensible of our danger, and, in a lower voice, repeated, "If ever she returns! O barbarous wretch!—then be satisfied."

He mildly answered me, "that it would be agreeable enough to see you again; but it would always be disagreeable to return so much money." And then, to disencumber himself of a multitude of papers, he called in his domestic, who was no other than Lafleur! At the sudden approach of this man, who had, as it were, held a sword to the breast of Emilia, I was seized with horror; but soon considering the miserable wretch as your deliverer, I was overcome with sentiments of tenderness: and had not the grates prevented me, perhaps I should have fallen at his feet, and in excessive gratitude have thanked him for not shutting his ears against the voice of humanity. In the mean time, whether he perceived the impression that the sight of him made upon me, or whether a view of Emilia's sister affected him deeply, I cannot say; but Lafleur lost all countenance. With a pale visage he leaned against the wall, and at length sat down ready to faint. His master observed it without emotion, and asked him "whether he was subject to such fits of weakness?" The unfortunate domestic answered several times, but with a faltering voice, "that he was not."

"So much the better," cried the inhuman Varmont, "for if the fits of your disorder should become more frequent, it would be necessary that we should part."

[Page 36]Upon hearing this, fearing I could not restrain my indignation, I left him.

Thus your assassin is about to receive the fruits of his iniquity. In a little time he will enrich himself with your spoils: and, as I cannot prevent it, I must calmly endure it. Alas! of all the blessings the present life can bestow, there is none reserved but your life. And if I should indiscretely betray you, I should die with despair. Be tranquil, my charming sister, for I would sooner lose my life than reveal the secret of your existence.

With regard to your real situation, I know not what advice to give you. What information can you expect from my inexperience? I could not, on this occasion, forbear consulting a lady in the chamber, who is my friend. She is willing to receive your letters, and hand them to me. Tell me whether you think this a dangerous expedient.

To conclude; neglect no precaution for preserving your security; redouble your vigilance; carefully conceal your existence from every eye. Summon all your courage to resist your misfortunes. And who does not stand in need of fortitude? This life is one continued scene of trials and sorrow. Ah! if I should present you with a picture of those which assault me in my confinement, perhaps you would find that Juliette, all wretched as she is, cannot be more so than the unhappy Celina!

[Page 37]

LETTER LI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

St. Cyr, July 18, 1782.

OH let him take my riches! nobody will prevent him. I shall beware of exposing him to the alternative of restoring them, or again endeavouring to destroy me. Oh, let him take them! But may he, and it is the last wish which the cries of nature shall extort from me, those cries which he has refused to hear; may he never find any pleasure in enjoying them; may he always be tormented with the insupportable remembrance of the crime by which he obtained them; may keen remorse take possession of his heart, and prey upon it; may he, in a frightful disorder of mind, often hear my plaintive voice; in the gloom of night, may he see my bloody shade standing close at his side; and may he, in fine, become the most wretched of mortals in this life, and, at last, obtain pardon of God!

Never let me hear from him again, except to inform me of his repentance.

Beware also of consulting that lady whose counsels and assistance you proposed. It would be rather perilous, without a known necessity, to admit any person to share in our confidence. Adversity is a severe master. It seems to have undertaken the task of instructing my sad and inexperienced youth. By rude lessons, and in a short time, has it enlightened my ignorance, improved my reason, and formed my judgment. By reason of the distrust [Page 38] with which it inspires me, on difficult occasions, I consult myself alone.

And even at the present time, I begin to perceive the error of despairing in myself. I perceive there is no impossibility of finding persons whom I can inspire with sentiments of humanity. M. Dolerval has been with us almost every evening since I first saw him. And when I supposed my company would incommode him, or prove disagreeable, I was greatly deceived. Quite the contrary—he considers it a fortunate circumstance that I abide with my uncle. Sometimes I hear him complimenting the Curate on the happiness of having his niece at his house—"A niece," said he, "so beautiful and engaging." Another circumstance which gives me equal encouragement, is to observe my uncle's kindness towards me daily increasing. If I should undertake to inform you the many ways he has of showing his regard for me, and the kind attentions he pays me, I should never end. There is no kind of labour but which he fears will fatigue Juliette, nor is there any provision which he thinks good enough for her. If I would suffer it, he would ruin himself for my sake! I really believe, if I would consent to it, that he would so far take the charge of household affairs, that I should have nothing to do but walk, eat my usual meals, and sleep from morning till night.

Perhaps you would be willing to learn how we spend our days. Of the mornings I have not much to say; they are chiefly spent in domestic affairs, and, consequently, are not very interesting; but after dinner, M. Dolerval comes, and finds us employed in the garden. My uncle works there indeed; but how can his niece do any thing? If I take the rake or the spade, M. Sevin is offended, [Page 39] and tells me I am not strong enough; if I undertake to prop the plants, M. Dolerval prevents me, and pretends it will hurt my hands: and, if you will believe me, he will not even allow me to water the flowers. Now I think of it, they sometimes gather flowers for me. M. Dolerval collects a ^*bunch of them every evening. And it must be acknowledged the one he collects and binds together for me, is better composed, interwoven more agreeably, and with more grace, than the one M. Sevin obliges me to wear every morning.

When the day declines, the dew incommodes us and we return to the house. The good Curate then sups, or prates in his usual manner. But M. Dolerval, more than any of us, supports and enlivens the conversation. He relates the pleasures and incidents of his childhood, the recreations and employments of his youth, with much ingenuity. The details he enters upon derive their chief interest from the manner in which they are represented. You cannot form an idea of the lustre which his conversation gives to the minutest recitals. And I cannot but think he considers my opinion to be of some consequence. Whenever he enters into conversation, though he always speaks in an engaging manner, he never seems to be satisfied with himself until he sees in my countenance an air of approbation. At length he directs his discourse to me. He questions me concerning the place of my birth, my parentage, and the first objects of my attachment. But do not think it vain curiosity on his part, or done merely to pass an idle hour. O far from it! there is no room for such an opinion. You can evidently see [Page 40] that it is out of pure interest for yourself that he thus questions you. And now observe, my sister; when his inquiries become too embarrassing, my uncle comes to my assistance. But M. Dolerval seems always to regret that the answer comes not from me.

Thus our evenings glide away with inconceiveable swiftness. Surprising as it may seem, the clock always strikes twelve at night soon after M. Dolerval goes away. I have reason to think, Celina, from my present experience, that there is no situation in life, however unhappy it may at first sight appear, which does not, in itself, afford some compensation. To take it all in all, I can assure you that my own begins to seem quite supportable.

LETTER LII. Dolerval to Murville.

Tours, July 19, 1782.

I COULD not, my brother, consistently shew your last letter to Madame Florival. For in that letter you treated our worthy sister with extreme irreverence and indecency. This surprises me the more, because I have often heard it affirmed of the greatest libertines, that even in the midst of their mad career, they would always preserve some respect for a virtuous character. Pardon me, Murville, for it would really give me pain to offend you; but to read the insulting expressions you wrote concerning Eleanor, is more than I can bear. Has she not, by long and painful trials, [Page 41] merited a better treatment? Rather than thus rashly condemn her, you ought, at least, to suspend your judgment. But since you seem to require new testimonies of the merit she still deserves, you may be assured it will one day be in my power to produce them▪ and then, my brother, you will be forced to acknowledge the reality of faithful love.

Perhaps the time may also come when you will not suspect me of delighting in base inclinations, nor hope to inspire me with such sentiments as you have recommended. It is true, that if I should hereafter find an object on whom I should place my affections, it may be one of that class which the men of the world call inferior, an object of their eternal disdain. It may be a girl whom blind fate has placed in a humble condition; but who, between the low situation in which she is placed, and the exalted qualities of her mind, would form such a perfect contrast, that even in this humble state, she would appear to be as much displaced as many others would, though removed from the midst of their grandeur. A brilliant education should not have nurtured her in the sentiments of superior self-excellence, which are, in early life, instilled into the minds of people in an elevated rank; but she should have the inward consciousness of every thing praise-worthy or blameable; she should have that true sense of an exquisite delicacy, which, without study, would direct her mind to every noble truth; simple nature should have given her without labour or expence, those rare accomplishments, which your ladies of high rank so seldom obtain by all the efforts of art. She should not only possess a taste for useful employments, a love of substantial virtues, and an aptness for improving every amiable talent, but should, in reality, [Page 42] have more true nobility in her soul, than nature often bestows on the daughters of Kings. In fine, she should not atract attention by the vain shew of her outward appearance, nor the extravagance of her demands; but should appear, when dressed in white linen, and a ruse on her breast, more beautiful than the richest ladies decked with diamonds and purple. The beginning of her adolescence should not only shine with the winning attractions of that age, but the brighter charms of the age which succeeds. She should, in a supreme degree, combine in her person, not only the allurements, dignity and graces of beauty, but even possess its treasures. It there is, in reality, such a person as the one I have here painted with a thousand attractions, or, what is still more surprising, the one you would give the mean epithet of a lass, while I should esteem her the queen of the world, and would fain make her the idol of my heart; do you think, Murville, that in order to gain her, I should have recourse to your delusive instructions, at the risk of your fatal experience? Ah, Murville! what instructions can I receive from you that are worth the pains of learning them? After contemplating your lessons so repeatedly, I am still incapable or pleasing any ladies but such as would despise them.

No, if I should ere long feel the power of an attachment sufficient to bind me for life, you are not the person I would choose for a confident. Eleanor alone seems worthy of such a confidence, and to her alone do I owe it. Nevertheless, before requiting her confidence with confessions similar to those with which she honors me, I should wish to be certain that I could, like her, preserve a passion pure and unalterable, through the trials of absence [Page 43] and time, though discouraged by unsuitable circumstances, and counteracted by unfavourable events; I should wish to be certain, not that the object of my affections merited them (for we cannot, I think, truly love a person whom we do not esteem); but to be certain of being capable myself of always admiring even that person whom I could never obtain. What a reproach it would be if I should fail in receiving lessons of delicacy and fidelity from any person with whom I am conversant! Above all, what a reproach it would be, if afterwards I should conceive a passion which might be discouraged by common difficulties! How could I, in such case, endure the reproaches of Eleanor, who so constantly preserves her affections, notwithstanding her regret and privation? How could I bear to hear her accuse me of having, even in her presence, disgraced the name of faithful love?

But let us proceed to the only article in your letter, in which I feel interested. This, unfortunately, is the only one in which we are agreed. I could not assent to it but with reluctance. It seems that my hopes respecting the lover of my sister were too visionary. The melancholy details you have given me, seem to prove, with great certainty, that Bovile is no more.

Before I conclude, my brother, I have to desire your pardon for the freedom which has dictated my answer. I am sensible that a difference of opinions, when it respects real sentiments, may, in time, break friendship. But my friendship for you shall never be destroyed; because I persist in believing, with Madame Florival, that there remains so much natural goodness in your heart, that at some future time you may be inclined to acknowledge your errors. This we both hope and believe, notwithstanding [Page 44] the contagious principles of the world which have given such a wrong bias to your conduct. Adieu, my dear brother—I shall wait with impatience for the return of the courier.

LETTER LIII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

St. Cyr, July 24, 1782.

YES, my dear Celina, my uncle is in truth an excellent man; and I have become more reconciled to my new situation. There has been something in him which greatly disgusted me: It was that almost childish gaiety which every trifle excited in him. His petulant cheerfulness and my silent sadness, formed an unlucky contrast. Often have I perceived that my sorrow was increased with his joy. Whether M. Sevin has perceived the uncomfortable situation of his niece, I cannot affirm; but certain I am, that he has changed the tone of his voice and his behaviour. I would not say that he was either fretful, or, in any wise, ill natured. But his good humour was only moderated; at present it is less boisterous, more reserved, more pleasant and attractive; in fine, almost as engaging as that of M. Dolerval. Perhaps it proceeds from this cause: that M. Sevin takes, by degrees, a tincture of the happy disposition of his friend, without being insensible of it himself. There is another remark which I have made concerning my uncle, which seems no less flattering than the former. You doubtless remember M. Sevin's favourite [Page 45] phrase—that expression, which, on the day I entered his house, so much surprised me, and with respect to the equivocal sense of which I was well satisfied, when he, with unparalleled candour, in a respectful manner, made known the pains of his condition. Protesting, at the same time▪ that the expressions of his uneasiness had nothing in them which respected me in particular, since (to use his own expression) he saluted every visitant with the same words. He seemed to repeat them to no purpose, without intermission or discretion; and, notwithstanding what he said to diminish my fears, those tiresome exclamations gave me a secret displeasure. You will, therefore, learn with satisfaction, that my uncle corrects himself of this fault. At present, his complaints do not escape him but when his heart is too full to contain them. Still does he endeavour to spare me the pain of hearing it. Nevertheless, I can discover by his melancholy aspect, deeply pensive, when the sentiment of his evils, becoming more lively, is ready to force his complaints from him. Then, as he is sensible of its approach, he rises abruptly and leaves me, lest I should hear him; for fear of afflicting me, he goes away to groan this phrase: "They ought to marry the priests." I say groan, bacause no other expression so well suits the moving inflexion of his voice when he articulates these words. Then, and then only, do I perceive in his voice that tone of tenderness and sorrow, the accents of a passionate heart, so well imitated by M. Dolerval, when he sings a plaintive song.

Now I think of it, the two friends, yesterday, spent some time at music. I do not speak of the Curate, and his favourite instrument, but of M. Dolerval, who played several sonata in a very [Page 46] agreeable manner. My uncle afterwards attempted to sing; but his songs afforded me no amusement. They consisted of ariettas and roundos, entirely gay, or disgustingly merry. If the words had not been, for the most part, vulgar and insignificant, the airs would have pleased me tolerably well. You know how much I prefer romances. They have something in them tender and plaintive, that at once affect and captivate the heart. It seems strange that M. Dolerval always suits his airs so well to my fancy. He has sung one most captivating! and how delightfully did he sing it! what expression in his features and voice! His voice is indeed most charming! It charmed my heart and melted it to tenderness, to such a degree that I could never be weary of hearing it. He ended, however, sooner than I could wish, by the following couplets, to the ^*air which I herewith send you.

Le printems, l'amour et Sylvie
Inquéitoient ma liberté;
J'ai vainac la coquetterie
Et la nature et la beauté.
Mais bientôt je ne suis plus maitre
Des fuex qui vont me consumer:
La plus belle vient de paroître
Et je sens bien, qu'il faut aimer.

Elle est jolie, elle est charmante,
Et n'a pas l'air de le savoir.
Sans même y songer, elle enchante;
Elle soumet, sans le vouloir.
L'art qui seduit, je le deteste:
Contre un tyran on doit s'armer:
Mais la beauté simple & modeste,
Ah! je sens bien qu'il faut l'aimer.

[Page 47]
Déjà, déjà mon coeur l'adore;
Le jour, son image me suit;
La nuit, je la retrouve encore
Dans mes songer qu'elle embellit.
Timide espoir qu'amour inspire,
Daignera-t-on vous confirmer;
Daignera-t-on jamais me dire:
Ah! je sens bien qu'il faut aimer.

[The publisher acknowledges himself indebted for the following versification to the politeness of a friend. It may be sung to the tune of "The White Cockade."]

Nature and love, and Sylvia's charms,
Pervade my mind with strange alarms;
Though coquetry and beauty, I
Have from my breast compell'd to fly.
But when this fair one caught my eyes,
My bosom beat with sweet surprise:
'Gainst the soft flame in vain I strove,
My yielding heart resign'd to love.

In her though every grace is seen,
Still unaffected is her mien;
She, thoughtlessly, ensnares the heart,
Nor knows the wounds her charms impart.
Arts of seduction I detest,
I spurn the monster from my breast;
But modest beauty I approve,
O this is what constrains to love!

For her my heart already burns,
By day each thought on Sylvia turns;
And her fair form inspires delight,
In golden visions of the night.
O that Hope's quivering taper may,
From kinder smiles more peace convey!
O that she would my flame improve,
And say, my heart inclines to love!

[Page 48]

LETTER LIV. Emilia in continuation.

July 25, 1782.

WHETHER the song of M. Dolerval will affect you as it does me, I cannot tell; But, for my part, it pleased me exceedingly. His song I call it, because I believe him to be the author of it. You may be ready to ask me why I attribute it to him? It is because—because there is something in the words—Ah! it is because he was embarrassed when I told him I did not remember to have ever seen any part of it.^* "You may not," answered he, "learn all of it." But he was out of countenance, and seemed to tremble whilst he sung it—and blushed on hearing me applaud it—and when I desired him to leave it with me, he seemed to be well pleased. All these circumstances made me suppose him to be the author. My uncle, however, did not esteem it at all. O let him sing his vulgar airs and welcome! He shall not have my song until I have learned it perfectly. And that time, my sister, will soon come. For instantly after receiving it, I trilled over the last [Page 49] verses almost instinctively, hardly knowing what I did.

My imprudence had well-nigh betrayed me. For several minutes I could scarcely resist the desire of singing in my turn, and sitting down at the piano. This fantasy, supposing it was one, had nothing in it which might be called blameable: for if it is good not to derive vanity from its advantages, we should not any longer affect to disdain it. You know that in the number of talents we possessed, and for which our father doated on us in spite of Madame de Varmont, music was one which was highly esteemed, and one in which I had considerable success. M. Dolerval plays tolerably well, and sings delightfully. However, I have the vanity to think my voice as good as his; and surely he is not my equal at the piano. This, without extreme self-conceit, I can safely boast of to you, and this is what I said to myself in a low voice. Greatly tempted to meddle with the concert, I anticipated, with pleasure, the surprise of M.— I would say the surprise of the two friends. Yet several reflections inclined me to desist. Is it advisable, thought I, to discover my knowledge of music to the good Curate, and have the appearance of having intended to deceive him five days ago, when I thought best to hide my talents from him? Would there not, in all this, be something very disobliging to M. Sevin? These considerations determined me, though reluctantly, to take the passive part, and prudently did so, until a strange propensity led me, without thinking of it, to trill the last lines of the new song.

But the surprise of the two friends soon warned me of my error, and it was a fortunate circumstance that I only found sounds almost inarticulate, [Page 50] so that I could still deny my being a musician. M. Dolerval urged me earnestly to try to sing those words to the tune, and seemed as if he was determined not to dispense with my refusal; so that, at last, I was obliged to make the attempt. But I took care to sing without method, and much like a scholar who is just beginning in the gamut. This, in the end, proved to be an unnecessary caution; for, at the instant I began to sing, my voice became trembling and disguised. Yet the compliments they paid me on the occasion were as great as if I had sung distinctly, and without faltering. They assured me I ought not to neglect cultivating such a commendable talent. M. Sevin renewed his offers of instructing me; but M. Dolerval asked the preference with that persuasive and engaging tone of voice which is so natural to him; so that I found myself in perplexity as to determining which of the two friends should have the preference in teaching me what neither of them knew so well as myself. O fie! I shall—I shall stay too long—I—but it seems to me a long time since we took dinner. This is the moment when—when I cannot dispense with being present. Farewell, my sister.

[Page 51]

LETTER LV. Dolerval to Murville.

Tours, July 28, 1782.

YOU do not answer me, my brother; I cannot but think I have told you some truths which bear a little too hard upon you: but having done no more than I ought, I cannot think myself culpable. Nevertheless, I shall be heartily sorry if I have, in the least, offended you.

LETTER LVI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

August 2, 1782, midnight.

I HAVE this day received your letter. I see, with sensibility, my sister, that from the character I have given my uncle, you conceive a great esteem for him. There are, as you have justly remarked, but few men in his condition of a character at once so good and amiable. In the mean time it seems a little strange, that, when speaking of his friend, you praise him no farther than saying, that I seem to have a peculiar friendship for him. Indeed I have, my sister; because he merits it! because there is no other person so worthy of it as he! And were you in my place, Celina, tell me I pray you, could you forbear having a great attachment [Page 52] for him? What! have I not done him justice in my letters? Have I neglected to describe him to you such as he is? If so, I have been guilty of an unpardonable omission!

I have not, I suppose, told you any thing of his talents or his beauty, nor the many external qualities which render him so shining. For none of these qualities can be very interesting to you nor me. But for me to neglect presenting you with the enchanting picture of his innocent manners, or his sweet disposition; to forbear from extolling, according to their merits, every quality of his heart, or every virtue of his noble mind, would be unpardonable. This would be a piece of injustice of which I never expected to be guilty.

And is it not surprising that this young man, who would lose nothing by the most rigid examination, has so much indulgence for the failings of others, that one would sometimes term it weakness? So extraordinary is his mildness, that he will neither give any cause of offence to his greatest enemy, nor hold resentment against the injuries of a friend. And is it not an uncommon circumstance, that the extreme sensibility of his heart adds to the unalterable sweetness of his temper? I will now give you a trait of his character entirely new.

My uncle, I must confess, is entirely another man; so that I was too hasty in felicitating myself on account of the change in his conduct. This revolution in his behaviour has not stopped at the degree which I could have desired. A melancholy, at first very mild, took place of the gaiety which was quite extinct; but now a profound sadness and gloomy vexation have succeeded. M. Dolerval has never seen him in such a deplorable state as the present. And if the inconvenience of this [Page 53] strange alteration affected none but me, I could not but pity my unfortunate uncle, and do every thing in my power to comfort him. Why does he, in the severest turns of his melancholy disorder, never become vexed with his niece, with whom, perhaps, he has a right to be offended? On the contrary, why does he lay the whole burden of his ill humour upon his generous friend, who so tenderly compassionates his inward sorrow, and who, alas! vainly endeavours, like me, to discover its cause?

Yesterday, almost twelve o'clock at night, they had not opened the collection of songs which M. Dolerval intended to make use of in the evening. My uncle strange to tell, seemed quite indifferent about this amusement. M. Dolerval supposed he might, once only sing my favourite song (I would say his), and sung it: and although it is very short, my uncle seemed to wait with impatience till it was ended. But this was not all! Observe now his astonishing caprice! When the young man bid us good night, M. Sevin, who, during the whole evening, scarcely observed any part of the music, questioned his friend with a tone of bitterness, and said, "Will Madame Florival never honor us any more with her visits? Has she sworn never to come again to my house to favour us with her music?"

"Excuse my sister," answered he, "she is at present much occupied and embarrassed."—M. Dolerval was going to continue, but he was briskly interrupted. "She is not occupied with her chagrins," said M. Sevin.—"Must we not suppose," replied her brother with emotion, "by the tone with which you express your sentiments, that you are offended with her?"

"In fact," cried he, "I am at least surprised with her conduct! I may well be surprised, when [Page 54] I have seen a woman, not above six weeks ago, ready to die with grief for the loss of her husband, appear so soon to be perfectly comforted. What then shall we think of a woman's attachment, if it cannot for more than a month survive its object? What would you have us think of sorrows which she does not care to preserve any longer? Whenever I think of this, I have less reason to lament that they do not marry the priests."

On hearing such uncivil expressions, you would expect to see M. Dolerval overcome with vexation. But instead of being offended, in an affecting manner he said: "O my friend! what do I hear? what injury have I done you?" And, at the same time, offered M. Sevin his hand. But, strange to relate, M. Sevin, instead of flying into his arms for reconciliation, only stepped backwards. For my part, I could not patiently endure it! But nothing can alter the mild disposition of this young man. He then retired deeply afflicted. Yet I must say, whilst I think of it again, that I am certain there was not in his conduct the least sign of anger.

"Good night Juliette," said the Curate after the young man went away.—"My uncle, he's gone away very sorrowful."

"Well, the words are gone from me, and what would you have me do?"

"But he will never return," replied I.

"Never return!" repeated he with uneasiness. And then, in a mild voice, he continued: "You are too easily alarmed. Be comforted, Juliette, be comforted: he will return. I do not often treat him so ill. But have you not, my niece, given him a kind and distinguished reception? Why did you cause him to endure the pains of my erroneous conduct? Yet I know him too well to suppose he [Page 55] will long hold his resentment on account of my sudden passion. Take courage, he will come again, I promise you. 'Tis I, my dear girl, who promise you this. Good night—I know, my girl, that I am sad, peevish and insupportable! Be willing—O be willing to make me otherwise! Pity me, and let Dolerval also both pity and pardon me! Do you understand me, Juliette? Let him pardon me, I pray you!"

Then he left me in tears, much affected with his sudden and unexpected repentance. Now, let him say what he will, I shall be in perpetual anxiety. I am afraid M. Dolerval will never come again. There was not, in all that was said on that occasion, any thing which hurt him so sensibly as the abusive expressions spoken against his sister. But now all is well; he has returned, and much sooner than usual: And from the greatest distance he could see my uncle, he ran to him. My uncle tried to speak and make some apologies; but he tenderly embraced him, and would not suffer him to do it.

What think you! What can you think of all this, Celina? I wish you would answer me without delay.

[Page 56]

LETTER LVII. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.

Paris, August 4, 1782.

EMILIA, you did not at all understand the meaning of my last letter; but I well understood the import of yours. In your expressions I perceive symptoms of that strange passion which obscures the better judgment; whilst friendship, that coolly reflects, and considers at a distance, is capable of enlightening the most timid inexperience. Who could have thought that it would ever have appertained to Celina, abandoned to the ignorance of the cloister, to remove the thick veil from the eyes of Emilia, which she, while surrounded with the light and experience of the world, had permitted to cover them?

Poor deluded sister! thou art going blindly along in a way overspread with innumerable snares, and each succeeding step exposes thee more than the former! Forbear, forbear, I conjure you! Give yourself a moment's recollection. Examine your heart with impartiality. Strive, without prejudice, to answer the questions I shall propose for your consideration.

Whatever events may take place, you will never, never forget your generous husband. The remembrance of his generosity can never be effaced from your memory. You had conceived for your husband much esteem, a lively gratitude, and respectful friendship; but, at present, what do you think, or what do you say concerning Bovile?

[Page 57]At present, for it will be more easy for you to judge by comparison—what do you at present think, or what do you say of young Dolerval? Whence proceed those enthusiastic eulogies you lavish upon him? What name shall we give to that species of enthusiasm with which he inspires you? In short, what else could you think, or what could you say more, if he had inspired you with what is called love? With love, my sister! the very word should make you tremble. Nevertheless, you must not be too much discouraged at your situation. Methinks it is still in your power to return to your duty.

O Emilia! the dearest of sisters! methinks I behold the precipice before thee, and would fain turn thee from it! When, for the purpose of escaping it, I have recourse to thy wisdom and prudence, to that love of virtue which will inspire thee, I doubt not but thou wilt form the best resolutions. Provided the danger is not hidden, I shall feel easy. Feel easy! O, no! do not think so—I cannot feel so whilst I behold so many new sorrows added to those which already oppress my sister.

But what shall I say of this fatal passion of love? Was it designed to make wretched the whole human race? Why should it delight in tormenting those hearts which should never feel its fatal power with a restless and anxious desire? As for you, my dear Emilia, you have probably known its effects too soon for your happiness; but it is, perhaps, for my eternal languor, that I have sworn never to know them. How strange is our destiny!

[Page 58]

LETTER LVIII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

St. Cyr, August 6, 1782, noon.

MERCIFUL God! what a sudden ray of light thou hast thrown into the dark delusive road in which I walked with full confidence! Have not the cruel passions of others rendered my lot sufficiently deplorable? Must I be doomed to struggle with a criminal passion that has taken possession of my heart? Was it not enough for me to become an object of pity? And to complete my wretchedness, must I become an object of contempt? Oh, Bovile! most generous of husbands! my gratitude for thy benevolent deeds has so soon perished in my memory! The sentiment which thy virtues merited, and which was due from me, they did not obtain; but soon, ah, how soon was it given to a stranger! Alas! thy memory is already dishonored! whilst, as it were, upon thy tomb, scarcely closed, I am affected with a criminal passion!

Conceive, my dear Celina, my excessive grief and surprise. This day, for the first time, I was made sensible of my ingratitude, not only towards my husband, but towards my sister. Whilst your ever affectionate and ever vigilant friendship watched over me, my base egotism scarcely gave me time to remember you. Senseless mortal! I entertained you with nothing but my errors! So ungrateful I was that I forgot the sorrows of my sister! Since I have been at this place, I have not, to my remembrance, [Page 59] addressed you with one word of consolation. How great then must be the power of that attachment, which, even in its commencement, has made me neglect my duty, offend my benefactors, and transfer to a single object, and an object till then a stranger, my entire affection! What resistance can I make against its all-powerful influence? What part shall I take? Whither shall I fly? And what, O! what will become of the wretched Emilia?

LETTER LIX. Emilia in continuation.

11 o'clock at night.

YOU will doubtless observe, Celina, by the date of this letter, that I retired to my apartment this evening sooner than usual. The reason is, because M. Dolerval has already gone, and my uncle sent me hither. I take advantage of this circumstance to tell you some happy news. It seems to me that this morning I partook too much of your apprehensions. I am well convinced that I am far from loving the young man as much as we feared. The more I reflect upon it, the better I am convinced that, as yet, I have only yielded, in some measure, to the impression he strove to make upon my heart. I have rewarded his civility, his attention and solicitude, with a grateful return, and this is all. But even in such a proceeding, I am sensible there might be some danger, and promise to be more cautious in future.

Lend an ear, my sister; you will, I hope, be [Page 60] satisfied with the motives which have enabled me to change my opinion, and give me more confidence in myself. For two days past, these gentlemen have had very lengthy, mysterious, and animated conferences together. They speak in a low voice, move at a distance, and avoid me. This piece of unpoliteness at first seemed quite intolerable; but soon afterwards I was still more surprised by their endless whispering. I perceived that they feared more and more to admit me into the secret of their conferences. They also afflicted me exceedingly with a distrust that seemed quite uncivil. However, they at length returned, but were affected with a joy which they could not well dissemble. These marks of indifference for my unhappy circumstances have not escaped my notice. They have done singing my favourite song, and now sing the following one, with which you are well acquainted:

"Il faut attendre avec patience,
"Le jour de demain est an biau jour:
"Grande est, dit-on, la différence
"Entre le mariage & l'amour," &c.

These proceedings were really impertinent; to substitute such a vulgar and, insignificant piece for my favourite one, which is so excellent, was not to be borne with. I cannot but be sensibly affronted at them; insomuch that if M. Dolerval should attempt to sing it now, I would oppose it with spirit. By this you can see, that none of his unpolite proceedings escape my notice; that I remark all his faults, and pardon none of his failings. But do you suppose any person could be so greatly affronted with one they love, and even for such trifles? Certainly not, and to convince you of it, I can [Page 61] sincerely declare that I am not in the least offended with my uncle.

From this, my sister, is it not clear, that your anxiety misled us? I cannot, nor do I wish to deny that I have some friendship for him; but as for loving him, I am certain that I do not. We were, indeed, like a couple of children. Can it seem even probable, that I was so suddenly infatuated? I hear a noise—in the parsonage! What, is my uncle not asleep? But, methinks, I hear—his voice. Why should he return at the hour which he—? Yes, 'tis his voice—Wait awhile, my sister, till I go and listen.

Yes, Celina, it is M. Dolerval. He said, "well, very well, I always go to the church."

"You shall not have to wait for me there," answered my uncle. But what is the meaning of all this? What are they going to do at church? I cannot tell, my sister, but I have a foresight of it that alarms me. What can I make of this strange combination of circumstances; those mysterious conversations, and the apparent satisfaction of M. Dolerval? And can I be at a loss when I recollect the song of this evening? How can it be possible! Wait, my sister, I will endeavour to go down without any noise—to listen. I wish to know— Heavens! how I tremble! I will return to my dear Celina in a moment.

O, what have I seen? What have I heard? Perfidious man! O, wretched me! Ah, Celina, my hand trembles so that I cannot write—at present. To-morrow I will tell you all.

[Page 62]

LETTER LX. Emilia in continuation.

August 7, 8 o'clock morning.

NO—I cannot. I am as feeble and dejected as I was yesterday—out of a condition to undertake that cruel relation. During the whole night I never closed my eyes. Indeed, I do not love him; you may be assured that I do not. Cruel man! how he has deceived me! O ungrateful —. Pardon me, generous Bovile. Perhaps it is too true that I might have loved him— but it is a settled point that I never shall.—Be calm, my sister, for I determine, from henceforth, that I will only hate him. To-morrow, or, perhaps, some time to-day, I will tell you more.

LETTER LXI. Murville to Dolerval.

Brest, August 7, 1782.

BE comforted, my brother, I am not offended with you. The idle apostrophes with which you dishonor my just sentiments do no offend, though their greatly distress me. However short the time of my concern for you may be, I must pronounce you incurable. And how distressing it would be, if, at last, I should be obliged to sign [Page 63] an advertisement of friends, to confine you in the Petites Maisons!^*

How? Dolerval is more anxious of knowing whether he is worthy of his mistress than any thing else! He wishes to feel an eternal flame in perpetual privation! O what a misfortune! Where the deuce did you get all this? It must be that you know Amadis and Astree by heart, and took it from that. That is the mischief of it! They ought never to put romances into the hands of such children as you; for, sooner or later, the reading of them will turn your brain. Thus it once fared with me. Being but a small boy, a devout preceptor had made me, for some time, at morning and evening, meditate upon the life of the saints, and it had such an effect upon me, that I ran out into the fields with an intention of becoming a hermit.

To continue; the humble person is of an inferior class. Have I not guessed right? Let it be so. Do not fear I shall reprimand you; I know it has always been the custom. At Paris you will find the dowager coquettes, who lie in wait to procure the consolation of a young man fresh from the college. And as soon as the novice appears, they fall upon him, and willing or unwilling, introduce him into the world. As for our provincial beauties of forty or fifty, they do not all of them have that happy instinct. They generally bestow on their chamber-maids the profits and privileges of such educations. You ought, therefore, in your first attempt, like adolescent Tourangeau, to try none but a subaltern. And you did very wrong, indeed, to accuse us, men of the world, of disdaining the little creatures. We never disdain them, provided [Page 64] they are sweet and handsome. Come then, don't be offended, I am willing to believe yours to be tolerably genteel. But where could you pick up this Phoenix of poor girls? Amongst the attendants of your sister? No, it cannot be; your female instructor is very cautious about having any around her but such as are ugly and old. It may be then a chamber-maid of the sub-delegate's wife, or one belonging to the lady of our grand counsellor of election; or rather, the one belonging to the large wife of the president of the salt granary: for the city of Tours swarms with women of every rank. You seemed to think your behaviour towards the women was becoming. I will not acknowledge to you in that point. You seem to be quite destitute of humanity; what will become of them when you slander them at such a rate? Nobody will any longer take notice of them; and yet they may sometimes be as real objects of charity, as the young and handsome.

It would suit me better, if this dear creature belonged to my sister. You might then admire her with more convenience, and it would be easy for you to watch her more narrowly. For you must watch her, Dolerval, whatever you may think of it! Do every thing in your power to prevent the entrance of any sparkish fellow. Shut the door against those blades like the English Jockies, shining with youth and beauty. Since they resemble Cupid as well as yourself, you have reason to be mightily afraid they will agree with you in making no account of birth and education: nor would I advise you to be less jealous of those large gentlemen, well built and alert, who, with one leap, can scale the highest walls: such would be able to rival you in natural advantages. Keep an equal [Page 65] distrust of those large gentlemen of the hotel, with plump round faces, continually fattened with chickens which they do not give gratis to their masters. However little service your mistress might have, Dolerval, a fellow man-servant, so highly fed as the one I have here given you a sketch of, would, with her, have great means of seduction. What enemies! what great and powerful enemies! Methinks I behold them in your absence surround this queen of the world, as she comes from turning her lady's buckle. They flatter this idol of your heart, and make her some pretty proposals of the antichamber. They idolize her, flatter and pursue her, with their worship, from the office even to the house-top. Take care of yourself, my brother, for in the rank you have so philosophically chosen the object of your tenderness, we cannot tell what rival you have most reason to fear: whether a Valmont of the kitchen, or a Lovelace of the stable.

Above all things, do not go and verbally stun the ears of your mistress with such a fine sermon as the one you sent me in manuscript. Did you show that composition of nonsense, love and morality, to our sister? How must she, who is so proud of her innocence and your nullity, be charmed with it! But, patience! I cannot but hope you are going to escape her. Only be ready to get out of your leading strings, and you shall have a new preceptor, who shall give you lessons somewhat different. You shall see what length of time your queen will be contented with your respectful extacies; whether she will always be pleased with being an idol; whether she will always accommodate herself with a lover who is willing to adore her, but has no desire of obtaining her. O truly! you pity me, do you? I shall keep your letter [Page 66] with care. I shall preserve it as a monument of human misery. Alas! Dolerval, what poor creatures we are!

Yet M. Dolerval terminates his letter by offering me pardon, and on condition that I will be of his opinion! Ah, it is too plainly to be seen that you are captivated with some woman! Adieu, my brother.

LETTER LXII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

St. Cyr, August 7, 1782, 2 o'clock P. M.

YOU will remember that I recognised the voice which I never heard without alarm. At the same instant, urged by an anxious desire of satisfying those sad suspicions which I feared to see confirmed, I left the letter which I had begun for you, and went softly out of my chamber, and without light. I soon came to that part of the staircase from whence they proceed to go into the church, and stood upon the landing place. It was not the door of communication where I stood, for M. Sevin, in his precipitation, had neglected to shut it. But he was then scarcely in the church, and I believe he was upon the last step at the church door; I, therefore, stayed where I was, attentive and trembling. An ungrateful man endeavoured to let his voice be heard: "Come," said M. Dolerval, "unite two lovers." And how could I, at that time, avoid having my curiosity most feelingly excited? The door which hid every object from [Page 67] me, yielded to the first motion I made to open it; and, through a narrow space which permitted me to perceive, and apparently without being perceived, I cast my eager looks into the enclosure of the temple. There my eyes too plainly beheld the perfidious young man who so earnestly urged my uncle to the chapel, which was ornamented for the design, where they waited for nothing but the minister. The flambeaus of Hymen were lighted, and I saw a woman at the foot of the altar. Cruel woman! In the mean time I could not refrain from giving her a minute attention. And, shall I tell you, my sister; shall I tell you this new dream of a disordered imagination? Yes, Celina, you shall know all my weakness! Learn, then, another wonderful effect of that sentiment which holds dominion over me—of that allurement which, blinding me with perpetual illusions, fixes in my mind, wherever I am, the image of a man, whom it is desirable for my repose I might never have seen. This woman, in her happy impatience, turned her eyes towards her lover, who continued to hasten the minister, who seemed too slow for his wishes. Then it was, that a violent desire arose in my mind of learning the numerous advantages of her who was preferred to me. And I was led to believe, notwithstanding the considerable distance between us, that it was possible to distinguish the features of this stranger, which must be so captivating. And could you have believed it, Celina? Yes, I did in fact distinguish them! Lo! to my extreme confusion, I discovered, in the features of this woman, those of her lover! Yes, the more I fixed my afflicted eyes upon her, the more I was persuaded that in her I beheld the lively resemblance [Page 68] of the unkind man, whom her beauty had stolen from me. I cannot tell why this seeming resemblance augmented my distress. But true it was, that my sorrow increased with the idea of those charms possessed by my fortunate rival; true it was, that I should have felt less afflicted if I could have supposed her to be less beautiful.

At this time I stood struck with astonishment, and attacked with gloomy reflections: M. Dolerval spoke again, and seemingly to give me a fatal stroke, said, "Why do you delay? Come, complete her happiness and mine." "I only ask for a moment," answered my uncle: "you are ready to find fault with me; but when we are so hasty, something may be forgotten."

Saying this, he turned about to come back; so that I was obliged to fly to my apartment for fear of being discovered. But the more I hurried on the stairs in my embarrassing situation, the more I increased the difficulties of my speedy retreat. I was really on the second story, out of M. Sevin's view, when he came to the landing place I had just left. But I stood perfectly still at the door of my chamber, not daring to go in, lest, by making the least noise, I should be betrayed.

"Vain precaution!" said my uncle; "no, no; I was not deceived," (speaking in a manner as if he did not wish to be heard in the church), "somebody was there to disturb and espy us. Juliette, Juliette! What is the matter with you, that you are awake at this time of night? Go to sleep, my girl; go to sleep; and be careful never to mention what you have seen to-night. This marriage must remain a secret."

After saying this, he returned to the church▪ [Page 69] pulled the door after him, which, at this time, he endeavoured to have fast shut, and left me in unspeakable confusion.

It is my duty, however, to confess that the vexation I feel on account of being discovered, is the least of all my afflictions. Given up to the most painful reflections, I examine, with more faithfulness, the deep wounds of my heart. There do I find that cruelly delusive passion in its full extent, which at present I could scarcely desire to disown, and, alas! too late deplore its fatal influence.

Although I cannot deny, Celina, that this cruel passion possessed my heart, you may be assured that its existence is at an end. Nor would I have you fear that it will ever revive. What! could I still love a perfidious man who transfers his affections to another object? A seducer, who came to deceive me by the external appearance of an attachment, which seemed to be as animated as respectful? A traitor, who, in the gloom of night, goes to the foot of the altar, and takes upon him the irrevocable engagement of loving none but my rival? My rival! Ah, no! she is already the wife of M. Dolerval! Can the husband of another woman be any thing to me?—the husband of another!—O my sister!—Can it be possible?

It ought, in some measure, to calm my sorrows, to consider how much my uncle seems interested in consoling me. Excellent man! this morning he took every possible measure to prevent me from recollecting the error of last night. But at dinner, in spite or every struggle to disguise my heaviness of mind, it appeared again to such a degree, that he could not but remark it.

"What is the matter with you, Juliette?" said he, "you distress me. As for my own misfortunes, [Page 70] I shall always endeavour to bear them without complaining; but as for yours. I know they will be more than I can endure. Can the unhappy state you are in be attributed to me? If so, I have undesignedly become very guilty. Whatever I can do to promote your welfare shall be done, and certainly you are not sensible how much it has cost me."—

Here I interrupted M. Sevin, for this was more than I could bear: "Dispense, I pray you, with the trouble of making me remember your kindness, for I am sensible of it in its full extent: I know that many others who might have spent much more of their money for me, would not have brought me under so great an obligation as you have."

"Why do you speak of money?" cried he. "Has that any reference to my meaning?" Seeming to be sensible he ought to proceed no farther, he moderated his voice, and said, "Well, if it contributes to your peace of mind, believe so. And since, in an unguarded moment, I was wanting in politeness, be kind enough to pardon me."

A little afterwards, whilst thinking on the events of last evening, I could not but weep. M. Sevin observing me, could not refrain from doing so himself. "In the name of friendship, my dear girl, what is it that so troubles you?"

"Did you not," answered I, "unite to lovers last evening?"

"Yes, my niece, and I assure you it was not a pleasant office."

"O, it is all over then, he is married indeed!"

"What then; what if he was married?"

"If he was," cried I in despair, (covering my face with my hands) "it would be better for me never to see him again!" My uncle kept silence▪ [Page 71] but I urged him to explain himself with as much earnestness as if I needed to be better certified of my misfortune. The good Curate did not soon yield to my intreaties. As he walked about the room, I observed him to be in great agitation of mind. My good friend, for he well deserves that title, my generous friend and benefactor seemed to struggle in his mind with great irresolution. He doubtless feared the consequence of confirming me in the belief of what I so strongly suspected. At length, for a complete answer to my inquiries, he said, with a deep sigh, and an inflexion of voice, which was completely convincing, "Poor girl! poor girl!"

Then I considered that the time drew near when M. Dolerval was accustomed to visit us. Notwithstanding his audacious perfidy, I expected he would presume to visit us again. The pity which M. Sevin apparently felt for me, greatly renewed my courage.

"My uncle," said I, "permit me to retire to my chamber, and stay there during the whole evening."

"What, my niece, must I be so long deprived—?"

"Do not, I pray you, deny me that favour."

"That favour!" repeated he. "Why, I have told you before, and now tell you again, that your desires, whatever they may cost me, shall always be laws. Go then, my girl, and do not forget, that in my house you are absolute mistress of your time and actions."

After having thanked him, and being ready to retire, he bid me adieu, in a tone of tender compassion which greatly affected me. I cannot but think, Celina, that my uncle also is tormented with some secret affliction; for I cannot believe that any [Page 72] except the unfortunate, can so well sympathize with such as themselves. However, as I was desirous of being alone, I ran to my apartment, and shut myself in. Here I am weeping and writing to my sister.

LETTER LXIII. Dolerval to Murville.

Tours, August 8, 1782, 11 o'clock A. M.

WITH what gaiety, my brother, do you vindicate your errors! and you can do it with impunity. For those pleasantries of yours, which have a reference to me alone, you may be assured, will leave on my mind no lasting impression of resentment. But as to the indecent sarcasms with which you reproach a young woman so virtuous and engaging, I consider them as a species of impiety. Nevertheless, I feel, in some measure, disposed to pardon you; because I am certain that if you were better acquainted with the adorable niece of M. Sevin, you would no longer indulge yourself in thus reproaching her. What uncommon sense and judgment does she possess! What unusual qualities are united in her person! What a train of rare accomplishments! But I must leave you, to go and inquire whether she is well. Yesterday I had not the pleasure of seeing her. She was indisposed. Her uncle told me it was but a slight indisposition. But the anxiety I felt last night, deprived me of sleep. I shall feel restless till [Page 73] I have seen her again. I am now going thither in haste.

Noon.

O my brother, what a severe reverse of fortune! What have I done? By what crime towards her have I rendered myself so guilty? I went to M. Sevin's, and at a time when she did not expect me. Yet she did not discover that agreeable surprise which she has so often and so frankly manifested, when in my evening visits, I have frequently arrived there before the accustomed hour. Anxious of knowing how she did, I accosted her, and with earnestness inquired whether she had recovered?

"Recovered of what, Monsieur?" said she interrupting me.

"But I was speaking of your indisposition yesterday."

"You was misinformed, Monsieur; you may depend upon it I was quite well."

"But what deprived us of the pleasure of seeing you?"

"The pleasure of seeing me, Monsieur, cannot be very great. Besides, I do not know that my uncle expected any body yesterday. For my part, I expected nobody, I assure you."

"What you tell me, Mademoiselle, is calculated both to afflict and astonish me."

"To astonish you, Monsieur! Was it possible for you to suppose that your assiduities at this place were more pleasing to one than another?"

"Ah, what do I hear! I may very naturally consider that remark as a dreadful lesson for me, and one that I have not merited."

"Merited or not merited, Monsieur, you must learn to improve by it."

[Page 74]In the mean time, my friend was at work in his garden—surprised that I was coming away, instead of going to him, he came after me, and called me to return. I stopped a moment and informed him, that if my friendship had not become less desirable to him than formerly, and as the entrance of his house was forbidden me in future, I desired him to come and cultivate it at my own.

Then, without waiting for his answer, I went home, my brother, overwhelmed with confusion, and with feelings more desperate than I can describe.

LETTER LXIV. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

August 9, 1782, 8 o'clock morning.

I THANK you, my dearest Celina, for the consolations of your letter; but I do not at present stand in need of them. I am much better—Learn then—M. Dolerval—I was deceived!—Attend, my sister. Yesterday I did myself so much violence as to tell him I wished never to see him again; but so great an effort exhausted all my strength and resolution: so that I spent the rest of the day, and all the succeeding night, in tears. In the evening my uncle seemed to be much afflicted to see me so sorrowful, and much more so the morning after. "Poor creature!" said he, unceasingly, and at length fell into one of his profound reveries. He walked about in a hasty manner, with irresolution in his countenance, and [Page 75] seemed to be much dissatisfied with himself. And I thought I heard him, though indistinctly, say as follows: "My error has lasted too long already. This was a great cruelty! and to continue in it, would be a still greater perfidy!"

Then he instantly turned round, came to me precipitately, and with much force of expression he said, "Your sorrow is too cruel, it wounds me to the soul. Comfort yourself, my girl; wipe off your tears: he is not married."

Who? He? My uncle—Himself—Do you say that he is not?—repeat it, I pray you, repeat it. "I say he is not married, Juliette. You did not understand my answer, yesterday. My answer, it is true, was equivocal, and I was to blame. My error was great indeed; but what can you expect from me, my niece? I am but a man, and as liable as any other to be subjected to the reign—Pardon me, and I beseech you take pity—"

Here my uncle inturrupted himself, and seemingly because he saw me turn pale, and ready to fall. At first I arose suddenly, and in my speech and actions discovered some violence; but as I was soon sensible of great weakness, I was again forced to take my seat.

It must be, however, that M. Sevin supposed there was nothing alarming in my situation at that time, for instead of offering me any assistance, he left me precipitately; and, in fact, my weakness was not very grievous, and soon left me.

Here I waited awhile for my uncle, who did not return; and fearing he was offended, I went down into the garden to look for him. He was almost concealed in the most obscure part of the garden. There I saw him standing up, reclining his [Page 76] head upon his hands against a tree. His posture seemed to be that of a man deeply thoughtful; and he must have been extremely so; for without his either hearing or perceiving me, I came and stood very near him.

"Alas!" said he, "it was joy in the extreme."

"No, my uncle, it was the extreme of astonishment."

On hearing my voice he started in great surprise.

"Why do you not respect my solitude," said he. "Why do you follow me here to surprise—?"

I could not wait until he had finished, for I saw him in tears.

"But I should be unhappy, my uncle, if my joy proves a cause of sorrow to you!"

"No, no," answered he; (taking hold of my hand) "no, my girl: but, on the contrary, I shall be happy no longer than whilst you are so. As for my tears—do not regard them. And how can you determine the cause? Perhaps the pleasure of seeing your grief at an end—and the happiness of comforting my young friend, who must be greatly afflicted."—

"Greatly afflicted, do you believe?"

"Come," continued he, "I must completely atone for my errors."

"And for mine also, my uncle."

"I will go to find him."—

"Will you go in a short time?"

"This morning."

"Presently?"

"Yes, I will go immediately, and tell him, on my part and yours."

"Wherefore on my part? Can you not have goodness enough to inform him that your niece is, [Page 77] at times, somewhat ill tempered; but that you would not, on account of her caprice, sacrifice a friendship?"—

"I understand you," interrupted he; "it belongs to me to make reconciliation with Dolerval, not to Juliette. Do not, my girl, ever mention a word to him of what you saw on the night of day before yesterday. I must not, and cannot unveil the mystery of this clandestine marriage. Let it suffice you to know, that Dolerval was present at that time only as a witness. Believe me, when I now renew the assurances of its being true."

This conversation, the details of which I have almost minutely given you, has relieved my mind from a grievous oppression. It is incumbent upon me, at present, to go down, for my uncle is going away. I will not bid you adieu, my sister.

Noon.

I have seen him again, Celina, sooner than I could have desired, and at a moment when I least expected him. My uncle, it seemed to me, had been gone a long time, and I greatly wished for his return. Several times in my impatience, did I go from the yard into the garden, and back again into the yard, accusing M. Sevin of being extremely slow. After I had spent some time in this manner, not knowing any better method of shortening the time, I went into the house, and sat down at the piano. There were several pieces of music lying on the desk, and I endeavoured to play them: but as they were more lengthy than I wished, I quitted them, and returned very naturally to my favourite song, which I sung and accompanied my voice with the music. After I had finished it, "What a voice! what talents!" cried somebody.

[Page 78]Looking around, I saw, to my astonishment, that he stood listening at the door of the apartment, where, believing myself alone, I had given my voice its full scope. M. Sevin had made use of his key^* without my hearing him. He brought M. Dolerval with him, who stood listening at the same time, struck with surprise, and, perhaps, I may say, with admiration. It seems strange, that, at this juncture, and considering the state of my mind, that I should have conducted so imprudently. No longer knowing where I was, or what I did, I rose up, went towards him, and observed that his countenance was changed. M. Sevin perceiving my over-sight, attempted to atone for it; but being too hasty, he succeeded no better than myself.

"Changed," cried he, "we are all changed, and let us cast off our resentment; let us speak of the brilliant wit of the discrete Juliette."

Here compliments were renewed. M. Sevin discovered much surprise, and reproached me, though in a gentle and courteous manner. But M. Dolerval was more surprised than he, and it seemed difficult for him to believe that the uncle was unacquainted with the talents of the niece. Both of them, however, urged me to begin again, and with as much earnestness as if they feared what they had seen to be only a dream. In this attempt I did not succeed so well as the former: perhaps by reason of my efforts to exceed it: be it as it may, there was a trembling in my hands and voice. My uncle remarked it with some uneasiness, and I can excuse him for it. But methinks M. Dolerval ought to be better satisfied. However, they mutually congratulated each other on the acquisition [Page 79] of a new assistant in music, by which means the happy moment would soon arrive when we should have frequent concerts. They even proposed making a party after dinner. M. Dolerval promised to bring his master: and as to his sister, he said, in a few days he hoped it would be in her power to attend also: and then, without doubt, she would come, and without delay, to admire the talents, and, perhaps, participate in the success of a rival, well worthy of her attention.

I do not wish, my sister, to dissemble in any thing. The appearance of M. Dolerval, this morning, was not according to my wishes. In his behaviour, he seemed to show more indifference than reserve; and, in his air, more coldness than dejection. He seemed less pleased on discovering such a desirable talent in me, than vexed with the idea of our having so long concealed it from him. And as he went away, I was convinced, by some expressions he made in his parting compliments, that he still supposed my uncle combined with me in a design of deceiving him. What excessive injustice! I can hardly forgive him! We shall see this evening, whether he will then presume to entertain suspicions which so much afflict me. Of this, I shall not fail to inform you, my sister. But of what consequence is it to you? And why should I be so stupid as to indulge my thoughts, and employ myself in this manner? Ah! my dear Celina, once more vouchsafe to pardon Emilia. Perhaps you will be better pleased with the first letter she shall send you hereafter.

[Page 80]

LETTER LXV. Emilia in continuation.

August 11, 1782.

WHAT a stupid creature I am! In my answer of day before yesterday, I passed over in silence that article of your letter, which, more than any other, required explanation. I am of the same opinion as yourself. M. Sevin, I make no doubt, has conceived a fatal passion for your unfortunate sister. It seems also beyond a doubt, that jealousy, the most wretched of passions, has entered the heart of this man, which was equally inspired with benevolence and sensibility.

Yesterday we had a concert for the second time. And I must declare, that if it were possible for any thing to give me a distaste for music, it would have been the manner in which we performed our concert. As soon as M. Dolerval appeared, my uncle ran to him, and, to do him justice, gave him a favourable reception. But why does he not suffer me to treat the young man even with ordinary civility? Why does he scarcely give me time to address M. Dolerval with some of those questions of politeness which custom authorises, even amongst ordinary acquaintances? May we not, in fact, say, that every kind of conversation fatigues him when we have the company of a third person who can render it more agreeable? M. Sevin urges and torments us. We are forced, in order to please him, to enter into the tedious quatuors. If the pieces are of that sort which he calls lively, and which I [Page 81] should call very tedious, the Curate performs his part not so ill. But it is far otherwise when we chance to light upon any of those pieces which are really interesting; full of soft, tender and affectionate expressions. Then I enter perfectly into the spirit and measure of the piece, play it with more warmth, taste and precision! M. Dolerval, on his part, is animated and impassioned: for he is full of spirit and animation. But my uncle at once spoils the whole. And how can he follow the measure of the music, when his eyes are constantly fixed on his niece and his friend? In vain do we endeavour to continue; in vain does the attentive master call back the wanderer; M. Sevin will not understand any thing. The last evening, his mind was so greatly disturbed, that he hastily threw down his instrument at the risk of breaking it, ran into another apartment, and shut the door after him. He returned, indeed, but it was then too late: for nobody could prevail with him to take up the piece again which had been so cruelly interrupted. At such a time I could not but complain. Notwithstanding the smiles he affected, he seemed to be much confused and vexed at his misconduct. In this place, I will remark one circumstance which much afflicted me: both times, when he retired to his room, his eyes, on his return, were red and heavy. When he fled to his apartment, I make no doubt but he went there to weep alone.

It seems equally strange, and I declare it with still greater displeasure, that M. Dolerval no longer seems to have that tender interest he formerly had in the feelings of his friend, and which the unfortunate situation of M. Sevin seems always to require. M. Dolerval, except in those rare and fleeting moments when music warms and enlivens [Page 82] him, and when (if I may be allowed the expression) it carries him away from himself, still presumes to continue the same indifferent and almost disdainful behaviour towards me, which the other day so much offended me. Why should the unhappiness of my uncle so soon weary the patience of his friend? And, though I might have done wrong in some instances, why should he yet feel indisposed to overlook any thing? Shall I tell you my opinion, Celina? Such a sudden change in his conduct has given me a variety of thoughts. That M. Sevin has become jealous and in love, every thing combines to prove; nor do I wish to doubt it any longer: but his own unhappiness, I believe, is not his only affliction. Is he not also afflicted as severely with some great anxiety on account of Juliette? Was it occasioned by a pity ill understood by me, on the day after that fatal night when I was so greatly oppressed with the weight of my sorrows, that my too generous uncle conceived it his duty to tell me a falsehood, cruelly officious, the fault of which he at present conceives to be dangerous for me? What can I think? Is the so much altered Dolerval married, or is he not? You will see that my suspicions are horrible. But remove from my sight, Celina, if possible, all those objects of my jealousy which are every moment revived in my imagination. O, that temple! that altar! that woman who is ever in my memory▪ and whom I should know amidst a thousand others! Let me never see any more, the place which every day, and often several times in a day, I see, where the most deceitful of men hastened the steps of the minister! Above all things, let me never hear again those words of a sense so clear and terrible: "Why do you delay? Come, complete her happiness [Page 83] and mine." Does a mere witness of a marriage go to the altar with so much eagerness? Would one who was only a witness, hasten the priest with such urgent language? O what have I written! With what strange thoughts does my pleasing delusion invest me! Unhappy Emilia! Does it appertain to me, to inquire whether he is bound to another by indissoluble ties, or whether I have made any impression on his heart? Alas! I ought only to inquire what measures are most suitable for shunning the miseries preparing for me by a dangerous passion, and in what manner I ought to resist it.

But, O Celina! do you think it practicable for me to execute that project which I sometimes thought of in despair, and which you could not propose but with trembling? Can I forthwith quit this retirement which protected me in my misfortunes; renounce this country life, for whose peaceful pleasures I have conceived a strong attachment; abandon the worthy M. Sevin, who regarded not the increase of his indigence by supporting me; and, for the reward of his hospitality, leave him nothing but the remembrance of my ungrateful distrust? Would it be adviseable to fly a dear and dangerous enemy to my peace of mind, and run the risk again of falling by the sword of an assassin? Again commit my destiny to the chance of unhappy events; go from door to door, begging a shelter, and in the terror of a danger almost imaginary, since it is known, expose myself to a thousand dangers, perhaps inevitable, because it would be impossible to foresee them? No; ah, no! I cannot have courage to listen to the counsels of a foresight that would leave me to myself so wretched.

[Page 84]

LETTER LXVI. Murville to Dolerval.

Brest, August 10, 1782.

COME, M. Dolerval, I am forced to give you a great deal of pain! Must I be put to the necessity of surprising you with those confessions which it would be so desirable to obtain from you? Having so nearly gained my point, I owe you enormous thanks. How I rejoice to think you are likely to support the honor of the family! How then! You aspire to nothing less than meddling in the first place, with the dainty morsels of the church! Sweetly bewitched with your own hands! And at the expence of a dear friend! Is not this a glorious beginning? Now I acknowledge you to be of my own blood—Lo! this is the race of Murvilles!

But you have been so long possessed of a taste like a mere countryman, that I dare not flatter myself with being soon successful in giving you more noble inclinations. And have I not, my dear Dolerval, for once only, unfortunately expected too much from you? Is not this M. Sevin the late Curate of St. Cyr? This young man, whom you value so highly, and who loves you so supremely, that he is to you a sort of Pylades.^* A good-hearted fellow besides, who sighs unceasingly after the marriage of the priests. Ah, the cunning [Page 85] blade! I foretold him this, and very truly, that at some time or other, notwithstanding his scruples, he would end in having a niece!

But I will venture as much as you dare, that you do not know the greatness of the enterprise you are going to undertake. I will bet any thing you don't know what it is to be the niece of a Curate. And since I think you do not, I am determined to inform you, and that very minutely. I will not let slip this opportunity of showing you a little erudition, for I am desirous of gaining your esteem.

In former times, my brother, a long while ago, at a time when neither you, nor I, nor Curate Sevin, were in the world, the primitive church did priests the honor of believing them to be men, and rendered them the justice of acknowledging them to be so; and, in consequence of this opinion, permitted any one of them who desired it, to choose a companion, whom he might, with all safety, call his wife; and permitted him, instead of pocket money, to bequeath to her annually an innocent creature, whom they could not call radically illegitimate. To their great misfortune, a council, and it was, if I mistake not, the council of Trent,^* [Page 86] who, having in their own conceit, more knowledge than any other, discovered that the priests were no part of the human race, and decided that they should abstain from mingling their sacred blood with the impure blood of a christian woman. [Page 87] Thus determined the sacred decree of the council; but nature, not being in every instance catholic, apostolical and Roman, has never inclined to sanction this episcopal canon. Since that time, in order to avenge herself for this insult, she has forced many a bishop publicly to maintain a number of fine girls. And the poor curates, who dared not, like their superiors, to incur public censure, instead of having a wife, have, since the time just mentioned, had a niece. About the same time, I suppose, in order to provide more conveniently for the multitudes of illegitimate children which continually proceeded from the bosom of the church, they invented friars, nuns and monasteries.

But you, my poor fellow, are going to interfere with an elect! Don't you know, hapless man, [Page 88] that the God of priests is a God of vengeance? Beware, beware that the good Curate does not excommunicate you, and in an instant order some officious demon to carry you away into the midst of his companions!

Don't say I have not warned you, my brother. Nevertheless, if you persist in your intention, learn of me the readiest means of finishing that adventure which may, perhaps, bring your condemnation with it. The well beloved of an ecclesiastic must have a devout soul: it will, therefore, be necessary to try the tempting things of Lombard-street.^* Tempt her with dry sweetmeats, pastils, dainties, and little cakes. Be careful of adding to these, from time to time, the sugar-image of a Madona, or rather of some well conditioned St. Christopher. As soon as you shall have prepared the way, by these acts of kindness, you must boldly endeavour to gain a private conference. She will not be backward, I'll assure you. Only be careful to understand the different sounds of the church bell. Do you hear that mournful tingling? It is for a poor christian, an hour of supreme importance; but for my lucky brother, the hour of a shepherd. This bell calls the dear uncle to the bed of a dying man; run, Dolerval, to the pillow of the niece. The Rev. Curate terrifies the poor dying person with the words of peace; but you, my brother, must strive, by less awkward addresses, not to affrighten the well and living person, whom it is desirable, at this urgent moment, should be converted by you. In short, while the unlucky priest uses, perhaps, fruitless endeavours to save a man from purgatory, [Page 89] make haste, my brother, to send a woman to paradise. Thus, therefore, inasmuch as a paternal excursion of the pastor will send a poor creature into the other world, an amorous incursion of my brother will bring another into this. Wonder, in the mean time, at the great effects sometimes produced by the least causes. By means of these dainty presents, you will repair all the ravages made in the parish, by the frightful garments of M. Sevin. In spite of his murderous gown, you will hinder the hamlet from being depopulated. And, in a little time, it will be acknowledged, on all hands, by the difference of your works, to be the very ^*providence of the village. Go then, my good brother, and heartily set yourself about it! Begin to-morrow.

In a few weeks I hope I shall be able to encourage you with my presence. I have determined on taking a journey to Paris, for the express purpose of watching over my unfaithful friend. That Mademoiselle de Terville, whom I cannot possibly forget, must be in the hands of Varmont; and I persist in believing she can be no where else. I could easily excuse you, my brother, for adoring such a beautiful girl as she. When I consider how the rustic moiety of a poor Curate has completely deranged you, I am sensible that for Mademoiselle de Terville you would have said and done a multitude of foolish things.

You may be assured, Dolerval, that I shall not [Page 90] come near Tours, without stopping at the house of Madame Florival for at least twenty-four hours. And we will go to the parsonage together, shall we not? I have a great curiosity for becoming acquainted with his pretty niece. Heavens! how surprised I shall be to behold in that place the Dulcinea of Don Quixotte! In hope and expectation of that agreeable surprise, I bid you adieu. Remember, my friend, that I love both you and my sister.

END OF VOLUME II.

EMILIA DE VARMONT, O …

[Page]

EMILIA DE VARMONT, OR THE NECESSARY DIVORCE; AND MEMOIRS OF CURATE SEVIN. A Moral and Political Tale. Founded on Facts.

Translated from the French of M. LOUVET, By MELATIAH NASH.

THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. VOL. III.

Virtue alone has charms that never die.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Vice is a monster of such frightful mien,

That to be hated needs but to be seen.

POPE.

NEW-YORK: Printed by T. & J. SWORDS, No. 99 Pearl-street. —1799.—

[Page]

EMILIA DE VARMONT.

LETTER LXVII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

August 16, 1782, midnight.

IT is done! my fate is determined! never—never must I expect any more to find happiness upon earth. No, it would be in vain, in this transitory state, to seek for repose. In whatever tranquil abode peace chooses her residence, I need but make my appearance to expel her from thence. The ill fate which constantly pursues me, is attached to all persons who can, in any respect, be called my connections! Misfortune upon misfortune is entailed upon all persons having a regard for me, who dare, in any manner, to connect their destinies with mine! Such a person soon becomes the object of universal pity; by which means, my own lot becomes more deplorable.

Before I came hither to disturb M. Sevin's retreat, it afforded him many enjoyments. But since my entrance into this once peaceful dwelling, its wretched master has ceased to be happy. From my aspect, tranquil pleasure has fled, and, perhaps, fled forever. My uncle can no longer attend to those domestic affairs, which formerly to him, were rather a recreation than labour. His garden [Page 4] is no longer cultivated; his favourite birds languish whilst expecting their usual nourishment. He seems to languish himself; he consumes—his youth, wasted by corroding cares; advances with rapidity to its end. His sacred duties, the most important offices of his ministry, have become insupportable. Even to the altar have I seen him bear his sad reveries, his profound anxiety, his tears and despair.

And can you imagine, Celina, that I, the author of so many evils, can remain an indifferent spectator of them? No; my heart, wounded with sorrow, is bereft of every consolation.

And, on the other hand, what have become of those greatest consolations which I once enjoyed? M. Dolerval, of late, has seemed quite as unhappy as my uncle: like him, he has an air of perpetual inquietude, and appears, at all times, to be painfully agitated. His countenance is greatly changed; his pale, discoloured figure, has lost much of that native sweetness from which it derived its principal beauty, and has become the residence of corroding care. His eyes also, red and heavy, rarely discover their wonted vivacity; his voice is changed and faltering. Sometimes, in extreme confusion, he appears desirous of entrusting us with a painful secret; but a certain strange and unaccountable distrust obliges him to desist. His only explanations consist of sighs, which he in vain endeavours to suppress.

And if M. Sevin is not afraid of this confidence, by what strange and incredible fatality does it happen, that he endeavours, by all possible means, to prevent M. Dolerval from divulging it. I have already told you, I believe, that my uncle scarcely gives me time to perform the usual ceremonies of politeness to his friend. Music is not, at present▪ [Page 5] the subject which opposes our conversation: it is a book, which the Curate puts into M. Dolerval's hands as soon as he enters the house. And, O what a book! The author endeavours to prove, vile, personal interests to be the only motive of our actions; that, consequently, there are but few virtues on earth. For instance, no filial tenderness; no brotherly affection; no faithful and disinterested love; nor even so much as true friendship. And what if all this could be incontestably proved? Would it, even then, be attended with any good consequences to present before mankind this hideous picture of their deformity? For my part, I must declare that this detestable composition tarnishes my soul, confounds and disgusts me, and leaves me in absolute despondency. And the chagrin of my uncle, must have wonderfully changed the natural goodness of his character, or he would not, at this time, be pleased with such a book, and persist in afflicting us with it every day. Do you not believe, Celina, that, were this dreadful system once to be generally embraced, it would make us entirely detest human nature? No faithful nor disinterested love! Is it not, my sister, a most horrible thought?

Not even true friendship! If what I see in this place should much longer remain, I shall be tempted to believe in that odious principle myself. One of the two friends often forgets the respect and benevolence due to the other: M. Sevin often speaks to the young man with ill-disguised impatience, and sometimes with a voice of intolerable severity. What surprises me still more, M. Dolerval, at times, gets out of humour himself. The other evening—no, Celina, it was yesterday—it seems to be several years ago—yesterday evening M. [Page 6] Dolerval seemed to be as much vexed with this book as myself; and, I must confess, cast it away a little abruptly; but, soon convinced of his unbecoming behaviour, he leaned upon the table, covered his face with his hands, and remained several minutes in this humiliating posture. His breast rose and fell with sudden and irregular motions, and, I must own, I felt much affected when I observed several tears between his fingers. My uncle, who remained a silent spectator, then arose, and, with a pitiful but inoffensive tone, said to his friend— "Consider, M. Dolerval, whether the strange figure we two make here must not be quite unamusing to my niece."

"What your modesty permits you to advance only in a collective manner," answered the young man, "must, I am sensible, have reference to me alone. Ah! if I had so much fortitude as to remain at home, and hide my weakness there, you would, doubtless, be better pleased. 'Tis out of dispute, that it would be more agreeable to you, if your friend, a silent witness of your good fortune, would never come here to empoison it with any inquietude."

"What excessive irony!" answered my uncle with severity. "Were I in your place, Dolerval, and should believe what you have presumed to say, I should, at least, endeavour to have so much generosity as to exercise the courage you speak of."

"This," replied M. Dolerval in his turn, much agitated, "is the very advice I have, for a long time, expected; and, depend upon it, I shall, to the extent of my power, endeavour to follow it." He then rose to go away, but, stopping a moment to look at me once more, he uttered some expressions which my uncle considered as an outrage [Page 7] both upon Juliette and himself; but, to me, they appeared to have nothing in them but a strange obscurity in their meaning, which made me feel uneasy, but gave me no offence. "Assuredly, M. Sevin," said he, you cannot but be very happy in the possession of this young woman at your house; but never—and you wrest the declaration from me —never could I have thought that you also would have a niece."

Having said this, he suddenly left us. We have not seen him this evening; and, for twenty-four long hours, he has not been here.

He will, I perceive, preserve his resentment on account of this last quarrel; and my uncle, as much to blame as he, obstinately persists in finding an insult in those words which seemed purely inigmatical, and protests he will not go after him again. Alas! destitute even of true friendship! But how can my uncle be much to blame? What did the young man intend by visiting at our house? How strangely he has behaved here! and, if he is married, why should he come to disturb our tranquillity? and, if he is not, with what can he be so much afflicted? and how can I, on his account, feel so much anxiety? We have not seen him during twenty-four long hours!

At last my eyes are opened—perhaps too late; but never will I close them again. That resolution which seemed so cruel as to appear impracticable, is the most advisable one I can take. I must fly—I must go—no matter where, provided it be far, very far from this place, where my presence makes every one miserable. A few more days as tedious and unhappy as the present, will give me a disposition and courage to undertake it. Indeed, I must forsake this asylum, so insecure [Page 8] against the entrance of passions, and very cautious shall I be about fixing upon any other, however secure it shall appear. For if I should, its peaceful inhabitants would soon feel the baneful influence of the star which pursues me and governs my fate. Yes, I am determined in this resolution. From village to village will I transfer my vagrant existence: I will tarry no longer in one place than is necessary for procuring, by labour, the support of one day; and the hours or my wretched idleness I will pass in the solitude of gloomy forests. Then will my lot become less deplorable; then shall I enjoy the miserable consolation of being alone, and weeping unheard. Ah! how completely I am alone at the present moment▪ We have not seen him during twenty-four long hours!

LETTER LXVIII. Emilia in continuation.

St. Cyr, August 17, 1782.

IN fact, I do not exist but to find, at every moment, new matters of surprise. And, fortunately, they are sometimes of such a nature as to comfort and support me in my trials, and illumine my mind with a cheering ray of hope.

In the morning he came again betimes—but he came not alone—he was attended by —. No, my eyes did not deceive me! No; the resemblance between the young man and the lady I saw in the church was not a mere sport of my imagination. There is such a woman in reality! she has the [Page 9] same appearance which, at that time, I fancied she had: for, this day, as far as I could see her, I knew it was she. Too well do I remember at what time, at what place, and in what attitude I first beheld her. What! can her husband be so cruel as to bring her here to torment me? Perfidious man!—he comes in this manner to insult my sorrows! My heart was ready to break, and was smitten with the most violent resentment. Imagine what joy succeeded this painful moment! M. Sevin ran with every mark of lively satisfaction to meet our new visitant, and in his transport, he cried, "It is Madame—:" he called her by name, my sister. He called the name of one whom M. Dolerval indeed hold dear, but whom he may love without offending any other; one whom he has taught me to admire, by the many praises he has bestowed upon her; a mild, sensible and beneficent woman, in whom is united every virtue, and every grace! An accomplished woman! In short, no other than Madame Florival!

Now, my sister, all is explained. This is Madame Florival. "Come, without delay! Come and unite two lovers! Complete her happiness and mine!" Truly he was impatient for the completion of his Eleanor's vows. Excellent youth! His greatest happiness consists in promoting that of his sister. What satisfaction must she take in the possession of such a brother! And I also should feel proud if heaven had permitted—But I am better pleased that she enjoys that blessing! I am better pleased! She is unspeakably worthy of it.

Now it is out of dispute, that chance has revealed the secret of Madame Florival to me. M. Dolerval is free, himself! Free to love any one [Page 10] who has merit enough to please him. It was she who was married. I am rejoiced at it! She has well done! Since every thing requisite to render a brave man happy is united in her person, she has well done!

We entered into conversation with an ardour almost equal to affectation; yet it seemed to me of short continuance, and, if I may believe her, she did not think it long; nor did her brother, I believe, think it longer than ourselves. During this interesting conversation, he unceasingly gazed upon us, and with an air—an air impossible to describe! When I spoke, he observed me, and listened with as much attention as if his life depends on what I was going to say▪ and if I may so express myself, he pursued every word as it proceeded from my lips to the countenance of his sister, to see what impression it made there. The attention of M. Dolerval was not, at first, free from a sort of strange anxiety; and I could not but be offended with it. Could he suppose I would not endeavour to gain the good opinion of a person whom he so highly esteems, and to whose opinion I know he attaches the greatest importance? What reason has he to fear that I am incapable of gaining her benevolence? Whatever might have been the cause, it was necessary for my happiness that he should be satisfied much sooner. But you cannot form an idea of the satisfaction which shone on the countenance of M. Dolerval whenever Madame Florival honored Juliette with an obliging smile. When she first addressed me with a highly flattering compliment, he seemed unable to contain himself. And I cannot tell by what sympathetic resemblance between the two persons, it happens [Page 11] that the brother fondly returns to the sister the caresses she kindly bestows on me. Twice has she embraced me, and twice has he kissed her hands.

Before leaving me, she lavishingly bestowed on me the warmest and highest praises. Then in a lower voice, and speaking in confidence to her brother, she said, "These, my brother, are the natural graces of innocence, modesty and candour itself; this is the charm of civility and innocence which comes from the heart, and is void of affectation." He answered in the same tone, "If so, I am very guilty."

Then my uncle, who seemed like me to give all his attention to this mysterious dialogue, said, with much force of expression, "Indeed you are! and an hundred times more so than you can imagine! Suspect my friendship, my own principles and conduct, as much as you please, and I can overlook it; but her virtue, her modesty, so worthy of the highest respect! O young man, young man!"

"Pardon me, my friend," interrupted M. Dolerval, "pardon me. Be kind enough to obtain her pardon also▪ and you, Mademoiselle, will you not permit —" Here he was stopped by his sighs, and was ready to fall at my feet; but a look of his sister commanded his silence and forbearance.

On leaving me, Madame Florival desired my friendship. Excellent woman! What was there in me to make her desire it?

But, Celina, what is that insult for which M. Dolerval reproached himself with so much bitterness? Could there have been in those words he spake the other day, a hidden meaning which was injurious to my character? Well, since he will have it so, since he seems to acknowledge it, he has offended me. However, if his sister had not [Page 12] checked him, he would have cast himself at my feet! What discourse, after such a humiliation, could have been so criminal as to prevent my forgiveness? Oh! whatever has been his fault, it has been effaced by his tears!

It is, I think, almost needless to tell you we had no music, although, at first, there was some mention of it. This, on the part of M. Dolerval, was but a pretext for this visit. But the time would have failed us if it had been otherwise. I forgot to tell you, that during my conversation with Madame Florival, my uncle appeared to have that calmness and satisfaction, which, for a long time, I have desired to find in him again. Certain it is, that this delightful evening has been too short for us all.

LETTER LXIX. Emilia in continuation.

August 18, 1782, 9 o'clock morning.

ANOTHER unhappy event has taken place. O my sister! must I be eternally unfortunate?

Just now, whilst M. Sevin was plunged into one of his usual reveries, a domestic brought him a billet. He read it immediately, and changing colour, he said, "Unfortunate Madame Florival! Poor Dolerval! Picard? Tell him I desire him to wait a little on my account. I am going directly to his house, and determine to embrace him before his departure!"

[Page 13]"Before his departure! my uncle?"

"Yes, my girl, before his departure."

"My uncle, pray shew me that letter."

"Impossible!"

"M. Sevin, let me have it, I conjure you!"

"What, the secrets of a friend?"

"Secrets! Do you think he has any secrets he would not reveal to me?"

"Cruel girl! what do you say?"

"My uncle, if I am dear to you —"

"Juliette, how can you doubt it?"

"I demand this testimony of it."

"In the name of friendship, I beg of you not to demand it."

"It is in the name of friendship that I require it."

"Well, young woman! take advantage of the deplorable condition in which you know me to be; accomplish my misery and disgrace; cause me to betray the confidence of a friend. What do I say? Compel me, hard hearted girl!—compel me to give you arms against myself!"

After this, I said no more; but seeing me overwhelmed with grief, "All conquering power of beauty!" cried he, "what mortal can be so destitute of feeling as to oppose your wishes?" Then he resigned the billet to me, which I transcribe with eyes full of tears.

[Page 14]

LETTER LXX. Dolerval to M. Sevin.

August 18, 1782.

JUDGE, my friend, whether I am not to be pitied. Imperious necessity compels me to quit those places which were every day endeared to me more and more. I am forced to leave Eleanor in despair. Her husband, though an upright man, cannot escape the persecutions of the envious and evil minded. He did so much violence to his wishes as to leave the arms of his wife in four days after their marriage. A happy change of circumstances seemed to require this sudden departure for the capital, and the very night he arrived there, he was plunged into the dungeon of the bastile. We have just now received this frightful intelligence. I must depart immediately, and, indispensably, for Versailles; there to remain long enough to take the necessary steps for relieving him, whilst the success of my undertaking is but too uncertain. How I am grieved for my poor unhappy sister!

My friend, I commit her to your tender care; and this deposit, so dear to my heart, is not the only one, nor the dearest with which you are intrusted.

Do not, my friend, let it be known to your excellent niece, that she has kindled a flame in my breast which will never be extinguished; that I aspire to no greater happiness than that of obtaining her; that however great the price, I would wish to merit and purchase that happiness. Do not tell [Page 15] her this; for I have conducted in such a manner, as to justify your distrust, your resentment, and, perhaps, her enmity. But I desire you, at least, to assure her, that I should be tormented for having entertained such cruel suspicions against her, even after she might have goodness enough to forgive me. Adieu. O why must I depart without seeing her again! Adieu! Adieu!

LETTER LXXI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

August 18, 1782, 10 o'clock evening.

M. SEVIN had not been gone a long time before he returned, and M. Dolerval with him.

"Here, my niece," said M. Sevin, "I have brought him to you, so sensible of his faults, that he durst not come without your commands, and my permission."

"Mademoiselle," said the young man, "I go away in despair, since, by going, I must leave you. And will you, to render my misery complete, let me go, oppressed with the intolerable thought of being a victim to your too just resentment? Ah! I conjure you, by that tender pity we should feel, and exercise towards a person who has a deep and painful sense of his errors, to permit me to hope, that I may, one day, obtain your pardon!"—Here his sighs stopped his voice. "Yes, yes, I pardon you, and return as soon as possible." The last words, which he did not require, escaped me undesignedly, [Page 16] and, immediately, he fell on his knees before me, and seizing one of my hands, he clasped it in his, and pressed it to his breast. Not a word then proceeded from his mouth; but what words could be so expressive or energetic as his mild looks and eloquent silence? Is it not natural to suppose, that in this moment of surprise, I should have revealed my sentiments? Yet I am happy in being able to say that I did not; but I will dissemble no longer, nor will I hide any thing from you. My uncle cried out at the same instant, "How could I entertain the guilty and cruel project of hindering their loves, so full of innocence and tenderness? O Dolerval and Juliette, rejoice in the privilege of your lawful rights! Fortunate young people! Each of you, without being criminal, can love the other!"

The manner in which M. Sevin pronounced these words, suddenly brought to my mind an idea of the bitterness of his situation in beholding us together, and observing the ardour of our sentiments. Then making, perhaps, a painful effort to free myself from the sort of infatuation which had taken hold of me, I told the young man to go away; and I, without waiting for him to obey me, flew from him myself▪

He stayed but a moment with his friend, and as he went away, he several times repeated, "It is for life!"

And I also, Celina, could not refrain from saying, "It is for life!"

[Page 17]

LETTER LXXII. Emilia in continuation.

August 27, 1782, 10 o'clock evening.

EIGHT long and painful days have glided away since his departure: and the unspeakable grief of his sister makes it but too evident that he will not soon return. If Madame Florival was not reserved for my comforter, I know not how I could endure this painful absence of her brother. We visit her almost every day. Beautiful and excellent woman! How often in seeing her, do I behold the features of her brother! It is not the resemblance of their beautiful figures alone, which so forcibly strikes my fancy▪ no, this amiable person is endowed with graces still more captivating. But they resemble each other much more in their engaging manners; in a voice full of pleasing softness, sensibility and benevolence. As soon as she sees me, she tells me, with an air of unspeakable satisfaction, that her brother makes mention of me in all his letters to her. But when, O when, will she be so kind as to show me her brother's letters? He is the continual subject of our conversation: for speaking of him, seems to be the only consolation his sister can enjoy. When I converse with her concerning her own sorrows, she is unable to make any reply, and her tears instantly flow without controul; mine are mingled with hers, and M. Sevin—M. Sevin, alas! is the most unhappy of the three—he dares not complain! He cannot even weep!

[Page 18]Formerly he sought after and pursued me; now he avoids me. Every hour, the sacrifice of which is not imperiously commanded by his ill performed duties, he spends in the garden, in the gloomy grove, to which, for some time, he has had a great attachment. I can sometimes see him walking there until he can hardly stand, and, through fear of too much afflicting him, I dare not go to interrupt him, nor take him away from his strange reveries. Until the present time, I have found but one mean of bringing him back to the house. Music still preserves over him an entire dominion. Experience, however, has taught me that the sounds of the piano alone are not sufficient to draw him; it becomes necessary to unite my voice with it. As soon as the harmony of sounds reach his solitude, he leaves it, and comes, as it were instinctively, to the door of my apartment, where he stands and listens, in a fixed and immoveable posture. There is, my sister, as I have lately observed, a great alteration in him. Those ariettas, so gay, which formerly pleased him more than any other airs, and which disgusted me extremely, at present, have but little effect upon him. There are none but plaintive sounds that can soften his grief. But as soon as I leave the instrument he returns to his solitary grove, and if I should wish him to retire precipitately, I need but sing one couplet of my favourite song, and the work is done.

But, in a little time, I found, to my vexation, that I could not have my accustomed success. Instead of coming to the door of my apartment, my unhappy uncle had stopped under the window. Tired with long and fruitless trials, at length I went into the yard, where I found him reclining on a stone bench, in a sort of lethargic drowsiness. [Page 19] Judge what must have been his condition. When he awoke, he found himself too feeble to visit Madame Florival. He was but just able to draw himself from the yard to the fatal grove, where he returned to his former supine condition. Notwithstanding all the anxiety I felt, and all the pains I could take, I could not get him to the house till sun-set. When I presented him some nourishment, I thought proper to remind him, "that he had not taken any for almost twenty-four hours."

"What of that," said he, "if I am not hungry?"

"O my uncle, my dear uncle! would you then wish to die?"

"Why not, my girl, when one lives only to suffer?"

After this, he retired to his chamber. Still could I see he had a light. And, in the morning, if I should awake by break of day, I should find that M. Sevin had the start of me. I have every reason to believe that sleep seldom shortens his nights.

To present this frightful picture of his misery to you I am sensible is no more than my duty. There is no reason for hesitation; I must depart— without delay! How can I stay any longer in a house where I occasion the perpetual unhappiness of the most generous, most unfortunate of men? I must leave him My absence cannot occasion evils comparable to those which my residence in this place brings with it. Yet, what will become of me I know not: but longer I cannot stay. But what will the young man do if he should not find me at his return? Alas! he could not survive it! And, myself!—Ah, my sister, do I not injure myself by encouraging a groundless hope? Do you believe Madame Florival would—? But whether she will receive or reject me, I must depart.

[Page 20]

LETTER LXXIII. Emilia in continuation.

Tours, August 28, 1782, noon.

THIS morning I arose very early. My uncle had already gone down. "What!" said he, "have you risen so early? You must then have foreseen that it was good to prolong this morning." Upon this, he proposed going into the garden. We walked about in it, and in every part except the grove. After this he desired me to water some flowers, and prop a honeysuckle; then he whistled for his darling birds, and called them together to receive my caresses. Not long afterwards, in compliance with his desire, we returned into the house, where I persuaded him to take breakfast with me, more easily than I expected. After breakfast he urged me to sing: at length, when the clock struck nine, with great agitation of mind, he said, "It is time! Come, Juliette, it is time! We did not visit Madame Florival yesterday; will you be so kind as to carry her this letter?"

"Very readily, my uncle." Then I was going, but he called me back.

"What! so fast! Alas! where were you running? I ask for one moment, Juliette! But one moment."

"My uncle, I intended by my readiness to give you a proof—" He would not suffer me to finish my sentence, but, with a voice at once the most [Page 21] tender and affecting, "Juliette," said he, "adieu! adieu, my girl!"

"But, in a little time, I —."

"My niece," interrupted he, "the shortest journey may occasion a long absence; do not, therefore, refuse to bid me farewell."

"What do I hear? You frighten me! You have, I fear, contrived some fatal project against yourself!"

"Who? me, my girl? me? You are then but little acquainted with me still! I am able to be unhappy, Juliette; but never, never shall I be criminal. Be comforted, I shall live—Alas! I shall yet live!—You, however, dear and too amiable girl, go, carry this letter to your worthy friend, and—farewell forever!"

Then he fell into a chair. His countenance discovered symptoms of great alteration, and his trembling frame was seized with a convulsive motion.

"O my uncle! my uncle!"

"Let not my condition affrighten you," said he; "my eyes have, for a long time, been tearless. My tears are now ready to stifle me; they are seeking a passage: If I could weep, I should be saved. But, go away, my girl, go away then—I order you to do so, in the name of the greatest sacrifice of which a man can be capable; in the name of the sacrifice I must impose on myself."

"My uncle, my dear uncle, adieu!"

"Go, Juliette! charming girl, go! And if you ever deign to remember me, O, I conjure you! let it not be merely a compassionate remembrance. Juliette, let it be also what I have, perhaps, merited; a remembrance of benevolence and esteem."

These last words melted me into a transport of compassion, which reached to the bottom of my [Page 22] soul, and which I could not moderate. My uncle reached forth his hand to take hold of mine; I took it in mine and pressed it to my lips, whilst a tear from my eyes fell upon it; then forced myself away from him precipitately, and, as I went across the yard, I still heard the sighs of this unfortunate man; and, as I shut the parsonage door after me, my ears were again saluted with an adieu. This, Celina, was the last; but, should I live an hundred years longer, it would not forsake my remembrance.

In a little time I arrived at Madame Florival's, with a confusion of mind beyond the power of description. My spirits were not only agitated by what I had just seen and heard, but, by an anxious curiosity to know whether there were not some indiscrete demands, contained in the letter of which I was the bearer, and waited with the liveliest anxiety, to see what effect the reading of it would produce. She read it through, with the greatest rapidity, and most eager curiosity. Madame Florival, whilst reading it, discovered signs of surprise, sadness and joy. Then, instead of giving me any explanation, she took me by the hand, and conducted me into a neighbouring apartment.

"My dear Juliette," then said she, "this is the chamber which I hope you will please to occupy. In my house, I would have you consider yourself the absolute mistress of your time and employments▪ vouchsafe to become, in this place, my second self. Ah! if my consolations are needful for you, they are not more so than yours are for me!"

"Madame —"

"No, my friend," said she, embracing me, "do not call me so; my friend is the appellation I desire you to make use of."

[Page 23]"O, my friend!" answered I, "my generous friend, I am still ignorant of what he wrote you; but you—if you knew in what a dreadful condition I left him —."

"As to what he wrote me," answered she, "giving me the letter, you shall see for yourself. And, respecting the condition in which you left him, do not be concerned. He shall have the constant attendance of one of our domestics, who shall watch over him continually, and never leave him. I promise you, he shall have the best attention paid him. Dolerval and I have both the means and disposition for preventing his friend from ever being in want. I will now leave you; you seem to stand in need of a little recollection; whenever it becomes inconvenient for you to be alone, you will know where to find me."

Having said this, she withdrew, leaving me in a deep and pleasing contemplation of the dignity and simplicity of the manner in which this celestial woman bestows her benefits.

I will not tell you, my dear Celina, how many tears I shed on reading the letter of my unfortunate uncle, but limit myself to sending a copy of it to you.

[Page 24]

LETTER LXXIV. M. Sevin to Madame Florival.

St. Cyr, August 28, 1782, 2 o'clock morning.

AT length the fatal hour is come. The surrounding darkness of the night is not so gloomy as that which begins to cloud my reason. My virtue, my too feeble virtue, begins to fail me. Perhaps in another day, I may lose the fruit of my painful resistance. Perhaps I may so far lose my senses, as to alarm her virtuous mind with a declaration she ought never to hear. The fatal hour is come—It urges the cruel sacrifice—Nothing remains but separation. How it wounds and tortures my heart! Let a great misfortune spare me the pain of a still greater! and, since I must lose her forever, O that it might be without having offended her!

To you, Madame, appertains the honor of receiving her. To your virtues is due the reward of being intrusted with the object of your brother's innocent love, and my culpable tenderness. Culpable! Ah, wherefore! Wherefore this difference between the unfortunate Sevin, and the too fortunate Dolerval? From whence came those iniquitous institutions by which I am deprived of those privileges which he is permitted to enjoy? By what miracle has it happened that I am not, like him, allowed to be a human being? What power binds on earth those faculties which heaven has bestowed upon me, and of which it has given the lawful exercise? O, barbarous men! who, without [Page 25] blushing, have declared, that on the day I should become a priest, I must cease to love what God, in his bounty towards men, has created most beautiful and desirable; why did you not also ordain, that on the same day I must never more have any ears capable of hearing, nor eyes of seeing— and, above all things, why did you not deprive me of a heart which is capable of sensation? But of what consequence is it to them, to give to us in particular, laws which are unjust, absurd, and impracticable? Are they not always above the law themselves? They make them for none but us— for us who would not be worthy of their notice, if they could not derive some advantage from our oppression—for us, vile, degenerate and despicable race—and, truly, despicable in the highest degree; because, in our abject stupidity, we conceive it somewhat honorable to obey them.

And should any of us feel a disposition for disobeying them, by what means could we free ourselves from the chains by which we are bound? As for me, unhappy mortal, what is reserved me but the human shape? What girl—what modest and virtuous girl, like her▪ could behold my outward dress, and suspect me of belonging to the human race? And if, in the extremity of an idle hope, I had presumed to say, "Juliette, I must possess you, and cannot live without you," would she not have instantly said, "Simple man, what a proposal is this! Look upon your gloomy habits; they are to me a continual sign of your reprobation; you wear your own mourning suit. Go, unhappy being! open the doors of Hymen's temple to all who request it of you; but, as for yourself, you must never enter therein. In so doing, you would go to the altar with useless vows: for [Page 26] your God, since men have forbidden him, could never receive them."

Oh, how different would have been my circumstances, had it been possible for me to go into some other profession (though reputed less honorable), in which I might have resumed the dignity of my being! Then, perhaps, too fortunate Dolerval, you would not have taken her from me! In such case, I might have dared to contend with you; with even you, the most amiable of men! But is not the most amiable, at the same time, the most sensible? And who, however, could have loved her so much as I could have adored her?—O happiness!—Supreme felicity! Then she might have become mine!—Then it would have been in her power to love me, and mine to obtain her!—O let's abandon this idea! It is dreadful! Insupportable! It enkindles in my breast a flame which consumes me! My blood is all inflamed! I feel a heart-breaking! A despair!—What do I hear? All the south winds have burst their prisons!—The lightning cleaves the clouds!—The thunder roars! Withhold, avenging God! withhold thy dreadful hand! I am running forth to meet thy fatal bolts, that thou mayest annihilate me!

Four o'clock morning.

How have I interrupted this letter? Who has transported me to the grove which I have just quitted? With what gloomy, oppressive sleep was I there surprised! And, O with what dreams was I suddenly assaulted! What, in short, is the condition in which I have just been? Let's read again— The winds, lightning, thunder!—Alas! when I awoke there was an universal calm throughout nature: the storm was only in my heart.

[Page 27]Ah! for pity's sake remove this lovely girl, whose presence delights and distresses me; whose voice delights mine ears, and, at the same time, cruelly wounds my heart; whose very looks charm me, and inflame my soul with passion: this dangerous fair one, who speaks not a word which I do not retain, makes not a gesture which I do not applaud, not a motion which I do not admire; and whose every motion, every gesture, and every word diffuses through all my senses a mortal poison. Let her be removed! it is time she was snatched away, and perhaps already too late!

To your care, Madame, do I now commit her. Protect her in your turn. Is it not necessary, even for her security, that you should be acquainted with all the interest which her youth, most inhumanly persecuted, is calculated to inspire? And, since an avowal of my own wretched condition has escaped me, she cannot but pardon me for revealing the secrets of her misfortunes, exempt from blame. I do not doubt what she has told me, and it would be criminal in me to disbelieve it; yet it must appear impossible to you, Madame, that there are now in being some monsters, in human shape, who hate and wish to destroy this master-piece of nature and education. Defend Juliette, in your turn, from their fury—Comfort and shield her from the iniquity of those who are unequalled in barbarity. Juliette, no!—she is not Juliette; nor the niece of poor Sevin. According to our prejudices, heaven must have bestowed on her a noble origin; but whatever the history of her birth and parentage may prove, heaven has done her injustice in not placing her upon a throne. Tranquil in my retirement▪ I did not know there was a created human being so superior to all others. One [Page 28] day, at the rising light of the morning, she came hither; but the crimson morning dawn was less brilliant than herself; her lustre was superior to the brightest morning. She came, attended with all her graces, captivating in her terror, powerful in her distress and forlorn circumstances. She appeared, spoke, and whatever were her desires, they were granted. Unmindful of the consequences, I imagined myself supremely happy in receiving into my house this daughter of heaven. Ah! what presumption! I did not perceive, that though I might have defied nature when her voice alone was heard, that she was altogether irresistible when her power was augmented by the all-conquering power of beauty!

How dearly have I purchased this error of my self-confidence! And O how wonderful is the extravagance of my error! Notwithstanding what I have suffered, and though I might suffer still more, I should dread no approaching misfortune so greatly as an expectation of falling into my former indifference. All those sweet and painful sentiments which convey to the minds of mortals that passion which always holds dominion over the various passions that it inspires▪ I have successively, and at the same time, nourished in all their plenitude. I have become acquainted with the growing confusion, modest embarrassment, timid reveries, affecting languors, virtuous sacrifices, and prudent circumspection of love. I have experienced the painful sweetness of those inward conflicts it raises in the mind; the soothing folly of its hopes, and the lively enchantment of its dreams. Alas! I have not, at all times, vanquished its powerful energy, its violent desires, nor its culpable projects. More especially have I, to my sorrow, experienced the [Page 29] effect of jealousy, that gnawing vulture, which I have an hundred times vanquished, and which has a thousand times reigned triumphant. O Dolerval! my friend, pardon me! You can and ought to do it. The exercise of clemency is easy to the preferred rival. O fortunate Dolerval! whoever has merit enough to gain her affections, is most worthy of obtaining her. Possess her—render her happy—this is my most ardent and pleasing expectation. The greatest consolation I shall enjoy, will be a hope and expectation of her felicity.

Tell her, Madame—no, do not tell her any thing. Put this letter—into her hands, I pray you. Alas! Juliette, when you shall read this letter, I shall be left alone in the world—absolutely alone! This abode shall never more be adorned with her presence. I shall lose her, and that forever! The unhappy Sevin will be ready to die with grief for the loss. Oh, Juliette! condescend to receive something by which you may remember me. Receive this as a monument of my weakness, and the power of your charms. Deign to receive and preserve it. Juliette, it will bring to your remembrance my unfortunate passion, of which you ought always to have been ignorant; but it will also unfold to you the sentiments of that profound respect, which I could not but always entertain for you; of that truly religious respect which your all-powerful virtues have commanded me to observe, in resisting even such charms as yours.

As for me, when the assisting hand of time shall have healed the wounds of my heart, I shall invest myself with the sweetest recollections of past happiness; I shall often go into the garden where I have seen her labour and sport, active as the graces, nimble as the zephyr. There shall my feet often [Page 30] trace out the impression of her steps. The flowers she has cultivated I shall endeavour to render immortal. Her favourite amongst my birds, at present the one I most highly value, will easily learn to repeat her name. Sometimes I shall return from the garden and seat myself by the instrument which was agitated by her brilliant and active hands. There, with a listening ear, shall I still endeavour to hear the accents of the most enchanting of voices. But never, no, never shall I dare to profane, with a single look, the sanctuary where her nights have peacefully glided away.

Thus, in my retirement, every object around me will bring her to my remembrance, and her beauteous image will be imprest on my imagination, till my latest breath.

LETTER LXXV. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Tours, September 10, 1782.

YOUR new troubles, my dearest Celina, most sensibly affect me! How I wish I could fly to Paris and render you all the consolation in my power! But a mother's hatred, and the barbarity of a brother, have forever separated me from you. Every day convinces me more and more, that of every act of injustice they exercised towards me, that of our separation was the most cruel. How can I forbear complaining myself, when every person, with whom I am connected, is surrounded with misfortunes? This woman, who numbers her [Page 31] days by her works of benevolence; who appears to live for no other purpose than seeking the unfortunate, and relieving their wants; whose chief employment consists in promoting the felicity of all around her; who improves every opportunity of giving me new testimonies of her friendship; this woman is still the victim of misfortunes, which require all her fortitude to sustain; and her brother does not return!

You will probably remember that I was at first surprised that Madame Florival did not interrogate me concerning my secrets, which were in part revealed in M. Sevin's letter. Afterwards I reflected upon the matter, and supposed it might be a necessary caution on her part; a point of delicacy which her circumstances imposed on her. For how could she require her friends to disclose the secrets of their heart, when she could not honor them with a disclosure of her own? Every one believes her to be in widowhood; she continues to keep as a secret, the circumstance of her second marriage, believing me to be unacquainted with it. I do not attempt any measures calculated to make her discover her secret, nor shall I permit her to know that it has come to my knowledge. And since she thinks proper to deny me such a testimony of her confidence, I look upon her as the obliged person. But I am still deprived of the greatest consolation which my present situation could possibly give me, that of knowing what her brother says of me in the letters which every courier regularly brings. This, without doubt, is the reason why the time appears to be long, even in the society of this excellent woman.

This is not the only occasion of my feeling anxious and discontented. M. Sevin still continues in [Page 32] a disordered state of mind. His regret on account of our separation has thrown him into a languishing state, from which he will not soon recover. We send every morning to inquire after his health: my amiable friend goes thither every evening; and I, Celina, wait at home with impatience, till they return and inform me whether he is any better. You must be sensible that I cannot go thither myself. Poor M. Sevin! Never must I visit him again!

When I thus behold every person who has a regard for me persecuted with misfortunes. I sometimes say to myself, with bitter reflections, though without much foundation, that perhaps the generous Bovile might still have been alive, if he had not too much lamented my fate. His destiny, I sometimes think, has been influenced by mine. Then I tremble, lest Madame Florival, so amiable and benevolent, may sooner or later repent that she ever knew me. O heavens! If any misfortune should happen to her brother!—My thoughts are so gloomy that a relation of them would only augment your present afflictions. Adieu.

LETTER LXXVI. Emilia in continuation.

Tours, October 2, 1782.

MY dear Celina, congratulate your sister; he has been here during ten days: but, in fact, I at present stand in need of your pity; for, to-morrow he will leave us again.

[Page 33]In what a pleasing enchantment have glided those happy hours! How powerful are the passions of human nature, which can shorten time or prolong it at pleasure! While he was absent, hours were, seemingly, augmented to ages; on the contrary, ten days in his company, have lasted, as it were, but a moment.

But who can paint the charms of our employments or recreations? Who can express the pleasures of our conversation, and even of his silence? In his silence, what a pleasing expression is discoverable! How eager are his cares, and how tender his attentions! And yet, what a respectful reserve in his discourse, and delicate moderation in his manners! Could you have believed, that since his return, he has not, in the least, declared to me the passion with which he is so manifestly inspired? It is true, his sister — Oh how she is idolized by him, and how he is beloved by her! And how tenderly, in appearance, do both of them regard me! His sister is continually with me, and could scarcely live without me. If he is but a short time from his Eleanor, he is uneasy till he finds her again. You may perceive by this that we are almost inseparable: insomuch, that I am sometimes ready to ask myself, whether the sister is not more tenderly attached to me than her brother, and whether the brother has not more friendship for her than love for me. But I am persuaded he would not pursue his sister with so much ardour, if he did not know there was another person by whom she was always attended. Often have I heard him, when he has returned home warm with fatigue, inquire, as soon as he entered the house, "Picard! where is the young lady?" And, stopping short, [Page 34] turn to his sister and say, "Madame Florival, do me the pleasure of telling me where she is."

This tender union, which reigns equally and mutually between two persons, alike actuated by nature's chief affections, one would think, ought always to seem an enchanting spectacle. Instead of this, it has often seized my heart with a most weighty affliction, by embittering, my dear Celina, the regret of our eternal separation. Often, by a recollection still more dreadful, it penetrates my very soul with an inexpressible sentiment of horror and dread against —. Alas! can I never free myself from that dreadful remembrance? Shall I never be so happy as to forget my barbarous brother?

Let us turn our attention another way; let us fix our thoughts on this interesting couple—this perfect model of fraternal love. How worthy is the young man of inspiring all the mild sentiments he experiences! And how greatly does Madame Florival merit his kind regard; who, much more by her examples than her precepts, has unfolded every amiable disposition of her brother!

This heavenly woman must always be a great gainer by being known. Whoever, by accident, or only at times, falls in her way, will not fail of being captivated with her talents and attractive qualities; but in the happiness of an intimate connection alone can any one know how to appreciate the value of her soul. Her mind is still more engaging than her person! And to what can we compare her genius, so well cultivated; and her person, favoured with so many natural graces; her personal dignity, and that sweet equality of temper, which her lasting grief has not altered; so well as [Page 35] to the excellent genius, amiable mind, and agreeable temper of her brother and pupil?

And do you not think he is equal to her in the qualities of his heart? But to-morrow, Celina, he is going to leave us. He seems to be much afflicted at the thoughts of it, and it is very evident from his behaviour, that he cannot bear to part with us. But still he does so much violence to his inclinations as to leave me! And wherefore? For the purpose of terminating the sorrows of his sister; or, perhaps, merely with a design of supporting her with dreams of pleasing hope.

If you would wish to know to what degree he extends his friendly conduct, I will tell you. He has brought with him a physician from Paris, for the purpose of attending my unhappy uncle. He now assures me that M. Sevin is out of danger. But he needs the greatest attention; and if he is not well attended, perhaps, after a few months of languishment, the melancholy state he is in will carry him to his grave. Poor M. Sevin! wherefore did he ever know me? Or rather, why was he placed in a condition which is unsuitable for a man of sensibility? Poor unfortunate man!

His friend visits him every morning and evening, and often stays with him an hour, and sometimes longer. He always returns from the parsonage with a sad countenance and heavy heart. And I cannot but greatly esteem his commiseration and solicitude for the Curate, in which I take a share.

It seems fortunate that I can perceive him to be tormented with anxiety on another account; I say fortunate, because the extreme reserve which I so much admired in him, and which I must own affected me to a great degree, would, notwithstanding, become quite perplexing, were it not easy to [Page 36] perceive that he kept silence with great difficulty. Sometimes, after a few minutes of deep contemplation and evident irresolution, led by an involuntary transport, he seems ready to declare his hopes or fears. But Madame Florival, who has a powerful ascendency over him, by one word, one gesture, or one forbidding look, immediately represses these violent emotions. She seems, in fact, like a powerful divinity, who has the entire dominion of this young man's submissive and tractable soul, even in its most lively agitations.

But to-morrow he expects to leave us. To-morrow—we shall have a melancholy parting.

LETTER LXXVII. Emilia in continuation.

October 3, 1782, noon.

AH, how passionate were his parting words! I did not imagine what it was which rendered them most interesting.

He was going away almost in despair. And I, with a trembling voice, a heart ready to break with sighing, and eyes overflowing with tears, scarcely dared to express my wishes for his speedy return. But I had no sooner done so, than he suddenly came back, and coming precipitately towards us, he cast himself at my feet. His sister endeavoured to check this new and sudden transport.

"No, no," cried he, "I will resist my wishes no longer; I have suffered too much by my painful silence already." Then directing his discourse to [Page 37] me, he said, "I am extremely unhappy! The affection I have for you, this pure and lawful affection, does not move you. You seem determined to continue a stranger. You obstinately persist in being known to us by no other name than Juliette. And you, my sister, oblige her to make herself known. Leave, Eleanor, that delicacy which destroys me. Begin by entrusting her with your secrets—entrust her with them out of pity towards me!"

Madame Florival was about to speak, but I hastily prevented her.

"My friend," said I, "it would give me great satisfaction to be favoured with your confidence, and I should glory in showing myself worthy of it. But I must inform you beforehand, that it will not, in the least, incline me to make the explanations you require. You have, for a long time, seemed worthy of acquiring all my confidence; but the reason I have not disclosed my secrets to you, is because I am unfortunately doomed to retain them forever."

"My dear Juliette," answered she, "do not wait for me to justify my discretion: I will leave you to appreciate the motives of it yourself. There seems no longer to be any necessity of denying myself the consolation of such a friend as you: receive, therefore, my confessions." Then she informed me of what she supposed I was ignorant; her second marriage, and the captivity of her husband. "This," added she, "is all I am permitted to tell you. I cannot reveal the name of my husband, nor the unhappy events which obliged him to live unknown, because these are secrets which I think belong to his discretion only. Would he have intrusted you with them, Dolerval, if he had [Page 38] supposed you would make no scruple of revealing them to the person you should love? This young lady, you say, is worthy of our entire confidence. Do not, I pray you, repeat such a dangerous objection any more. There is no lover who would not tell you the same concerning the person of his choice. Thus the principle, however incontestable it might be in itself, would be destroyed by a multitude of exceptions; by these means, friendship could have no secrets which love could not discover. Dolerval, I have often told you, and have lately had the sad experience of it, that when we would wish to perform painful duties, we should never allow ourselves to reason with them."

In the mean time her brother seemed not to hear her, for he was, apparently, in complete despair.

"Never," cried he pitifully, "never shall we know her history! Never shall I be able to obtain her! And the hope of a fortunate union, which supported—."

"You see," interrupted Madame Florival, clasping me in her arms, "the love he entertains for you. One word from you would greatly lessen the severity of my misfortunes, because you would thereby begin the happiness of his life. It seems strange, that you cannot, like me, reveal such part of your history and misfortunes as respects you in particular! And since it is said to be possible for you to have enemies, you might, as to whatever concerned them, be silent."

What shall I tell you, Celina? Whether the reflections of Madame Florival inspired me with courage and hope, or whether the sight of her brother, in so much unhappiness, was more than I could bear, I will not try to determine. Be it as [Page 39] it may, I could not forbear expressing myself in the following words:

"However fortunate the union you speak of may now appear, I am too well acquainted with you to believe you could well enjoy it while your sister remained unhappy. Go, Dolerval, labour to restore her the husband she adores. Make haste to procure his release from confinement. Then I shall see— you shall be informed of the greater part of my misfortunes—If it is possible I will tell you my name—and you shall then judge what means are sufficient to surmount the numerous obstacles —."

The impatience of his rapture was so great, that he could not permit me to finish my speech. His sister was loaded with caresses, and I with the most tender thanks; and then, to my surprise, he begged permission to write to me.

"Directly?" said I, "no—no—well, let it be only once: at the moment when your brother-in-law shall be set at liberty! Let the joyful news be directed to me: let it be me who shall have the unspeakable satisfaction of informing my friend of this happy intelligence!—And you must endeavour, Dolerval, to arrive as soon as your letter."

Scarcely had I done speaking when Madame Florival tenderly embraced me. And Dolerval, on receiving my hand, which his sister joined to his, shed tears of joy. And now the pressing time of departure had come: an hundred times did he endeavour to go, and as many times did he return. At length he is gone—now we are left alone.

[Page 40]

LETTER LXXVIII. Dolerval to Murville.

Paris, November 21, 1782.

I BEGIN to flatter myself, Murville, that my long absence will soon be terminated. Soon, I trust, will it be in my power to learn you the urgent motives, and happy consequences of a journey which has given you so much concern. As to my silence during several months, of which you so much complain, I must tell you that I supposed it to be my duty not to write to you till I should have nothing to fear from my indiscretion or your dangerous counsels: for you occasioned me to become very guilty towards the pretended niece of M. Sevin.

At length, the long wished for moment has come, when I can, without danger▪ disclose to you the secret joys of my heart. That angelic person, my brother, whom you treated with such injustice in your letters, was not M. Sevin's niece, in any sense of the word. During three months she has resided at the house of my sister, and, during that time, she has been the only consolation of Madame Florival. And, according to present appearances, I shall go forthwith to Tours; I am going thither—.

Tell me, Murville; you can, towards the end of next week, most certainly, leave the duties of your station for a few days; can you not? You shall come to the house of our Eleanor, and a delicious feast shall not be wanting, I assure you▪ [Page 41] How you will glory in having for a sister in-law, one of the most excellent amongst women! I herewith send you her portrait, which I have drawn from memory. It is, I confess, but an imperfect sketch. However, imperfect as it is, I take the greatest pleasure in multiplying copies of it. I have no less than three by me at present! Well, I consent to give one of them to you, and think it a great sacrifice.

Farewell, Murville. You will come to my marriage, will you not? You shall bear witness to the felicity of a brother! And, in all probability, you will find my sister as happy as myself. Adieu.

LETTER LXXIX. Murville to Varmont.

Brest, November 25, 1782, midnight.

VARMONT, I supposed you had committed an outrage upon Mademoiselle de Terville, for which reason, I was vexed at you in the highest degree: you supposed I was her obstinate and unrelenting guardian, and you was, therefore, as sullen as a dunce. While the young woman thus perplexes us both, a third person, and an impertinent fellow, is amusing himself with her at our expence. Since you have not had her after she escaped from me, I can freely pardon you; and, as I do not keep her at present, I hope you will pardon me.

[Page 42]Would you advise me to go after her again? Her ill fate has thrown her into the arms of one of those modern celadons, who, whenever they find a woman of merit in their way, will make nothing of her but a wife! She would, I am sure, find herself unspeakably more happy in being the mistress of such an amiable fellow as Murville! One thing prevents me from proceeding. Her intended is a man to whom I owe a great deal of respect. Well, so much the more reasonable would it be to hinder him from such a foolish proceeding. But what if I should play him some mischievous trick, and he should be grieved beyond measure? Poh! his grief would not be so romantic as to last him during life. But he is such a good hearted creature, it would seem cruel to give him the least uneasiness. Well and good! But how perplexing will all this be to me!—Varmont, there is a great warfare within me. Tell me, my ancient oracle, tell me what you would do were you in my place? Do you understand me, Varmont? I say in my place. Don't be mistaken; I did not say in yours. To continue; as to your place, you are, I well know, capable of having less irresolution, and fewer scruples than I am; for which reason I have thought proper not to inform you the place of her concealment: for, if I finally conclude to let her remain where she is, I determine that you shall do the same. And if, on the contrary, I should go there to recover her, I promise, this time, to keep her securely.

Farewell, Varmont. You must not be ill-natured, old friend. For my part, I embrace you with frankness; pray be kind enough to return me the compliment.

[Page 43]

LETTER LXXX. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Tours, December 7, 1782, noon.

THE long desired letter^* has come, my sister. M. Dolerval himself will come—this evening. He will, as it were, restore his Eleanor to life! He will bring with him the husband she adores. Excellent woman! behold your sorrows at an end! How can I describe her sensations or my own? By what means can I acquire sufficient self-government to support, as I ought, my own happiness and that of a friend so dear? Adieu, my dear Celina, I must return to my friend, and converse with her about the two persons who are so impatiently expected.

11 o'clock at night.

O my sister, my sister! what a reverse! Now I am convinced (I can almost say), that heaven has created me for the express purpose of exhausting its wrath upon me, and making me a tormentor of all my intimate acquaintances.

My friend measured the time by her impatience: the afternoon seemed endless. At length the rattling of a post-chaise startled us, and prepared us for the pleasure of their reception. This supposed stranger, whose return was probably hastened by [Page 44] my engagements with Dolerval, entered first; without perceiving me, he entered, for all his attention was fixed upon his wife, whom he pressed in his arms. For my part, alas! I saw him but too plainly; and too plainly do I behold him still! But I could not command my eyes from being immoveably fixed upon him; not because it required a long examination to recognise him, for the more I beheld him, the more I asked myself, in deep amazement, whether I was really awake? Whether the object before me was not a dear but delusive and persecuting phantom which troubled my fight? Whether it was not a delusion of my senses, proceeding from a dream at once pleasing and painful? This brother-in-law spake to my friend; this brother-in-law, who was conducted hither by a young man who expected he should be able to obtain me: I listened attentively to all he said, and endeavoured to persuade myself that I did not distinctly hear; but how was it possible to doubt any longer? His voice delighted my ears, while it wounded me to the soul! This husband, Celina, so dear to Madame Florival, is mine; it is the too benevolent, the too unfortunate Bovile!

In the mean time, his deliverer was at my feet; and while he expected to entertain me with nothing but his hopes, he was forced, by my behaviour, to witness in himself the keenest anxiety.

"Ought you," said he, "to be so much astonished at their mutual affection, as to turn all your attention towards them? Will you not condescend to look upon me also for one moment?" Scarcely had he finished the expression of his fears, than I gave him another cause of fear still more insupportable. My strength suddenly forsook me; and, if he had not withholden me, I should have fallen. [Page 45] His cries turned the attention of his sister and brother-in-law towards us. "Merciful God!" exclaimed Bovile, "it is—it is the excess of her joy!"

For a short space I remained in that situation wherein a fainting person exercises no faculty but that of hearing. My amiable friend and her brother used all possible means for bringing me to my senses. Bovile was not less earnest, nor less diligent than they: and while assisting me, he could not refrain from repeating his former exclamation, the true meaning of which was understood by none but me: "yes, it is—it is the excess of her joy!" "May I flatter myself," said his friend, "that this was the real cause?" Madame Florival affirmed, "it could be nothing else."

Bovile resumed and said:

"This, then, is the young lady of whom you so often spoke during our return!"

Dolerval answered, "that I was."

"Is her history still unknown to you?" said Bovile. "Are you yet unacquainted with her birth and parentage?"

"Exactly as I told you," replied Dolerval; "but she is about to make herself known; we shall be united; I am waiting for my reward; and where can there be a more fortunate lover!—Behold her, even in this languid state, how beautiful she appears!—See, see! she returns to life!"

I began, indeed, to recover the use of my senses. My unfortunate benefactor, whose approaching danger made him exercise his usual presence of mind, took hold of my hand and gently tapped it with his, as if he had no other intention than promoting my recovery; but doubtless with a design also of giving me to understand, by his discourse, [Page 46] that our critical situation required the most scrupulous attention.

"Dolerval," said he, raising his voice a little, "is it not possible you may have flattered yourself with a groundless hope? Since the young lady has kept secrets of this nature for such a length of time, perhaps she was compelled to do it by important considerations. Are you certain that circumstances will now permit her to explain herself as soon as you can desire?"

"Yes," replied the young man, "I have her word for it: and what can be more sacred than the promises she has made me?"

Then, unable to restrain my first emotions of despair, I cried out, "Ah, Dolerval, what have you dared to say! How dreadful is the promise I made you!"

And, suddenly struck with a sense of the dangers which threatened Madame Florival, in a transport of compassion, I threw myself into her arms:

"Tremble, my dearest friend," said I, "tremble at the thought of learning my fatal history—it is dreadful!—for I am not the only one, nor the most to be pitied!"

Perhaps I should have continued, and perhaps betrayed myself, had not Bovile, by a penetrating and expressive look, implored my silence in behalf of his wife; and I was fully sensible that it was necessary, out of pity towards her, to hide the real cause of my distress.

And now, he whose tragical end I had deplored, stood in my presence. According to all appearances, it is evident, and more especially according to the virtuous character of Bovile, who is incapable of perfidy, that the lover of Madame Florival [Page 47] admired her long before he was acquainted with me. When, to free me from the slavery of the cloister, he led me to the altar; the generous mortal not only made me the sacrifice of his fortune, but of his most tender inclinations, to which the advanced age of M. Florival left some hope. O that it were in my power, thought I, to fall at his feet and testify the gratitude, respect, and admiration I feel for his extraordinary virtues! In what an unfortunate place, however, do I find him, and in what trying circumstances! By how many witnesses I am surrounded! How many dear and terrifying witnesses, who will often bring me under the necessity of offending or deceiving them! Never was there a woman in a situation more difficult or deplorable! If I suffer the least evidence of my respectful attachment for Bovile to be discovered by my words or actions, I shall give equal astonishment and despair to the sister and brother. And shall I not be in danger of betraying my husband while striving to keep Madame Florival in the error which preserves her life? Alas! is it not also necessary for me to encourage the hope of the young man; the pleasing hope to which I had voluntarily yielded, and which must never be gratified? But how can I calmly receive the assurances of his affection without offending my husband, who is present to hear them?

My husband, do I say? He cannot be mine and at the same time that of Madame Florival. He has probably lost all right to Emilia, whom he will doubtless renounce! and yet this Emilia would be criminal if she should secretly entertain an affection for another. O Dolerval, Dolerval! our union will be impossible forever!

[Page 48]So many, and such painful thoughts do not torment me without being manifested from time to time by external signs, which are distressing to my lover. I endeavour to comfort him by a kind deception. I tell him—yes, I can safely tell him, that he must not impute my anxiety to any thing but the painful struggles which I must naturally experience, when I behold the moment approaching in which I must reveal all the horrors of my destiny. But Bovile, in this respect, more unfortunate than I, could have no reasonable pretext for his melancholy. His melancholy, do I say? It is necessary for him to affect transports of joy, while he is tortured with keen disquietude, and, apparently, in the agonies of despair. He seems, at some intervals, to be wanting in the courage requisite for his trying situation; his voice and countenance often change in an equal degree, and he often seems to be affected with gloomy reveries. At first his wife appeared to feel no other emotion but of tender solicitude for his welfare.

"Have a little courage and patience my dear," cried she; "since they have restored you to liberty, they will doubtless restore you to honor."

But, notwithstanding all she can say, and whatever efforts he makes to seem cheerful, she soon beholds him again in the same pensive mood as before. Then she becomes anxious and afflicted for herself: "Alas!" said she, "are you now more unhappy than when you returned from Cadiz; or have I become less dear to you than formerly?"

"Ah!" replied he, "if it was possible not to love you at all, my lot would, perhaps, appear less —; perhaps it would appear more supportable."

Madame Florival was still more alarmed by this [Page 49] reply, which her husband refused to explain, and which I could easily understand.

What more, my sister, shall I tell you concerning this evening; one of the most trying I have experienced during my life? Bovile seemed to desire an opportunity of speaking with me in private; and I was desirous of obtaining his counsels and assistance in this critical situation; but there were no means of obtaining them: for Madame Florival, sometimes calm, and sometimes agitated; now contented, and then grieved, had not left her husband for a moment: And, on the other hand, the young man, continually seated near me, at first infatuated with flattering hopes, seemed now to regard me with increasing anxiety. Has my refusal to make the expected explanations given him more lively chagrin, or has he artfully taken it upon him to appear anxious and offended, in order to compel me to a disclosure of my secrets? All I can tell you is, that he urged me, with great ardour, to make myself known. But it was with a tone of voice which wounded true love, by a strange distrust, which, methinks, would never take place if true love is founded entirely upon esteem. And just now, as I was about to retire, he said, with great force of expression, "Why should it seem painful to you to make those declarations which you still deny me and continually defer? Calumniated and persecuted innocence no longer appears interesting; we ought never to blush at our misfortunes; there is nothing but vice which can incur disgrace. Indeed, if I could believe for one moment, that vice had possessed the incredible power of sullying, in the least degree, the purity of your mind, I should ever afterwards despair of finding true virtue."

[Page 50]These suspicions, which he so poorly disguised, were rewarded by my silence. And now, my sister, I have returned to my apartment, where I shall no longer expect to find repose.

LETTER LXXXI. Emilia in continuation.

December 8, 1782, 6 o'clock evening.

THIS morning I could not refuse my attendance at breakfast. Madame Florival was far from appearing tranquil; Bovile had an air of pensive melancholy, and M. Dolerval soon renewed his solicitations with an ardour which greatly affected me. For all his behaviour was attended with a respectful delicacy, which, from what I heard from him last evening, was quite unexpected. It was, however, to view it in its true light, an additional affliction to your unfortunate sister. What a culpable propensity is this, which makes me derive satisfaction from the respectful love of this young man, whom I am compelled to deceive by false promises! And how cruel it is to continue in pleasing him whom I am not permitted to love! It seemed, in my desperation, that I should end in making myself known, when Bovile, apparently designing to fortify my mind with different resolutions, turned to Madame Florival, and said, "As we are agreed in it, I will now give your amiable friend a relation of my fatal adventures as far as she is unacquainted."

Then he informed me that "his name was Bovile; [Page 51] that in the latter part of the year 1775, he, for the first time, saw Mademoiselle de Sancerre, now Madame Florival, and no sooner beheld than he admired her; and when he found it was not in his power to obtain her, in order to lessen the weight of his misfortunes, he followed the seas; that M. de Varmont, a celebrated navigator, had advanced him, placed him in the royal navy, and supported him there; after the death of his benefactor he went to Paris, where he saw the youngest daughter of his friend, whom he married, to prevent her from being imprisoned in a convent."

In this place, Celina, I could not resist my desire of interrupting his rapid recital.

"Ah! Monsieur, how much esteem and gratitude are due to you from that young woman!"

"She is no more," cried he!

"Is she no more? Alas! it must be so, since you have married this lady."

Then he related how "his Emilia had perished in a ship which was destroyed by fire; how, in a few days afterwards, his perfidious companions in arms, forsook him near the Islands of the Azores, in a naval engagement with the English. My frigate," continued he, "was sunk; I swam upon the wide world of waters, but did not despair. Fortune seconded my struggles, and at length I was saved by getting upon a rock. During three days I was supported by the shell-fish and herbs which grew thereon. About noon, on the fourth day, I was kindly taken on board a Spanish ship, bound from Terceira to Cadiz. Too well acquainted with the injustice of mankind, who are always inclined to condemn the unfortunate, I assumed a false name. At this time, heaven seemed ready to reward me for my former reverses of fortune. Soon [Page 52] after landing at Cadiz, I received a letter from Dolerval, which informed me that his sister, having lost her husband, was at liberty. It was not long before I found means of returning to France, and, without delay, I came to this house for an asylum, and the recompence of my hard fortune. In the mean time, how could I obtain it? How contract a second marriage? Although there was a natural certainty in the death of Emilia, it could not be proved by any legal evidence; and, in such cases, our laws oblige a surviving husband to live single. I proposed a mean of securing my happiness, which I believed would injure no person in the world; a mean which seemed to bring no inconvenience with it. This proposal seemed, in the opinion of Madame Florival, the most adviseable. We went with confidence to the altar, and I was married by the false name which my unfavourable circumstances obliged me to assume. It was on the night of —." "The 7th of August," interrupted I! "I shall long remember that night!—for my friend has often repeated the date."

"I acknowledge it," answered Madame Florival, pressing my hand in her own; "I acknowledge that I have often recollected that night with a mixture of pleasure and pain. You see how dangerous it is for persons to compound with their duty; at that aera, for the first time in my life, I presumed to do it, and now I am punished for it in a most unfortunate union. A continual fear empoisons all its enjoyments; and though my fear seems without foundation, yet it incessantly revives in my mind. Alas! this, perhaps, is a foresight!"

"Methinks I understand you," interrupted I; "you tremble lest his first wife, saved by some miracle, may one day come again, and —."

[Page 53]"I should certainly die," cried she pitifully.

"It is impossible," said her brother, with a persuasive and consoling voice."

"Impossible!" said Bovile, regarding me with a look of supplication.

And I also, Celina, moved with terror and pity, said, "It is impossible."

Bovile, much encouraged by this conversation, continued, "These were, and still are, my intentions. As soon as more favourable circumstances would permit me to request a review of the iniquitous prosecution which disgraced my memory, I determined to appear in the presence of my enemies, and let them know I was still living. After this, I determined, without delay, to resort to my mistress, and marry her by my assumed name; by which I purposed to go into some obscure village, and spend my days with her there. But we had not been united more than five days before a report was circulated that M. de * * * *, minister of the marine, my personal enemy, had been displaced for an intrigue. I hastened to Paris, but found, on my arrival, it was a false report. I cannot tell what base courtisan of my powerful enemy informed him of my existence and arrival at the capital—but, in the midst of the night following, I was dragged away from my lodgings, and plunged into the gulph of ministerial vengeance. You are acquainted," continued he, "with the rest, excepting that my wife is now entering the fifth month of her pregnancy."

The last words of Bovile gave much satisfaction to M. Dolerval. "Now," said he to his sister, "your ties have, if possible, become more sacred and dear."

Well might he say more sacred and dear! And [Page 54] it is evident that Bovile mentioned this circumstance to convince me, that out of pity to a mother as well as a wife, I ought to spread a religious veil over my fearful story. Of this he may be assured! However painful to me it may often appear, I shall be silent; to the urgent entreaties of this young man, I shall turn a deaf ear; I shall reject his earnest solicitations; support the weight of his reproaches, and, without being overcome, I shall behold his tears flow, and, in appearance, witness his despair with calm fortitude: happy shall I be to preserve (even at the expence of his happiness and mine) the life of his sister, who is not only my friend, but an unfortunate mother, and the wife of my benefactor.

M. Dolerval, however, who cannot imagine how much I am to be pitied, if it was possible for me to declare it, still accuses me of egotism, cruelty and insensibility. "Besides," says he continually, "you have promised me." And Madame Florival joins her brother in trying to persuade me to a fulfilment of my engagements. O thoughtless and unhappy woman! let her tremble lest I should not always have sufficient fortitude to keep those secrets she urges me to reveal!

And now the unkind young man abuses me again. He repeats those cruel expressions which so afflicted and offended me last evening: "Persecuted innocence appears more interesting than before. Do you understand me, young woman, or do you determine not to understand?" Then he continued and said, "We ought never to blush at our misfortunes: there is nothing but vice which can incur disgrace."

Fortunately he stopped here. Fortunately he did me so much justice, or still entertained so much [Page 55] respect for my character, as not to make again the last and severest reflection which I remember to have heard yesterday evening with too little impatience."

But what can be the meaning of those words, which he pleases to repeat when I have wearied his persevering importunity, and which he repeats with a sort of mysterious affectation; in which, methinks, I perceive a strange mixture of threatenings and fear, confidence and jealous inquietude, presumption and respect? What can be his meaning? I determine to know before long. Perhaps M. Dolerval will condescend to explain himself more clearly!

To continue; I have just had a very tender and trying interview with Bovile. He supposed he had found a favourable moment to warn me, with a low voice, that he was going to wait for me in the garden, and thought he should not be perceived. Yet I cannot but tremble lest his wife might have remarked our whispering: although she was looking another way, she had her eyes fixed upon the glass, and in an emotion of surprise, she looked round, and seemed, with difficulty, to suppress her anxiety. Out of prudence, I thought best to wait almost half an hour, and fearing Bovile might be out of patience, I made a pretence of retiring to my apartment, where you may suppose I did not make a long stay.

He began the conversation by acknowledging and asking pardon for the crime he conceived himself guilty of towards his first wife; then, by the tender commiseration natural to benevolent minds, he conjured me to leave Madame Florival in the error, which alone could secure the mother and child from certain death. Afterwards, without [Page 56] giving me any surprise, but some embarrassment, he protested, in a very respectful and obliging manner, that I ought to feel perfectly easy on his account, because the present husband of Eleanor had lost all right to Emilia: and I could not but blush exceedingly when he told me I was to be pitied in being still under the necessity of encouraging the love of the young man, who was, in the highest degree, amiable. Then he desired me to inform him by what series of wonderful events, I was saved at Brest and conducted to Tours. I briefly informed him, my dear Celina, of every important circumstance, except the crimes of that monster of whom I could now be easily avenged, and for whose repentance I daily implore the boundless mercy of a sin-pardoning God.

Bovile, all attentive to the relation of my story, remarked with fear, "that Murville, being the friend of Varmont, would occasion Madame Florival to be in continual danger of discovering my name and history: and Murville," added he, "is perhaps, a worse subject than you are aware of; for (permit me to tell it you) your brother cannot but strangely corrupt all those who keep his company."

He was going to ask me but one question more, for we desired more than any thing else, to confer on the most adviseable measures for warding off the dangers which threatened Eleanor; but Bovile observed his brother-in-law coming directly after us, and we were obliged to change the conversation. After joining us, M. Dolerval accosted us with congratulations on the great courage we were favoured with, which enabled us, notwithstanding the winds and cold air, to continue our walk so long; and when we returned to the house, Madame [Page 57] Florival ironically told me, she supposed I was all this time in my apartment.

In order to support, during the remainder of the evening, the desperate spectacle of the ill-disguised chagrin of the sister and brother, it was incumbent on me to exercise complete self-government. Pity me, O Celina, pity me! for the portion of evils allotted me is already more than I can bear! But if this did not excite your surprise, you would only need, in order to have it excited, to consider, for one moment, the situation of your sister, in all its aggravating circumstances, whilst surrounded with the dearest objects of her affection. The portion of sorrow, which every day becomes more insupportable, and which I am necessitated to distribute to each of them, must, ere long, become intolerably severe. And yet they, together, will have to support but the lightest part of the burden, whilst the feeble Emilia is the object on whom its enormous weight must fall. O! what would become of me, if, whilst I am continually obliged to exercise dissimulation to hide from them my burdensome reflections or distractive anxiety; what, I say, would become of me, if I were not favoured with the privilege of communication with you, to give you the complete history of my misfortunes?

[Page 58]

LETTER LXXXII. Emilia in continuation.

Tours, December 10, 1782.

HOW afflicting it is to give pain to persons whom we esteem and tenderly love! and how cruel to endure their displeasure! Madame Florival already begins to diminish her affection for Juliette, whom lately she held so dear; and I believe the unkind Dolerval will end in hating me.

In his moments of impatience, which are more frequent than they were formerly, he continues to repeat those phrases which he has often said before, and which still seem inigmatical; and you cannot conceive to what degree I am wearied with his unjust behaviour. You cannot imagine what I endure when he pursues Juliette and his friend with inquisitive glances of jealousy! And if, in an instant afterwards, he turns away from us to hide the tears which overflow his face, then how much severer are my trials, how much greater is my unhappiness!

And when I behold the interesting Madame Florival, so mild and so timid in the jealous agitations of her mind, cast her anxious eyes, by stealth, upon Bovile and me, what hinders me from flying to her arms, and, for an immediate justification of my conduct, pressing her to my bosom, and making myself known? What hinders me from it, if it be not the dreadful certainty that I cannot comfort her as a lover and friend, without throwing her into despair as a mother and wife?

[Page 59]What most distresses both of them is my frequent walks with Bovile. But we should not so often walk into the garden, or rather we should soon [...] [...]o walk there at all, if they only had patience sometimes to leave us there undisturbed. Whenever Bovile and I, after several vain attempts, have succeeded in escaping and meeting there, M. Dolerval immediately follows. Yesterday, as in the evening before, he accosted us with ironical eulogies, on our invincible courage, which enabled us to endure the intemperature of the air. To-day it is quite otherwise; for we several times surprised him, to appearance, listening to what we said. From the moment he perceives us, he pursues; but he regulates his steps in such a manner, that we keep before him; and when he draws near, he advances with slower steps and without noise. In this situation he is obliged to join us; for, whenever he approaches near, we slacken our pace without affectation. Thus forced to come up with us, he does it, but without speaking a single word. He appears to be afraid he shall not govern his expressions as he ought; he only keeps at my side, regulates his steps according to ours, and, in this manner, continues to accompany us until he has constrained us to return to the house.

This evening, however, they have left us together almost an hour, and we have come to an important resolution. The resolution necessary for me to take is very painful, and more so than I dared to acknowledge to Bovile. He has consented, by my persuasions, whenever an opportunity offers, to conduct me to whatever convent he shall think most eligible. This I have done for the repose of his Eleanor, and, perhaps, it may be for that of the young man; but never will it prove [Page 60] conducive to my own! At first I was not without hopes, that by taking suitable precaution, I might retire, safely and undiscovered, to your convent; but Bovile, in a lively and affectionate manner, represented the many accidents which might, at some time or other, discover my retreat to that place. And when he brought to my remembrance the hatred which Madame de Varmont still bears me, I felt within me an inexpressible horror, on reflecting upon the still greater dangers to which I might be exposed by the cruelty of her son. What, my dear Celina, can now support me? For now I am bereft, even of the miserable consolation of hoping to die in your cloister.

This preliminary being agreed on, we had nothing more urgent to do than returning to the house. I was astonished to think the young man had not pursued and disturbed us in our sad deliberations. The brother and sister also, it appeared, had some secret and disagreeable business to transact between themselves. When we made our appearance, they hastily concealed some letters they were reading, and their countenances were covered with confusion: M. Dolerval seemed to be more disturbed than his sister.

In the course of this evening they have had several lengthy and mysterious conferences. Juliette, we made no doubt, was the unfortunate subject of their conversation. When they spoke to each other, it was in a low voice; and they sometimes turned their eyes towards me in such a manner as gave me much alarm. At supper the young man made several uncommon and painful efforts to address me; while his sister, in deep contemplation, scarcely seemed to perceive me. It is all over with me! I have lost their affection. Although I can [Page 61] easily pardon Madame Florival, while my heart is affected with relenting pity; yet, as for you, unkind Dolerval, your conduct is unpardonable.

Do not imagine, my sister, that the injuries they do me will render the approaching separation less trying. No, do not believe it. This departure will be followed by an eternal absence! This unhappy separation will shorten the period of my life. Ah! so much the better, so much the better, if I can thereby shorten the term of my sufferings! But my own sufferings are not the moving cause of my resolutions. My highest motive in retiring, is the giving a little repose to these unkind persons who are continually miserable by my residence with them, and who, instructed, perhaps too late, of my generous attachment for them, may follow me to weep over my untimely grave.

LETTER LXXXIII. Emilia in continuation.

Tours, December 11, 1782, noon.

THROUGH what a scene I have past! Oh, Celina! how I rejoice to think it will require but a few more so cruel as this to procure me the peaceful solitude of the tomb!

This morning Madame Florival received me with all the testimonies of friendship to which I have been accustomed at any time before. And, to my surprise, early as it was, I found M. Dolerval in her apartment. He was walking hastily [Page 62] about the room in a thoughtful and uneasy mood, and, after passing the first compliments, he seemed in haste to look after some letters in his pocket-book, but his sister checked him and said, "One moment, my brother! let us do nothing precipitately; your friend will come down immediately."

Her husband, indeed, at the same time entered the room: then seating herself between M. Dolerval and me, she addresses him as follows: "My dear, we have been waiting for you. Will you be so obliging as to take a seat and hear me one moment without interrupting me; and let every one present do me the same favour.

"By what strange fatality has it happened that the period of your return, so much desired by your lover and your friend, the happy period which should have terminated all their sorrows—how has it happened unto the present moment that it has involved them in the deepest perplexity? It is of the utmost consequence to know the cause of our misfortunes, whatever it may be. I do not presume to say it will be alike possible to every one to endure, much longer, the situation which we find is more or less painful to us all. And since an elucidation will sooner or later be absolutely indispensible, I hope you will condescend to make it with the same readiness and freedom with which I am about to exact it.

"It seems natural to suppose, Juliette, that by a most tender affection for you, my brother has merited the preference of being acquainted with the impenetrable mystery of your misfortunes. Whether you have favoured my more fortunate husband with a relation of them, or why you have done so, I do not inquire. For the interest of us all, I limit myself to requiring you to let every [Page 63] one become acquainted with your secrets. It is a favour which I request in the name of my husband, who cannot long enjoy any happiness at home, while he beholds his wife and his friend in perpetual anxiety. It is an act of justice, which I claim in behalf of my brother, who loves you, and, as you doubtless deserve, with the greatest ardour and tenderness; but who, by your frequent and mysterious conversations with Bovile, is driven to despair. I conjure you to do it for my sake also," continued she, taking hold of my hand, which she pressed in her own with tenderness, "who do not wish to hide it from you any longer, that I am a little jealous of you. In short, young woman, I must insist on your doing it for your own sake, for your reputation, for a vindication of your virtue, which the darkest calumnies have dared to pursue, even to the bosom of the most faithful friendship and most respectful love.

"Show her those two letters, my brother. He received them," addressing herself to me, "the fifth of this month, just before leaving Paris to return home."

"I did not believe one word they contained," cried M. Dolerval, "not one word."

"In the first place," resumed Madame Florival, "permit me to accuse you of extreme dissimulation. Often have I had occasion to speak about his elder brother, Murville, and you have never given me the least reason to suspect you of having been acquainted with him—I understand your silence, Juliette; the author of this second letter also, M. de Varmont, could you, for your misfortune, have—?"

I heard no more, my sister, for at the name of Varmont, pronounced by Madame Florival, I fainted.

[Page 64]When I recovered my senses, I saw her in great distress, her brother all in tears, and Bovile pale with terror.

"She knows him, indeed," said M. Dolerval.

"How," said Madame Florival, "could the mentioning this young man's name, or the mere sight of a letter written by his hand, so much affrighten her?"

And Bovile, with a trembling voice, tried in vain to get permission for a perusal of the letters which occasioned my terror.

"Read them, my friend," said I to Madame Florival, "read them. I tremble, it is true, but not for myself."

M. Dolerval, actuated with pity towards me, put back the letters into his pocket-book. But I told both him and his sister they must no longer keep any thing from me. After urging them for permission to see these letters, and making many entreaties, Madame Florival desired her brother to give them to me. I read them, my sister, and was better able to read them through than I expected! But, at present, Celina, my sight is obscured by my tears, and my hand trembles to such a degree, that I cannot relate the conclusion of this dreadful scene: And, before I relate it, I determine to send you a copy of these letters: afterwards I will tell you what commentaries were made upon them, by what means they remained in my possession, and what I intend to do with them.

[Page 65]

LETTER LXXXIV. Murville to Dolerval.

Brest, December 1, 1782.

YOU have much ingenuity, my brother; you prove yourself to be a man of talents. The picture you sent me in miniature is so much like the original, I was almost distracted with joy and astonishment. Since you can paint her so completely from memory, you must have known her features perfectly well: but it is fortunate for you that I know her much better than yourself. That she is very engaging I cannot deny: but if we may give credit to all that Varmont has told me, she is, with all her attractions, but a little monster! I am not, I must confess, the entire dupe of my friend. There seems to be in his writings, a sort of amorous spite, which he endeavours, in vain, to disguise; we may, however, conclude, that if he has not told some dark falsehoods, he has, at least, exaggerated some ugly truths. And, reducing every circumstance to its true and miserable value, my poor Dolerval, it appears little short of downright certainty, that your intended is no more than a fortune-huntress. Could I be satisfied you only meant to address her for no other purpose than a little amusement, it would be well; and in such case, I would consent to give up my right: but, to marry her! I would lose my life before I would consent to it. And, believe me, there are no measures which I will not try to disengage you from your undertaking.

[Page 66]

P. S. After some reflection on the matter, I have concluded to send you the last letter I received from Varmont. You shall see for yourself, what account he has given me of the amiable girl whom you intend shall be your highly honored wife. You will doubtless be delighted with the mild epistle of my veridical friend; for, excepting the first paragraph, it is wholly devoted to the pompous eulogy of that adorable girl. Adieu, my dear and good-hearted brother. I repeat it to you, to take care of yourself, and beware of me.

LETTER LXXXV. Varmont to Murville.

Paris, November 25, 1782.

MY friend, I have no resentment against you at all. The reason I did not write, was because some miserable affairs of interest have given me no time. My youngest sister, who was lately married, is dead; and you are acquainted with the honorable end of Bovile, whose goods they have confiscated. The dowry of his wife, however, is well worth the pains of a suit for recovering it, and this occasions me to be surrounded with lawyers, who put me out of my wits. You may tell me, they doubtless give me some leisure; very little, I assure you, and that little, I must own, is well spent in the company of a very good girl, who treats me with great kindness. You will, therefore, excuse me for having preferred love to friendship.

[Page 67]As to the little girl you mentioned, I have, for a long time, thought no more of her than if I had never known her; and was almost surprised to learn she was yet in being. But, what is stranger than all the rest, it seems she has fallen into other hands than yours. But Lafleur, of whom I have just been inquiring, tells me she was poorly guarded in your castle, and since I know she has great skill in running away, I am not much surprised. Recollecting that I promised you her history, I will now give you an abridgment of it. The dear girl was sold to me in this place, by a sort of mother, who guaranteed the premises. But I found I had been a dupe in the market. And how great was my stupidity! By her continual entreaties I was persuaded to take her to Brest. She told me she wished to go there to take leave of a brother, who, she said, was going away in the fleet. This pretended brother was a scoundrel whom she loved. In the midst of a clear night, and at a time when I least expected it, the amiable girl, prudently seized with some of my best effects, softly opened the door, and made her escape. But my valet, who is easily awaked, pursued the fugitive, and being ready to overtake her at the port, she got out of her senses, and jumped into the sea. From thence, by some strange providence, she was taken and put into your hands. You may, for yourself, Murville, do what you please; but I promise, for your sake, to let her alone. You will torment yourself, I suppose, by going after her again; but, believe me, she is not worth that trouble.

However, if you have any regard for the poor man who is so bewitched after her, you cannot take too hasty, I should say too violent measures, to hinder him from a marriage, which would, at [Page 68] once, bring him to disgrace, and, sooner or later, to misery.

To conclude; my dear Murville, whatever part you may take, I shall not feel interested in it, except on your account. O that you may forget her yourself, as I desire she may forget me! But I hope the foolish individual who warranted this girl to me, and thereby robbed me of my money, will soon have reason to repent of it. If you love her now, I cannot but pity you; and if your friend marries her, I shall pity him still more.

LETTER LXXXVI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Tours, December 11, 1782, 3 o'clock P. M.

CONSIDER, my Celina, how greatly I must have been confounded by those insulting letters in the presence of this young man, who was dismayed with jealous love and fear; in the presence of the young man who could not, but with difficulty, refrain from entertaining the most injurious suspicions against the object of his love. When I began to read them, I trembled for his sister. But as soon as I discovered the nature of those odious falsehoods which Varmont, ingenious in villainy, had invented to ruin me; as soon as I perceived that those atrocious calumnies would only serve to cover the eyes of Madame Florival with a thicker bandage than before, and had reason to believe my new insults would be the salvation of my friend, my courage in some measure revived. With [Page 69] a voice less faltering, I was enabled to continue until I had finished reading them. And Bovile, who, in the anguish of horrible expectation, was, at first, alarmed for the fate of his wife, soon afterwards felt equal apprehensions for mine.

The lengthy commentaries to which the insolent expressions of Murville gave place, shall be passed over in silence; but, unfortunately, some of the remarks made on the calumnies of Varmont merit a repetition.

At the following passage in the letter of Varmont, "You are acquainted with the honorable end of Bovile, whose goods they have confiscated," "Insolent monster!" cried the husband of Madame Florival: "how can I take pride any longer in my false delicacy? You shall now be told what I repent of not having told you before: it must have been Varmont who put me into the Bastile. Yes, every thing combines to confirm me in this opinion! On the day of my arrival at the metropolis, I went to the house of my infamous brother-in-law to learn, from his own mouth, whether he expected to recover six hundred thousand livres which he had never paid me? The arrant knave had so much presumption as to tell me to my face, I should never have given him a receipt for that sum unless he had paid it me. Exasperated at his villainy, I withdrew, and went down to an inn, to which, I suppose, I was followed by one of his lacquies. Then did I learn, to my sorrow, the falsity of the intelligence which put me in his way. After I had found my enemy was still in his place, I should have instantly departed; but being too much fatigued, and wishing to write to my wife I stayed several hours. There was not one man [...] [Page 70] the city, except Varmont, who knew of my existence and arrival at Paris. You must be sensible that they informed against me the same night, since the vile bearer of the lettre-de-cachet² came and took me by surprise, at four o'clock in the morning."

Madame Florival and her brother could hardly give credit to the relation of this wicked action; whilst I, my sister, by certain infallible marks, could recognize Varmont in every part of the recital.

Soon afterwards I read the letter over again; and while I was reading, I interrupted myself: "Indeed," said I, casting my eyes upon Bovile, "it is too true, that a sort of mother sold me! But it was the most generous of men who bought me. And how shamefully has he been rewarded for it by my infamous relations! O that in some other family, he may find the happiness of which mine seem formed to deprive him!"

Those, my sister, to whom the true meaning of this discourse was unknown, could not but give it a bad interpretation, for Madame Florival blushed exceedingly, and M. Dolerval was struck with astonishment.

A few lines farther, Madame Florival asked me, with a faltering voice, "whether it was true that I was conducted to Brest?"

"Alas! Madame, it is true." And my answer cost many sighs to her brother.

"Is it true," said he in his turn, "that you loved a person who went away in the fleet?"

"Yes," answered I, "it is true that I loved [Page 71] such a person." Hearing this, he turned pale and sat down: and he seemed ready to fall into the unhappy state in which I had been myself.

A moment afterwards: "But," said Bovile with vehemence, "this is an abyss of iniquity, of infamy and obscurity, in the depth of which I am lost!"

"Yes," cried the young man, rising with impetuosity, "you say rightly! An abyss of iniquity, infamy and obscurity! A combination of dark deeds! A weight of calumnies, which, in spite of her acknowledgments, I cannot yet believe!"

At length I had no more to say, and Madame Florival was silent for a considerable time. Then, casting her eyes upon me with a penetrating look, "Well," said she, "I am waiting —."

"For what, my friend?"

"Your name," cried she; "your secrets, your misfortunes; those misfortunes which justify you!"

"My dear friend! in order to justify myself, I must sacrifice the best of women."

"O Juliette, my dearest Juliette! appearances, and your own confessions, seem to be against you: speak then, I am ready to believe—."

"And I, O most interesting of women! am ready to be immolated."

"Young woman," continued she, removing herself a little from me, "you must be willing to consider this matter. The confession which I request of you is indispensable."

"Do you then insist upon it, Madame? Well, give me three days longer."

"What! three days longer!" cried the young man, who was listening in the most painful [...] pense.

"Three days longer!" said Madame Florival▪

"Yes," replied I, "three days; and if I do [Page 72] not, at that time, tell you who I am, I promise, at least, to go away, but with the most lively regret, from the house where my presence occasions so much unhappiness."

"O, Juliette," replied Madame Florival, "what an alternative is this! Do you think it will be indifferent to me whether you stay with us or not? And look at my brother!"

"Take pity on my despair!" interrupted he.

"Your despair, Dolerval, increases my own. I must be inflexible in my determination. But, before I leave you, I beg of you to grant me one favour."

"Mention it," replied he, "mention it; my life, Juliette, is still in your power."

"The more horrible those letters are, the more necessary it is that I should remain in possession of them. Pray be so kind as to leave them with me, and let me dispose of them as I think most proper."

"Alas!" said he, "what a dreadful present! Juliette, are you determined to leave us? Will you be so hard hearted and cruel, as to leave us while we are tormented with such frightful suspicions—?"

"I cannot avoid it; they must remain with you; but, one day, Dolerval, it will be proved, that calumniated innocence will appear more interesting than before."

Having said this, my sister, I retired. I have somewhat lessened my sorrows by depositing them in your bosom. And now I am going to deliver those letters, the monuments of Varmont's new [...]ities, to the flames. And O that every vestige [...] [...]s crimes might perish in the same manner!

And I was almost surprised," writes he, "to learn she was yet in being." Wretched man! I [Page 73] believe you: You have left nothing undone to prevent that surprise from ever being given you! And the last words of this letter, traced by your sanguinary hand, sufficiently convince me that your miserable accomplice will be severely punished, for not being as inhuman and cruel as yourself.

And as for this Murville, what can be his intentions? What scheme of oppression will he form against his former captive and slave? But I am not at present, nor shall I be so any more: for Bovile is here to defend me. Nor will M. Dolerval suffer his brother to come here and insult me. And have I not besides, an infallible resource against his attempts? Most certainly I have not much to fear from the most daring libertine, while I am reduced to such extreme wretchedness as to consider death a blessing!

LETTER LXXXVII. Emilia in continuation.

Tours, December 11, 1782, midnight.

THE horrors of my destiny, I trust, are at length completed. Attend, my sister, and hear a relation of the most calamitous events.

Nearly six hours ago, when, by reason of approaching darkness, objects were not clearly discernable, I was in my apartment, where I enjoyed the privilege of sighing alone. Bovile [...] if by chance, and desired me to open the [...] after I had opened it, he wished me to spe [...] [...] [Page 74] minutes with him in private conversation. As I trembled with fear lest they should see him in my chamber, and thinking it would serve to increase the jealousy of his wife, I told him it was more convenient to go into the garden. According to my desire, we went thither: and as soon as we were there, he addressed me as follows:

"Your brother, I am convinced, is one of the most accomplished villains. There is no doubt but it was he who set fire to the Centaure himself, or that it was done by his orders."

Upon this, I endeavoured to make him believe that Varmont was incapable of such villainy.

"No, no," said Bovile, "your generosity shall deceive me no longer. The truth shines clearly into my eyes, and I am certain it is equally visible to yours. And I tremble, my dear Emilia, lest it may enlighten others also. This morning, in your grief and confusion, you said too much upon the subject. My wife is now reflecting upon what you said, conjecturing, and uniting a number of promiscuous circumstances, and comparing them with your irreproachable conduct and equivocal answers. She derives from your confessions, although obscure, some inferences, which, together with Varmont's letter, may probably assist her to unfold the frightful mystery of your misfortunes. But a few minutes ago, as she was walking pensively about the room, she stopped short and said, "Her mother sold her—A generous man bought her—To Brest this generous man conducted her —It seems that she fell into the sea." And the unfortunate woman, immediately afterwards, asked [...] terrible question: "What was the age of [...]oiselle de Varmont when you married [...] O, Emilia, fair and generous Emilia, I [Page 75] fear the dreadful discovery is at hand! Let us double our caution to avoid it for a longer period."

"Hold!" said I.

"Why?" answered he.

"Don't you see the young man behind us— Dolerval, who is coming after us—who listens and watches every motion?"

"One word only," replied he with a low voice, "let us walk several minutes longer, so as to have no appearance of affectation. Afterwards, retire to your chamber and shut the door, and if Madame Florival knocks, do not open it. About midnight I shall come to take you away. I will conduct you, too unfortunate Emilia, to the solitude of the cloister, from which solitude I released you but to make you more wretched."

"Peace, then!" said I, "he draws near."

"Well! let us change our conversation," replied Bovile.

"Yes, let us speak of the apprehensions I have from Murville; even in presence of Dolerval I can speak of his brother without any danger or inconvenience."

The young man then drew near, but, as usual, without offering a word. He only walked at my side and kept pace with us, as I have told you he has frequently done before. Without speaking to him, or even looking at him, I continued with that natural tone of voice we make use of when we are not afraid to permit another person to hear the whole conversation. Addressing myself to Bovile, I said:

"Murville, I fear, is contriving some wicked scheme against me, and I cannot but feel ala [...] for my safety."

"Don't fear him," answered the friend of Dolerval, [Page 76] "those vile seducers who are so dangerous, are courageous with women only; against warriors they cannot boast of being courageous and powerful! Whilst one drop of blood flows in my veins, you shall have nothing to fear from your most despicable enemies; for the very countenance of a brave man will make them turn pale!"

When he had done speaking this we were at the extremity of the shaded alley, near a small gate, which shuts on that side of the garden next the suburb. Almost at the moment when Bovile turned around at the end of this alley, thinking we might safely return to the house, the young man, led by a strange impulse of folly, seized me in his arms, and carried me off as swiftly as the lightning. At the same moment, the gate, seemingly, opened of itself, and was suddenly shut; by which means I was separated from my defender in less time than I can write you an account of it. And, whilst Bovile was probably in amazement at my sudden disappearing, and by being shut in the garden could not relieve me, I was put in a post-chaise, which must have been in readiness for this purpose, and the young man placed himself by my side, while the postillion urged the horses to such a degree that we seemed to fly.

Until the moment when the carriage started with me, I experienced more astonishment than fear. "Unhappy Dolerval!" said I, "what do you mean? To what a strange degree does your passion mislead you! It is a friend whom you so much abuse! It is from the house of your Eleanor you are carrying her, whom your ever-respectful [...] had inspired with—with esteem! What! Dolerval, are you also capable of abusing and in [...]ting helpless women?"

[Page 77]To this, he gave no answer, but kept a deaf ear and disdainful look. Then was I agitated by real fear. I loaded the young man with questions and reproaches, but he obstinately kept silence. Fearful apprehensions now troubled my spirits—cries of terror escaped me. Then, with one hand, he covered my mouth, and, with the other, treated me with insolent behaviour. Enraged, I resisted him with all my strength; but, at this time, the cruel struggle was interrupted by a combat, still more cruel. We heard the report of a pistol, the postillion fell, and called out, "Help!" It was now too late: for a man was at the carriage door. A second pistol was fired; by the light which the explosion produced, I perceived that the assassin was in a mask; that he who had insulted me, and now protected me▪ was Murville. Murville shielded me with his body, and received the shot which was aimed at me.

"Whoever you are," said he, "take my purse and my life, but have some respect for so much beauty."

He then searched hastily for his arms, which he could not find; and as he received the third shot, which, to appearance, did not touch him, he sprang out of the carriage, seized his enemy by his throat and threw him down, fell himself and rolled with him in the dust. "Bring my pistols!" cried he continually, "my pistols! they were put under the seat in the bottom of the carriage!"

At this moment of horror, Celina, I was endowed with unusual strength and courage. With all possible haste I stepped out of the carriage, and thought within myself, perhaps the hand of a woman may dispatch a highwayman. Imagine, however, what terror succeeded this moment of [Page 78] courage. At that instant, I was able to discern, not far from the combatants, a man, who stood in the attitude of grief and astonishment, and remained an unactive spectator of this fearful struggle. As soon as he saw me, he drew near, and looking upon me attentively, he said:

"What! Mademoiselle, is it you? Permit me," said he, snatching the pistols out of my hand, "permit him who saved your life in this very wood, to avenge you. It belongs to me to be revenged of him for the crimes he has forced me to commit. It belongs to me to punish him."

By this discourse you will know it was Lafleur, as certainly as I recognized him by his voice; and, consequently, will not need to be told who the savage is, against whom Murville sustains an unequal combat.

The raging domestic then fired upon his master, but with a feeble, ill-directed, and trembling hand: no sooner had he done this, than he staggered and fell down, making strange distortions. He must, however, have wounded his mad accomplice; for he made a dreadful noise, and seemed to be in great anguish. But he was not in the least disheartened, and, as his wound increased his fury, so it increased his strength; for he was now enabled to disengage himself from Murville, and ran towards me with his drawn sword in his hand. Come, barbarian! thought I, I will not attempt to take up those arms which thy accomplice could not make use of to destroy thee; for I had a thousand times rather receive death from thy hands, than give it thee myself.

But my final hour had not yet come. Murville, animated by a sense of my imminent danger, ran between us: "Poor girl!" said he, "what have [Page 79] I done! you are the one whom they most wish to destroy." Unhappy man! he both pitied and protected me at the same time! He parried off several strokes of the sword by his arm, but through weariness, I expected every moment he would fall, and then nothing could prevent his assassin from embruing his hands in the blood of his sister. But heaven, in mercy, would, in such case, have prevented me from feeling the pangs of assassination: for all my limbs trembled with horror, my strength forsook me, and, without any sense of my situation, I fell down under the wheels of the carriage.

When I recovered my senses I beheld—objects of terror! Alas! why was I called back to life? But, Celina, permit me to leave you; permit me to return to the pillow of a dying man!

LETTER LXXXVIII. Bovile to Celina.

Tours, December 12, 1782, 6 o'clock, P. M.

WORTHY sister of a woman whose unrivalled attractions are surpassed by her goodness; unfortunate sister of the most execrable villain the earth has ever borne; 'tis Emilia, whose most tender and affectionate friend you are, and whose most ardent defender I shall always be; 'tis Emilia, overwhelmed with her own troubles, but equally distressed on account of your anxiety, who has charged me to acquaint you with her present situation! Be comforted; no danger, at present, threatens your sister. She is without wound. [Page 80] But, O that we could place her as far, and as securely, from the power of grief, as we have secured her from the attempts of a monster!

Dolerval, as I supposed, ran away with Emilia, whom he snatched from me in the garden. Upon this, I flew to the house, and found, to my astonishment, that he was seated by his sister.

"O what a prodigy!" said I; "yonder I saw you run away with Juliette, and behold you are here!"

"Heavens!" exclaimed Dolerval, "it must have been my brother. Haste! let's pursue him!"

With all possible haste we saddled our horses; I took my arms, so as to be provided against the worst, and the domestics were ordered to follow us: but Dolerval and I went full speed, before all the rest, on the way which was taken by Murville.

In a wood, at least half a league from Tours, we saw a carriage standing in the midst of the road. A woman lay by it in a swoon, near whom were two men in a violent contest. One of them had a sword, but the other was without arms. "To me direct your strokes," said the brave unarmed young man, who was smitten by his enemy and would not retreat.

"He is killing Murville!" cried Dolerval. And in a moment we came up with them, and he whom I supposed to be a highwayman, fell by the strokes of my sword. Murville, through loss of blood, was unable to support himself a moment after the danger was over. We took him and bound up his wounds as well as the small remains of light would permit. When we had taken care of him, we took Juliette, who had not yet recovered her senses, and put her into the carriage. Bitter groans were then heard all around us; and [Page 81] one cried out, "I feel within me a raging fire, let somebody help me, and I will tell you the whole."

We searched around after him, and I touched a man with my foot, who was rolling in the dust, and appeared to be in dreadful convulsions. He attempted to speak, but a stronger fit seized him, so that he could make no articulate sounds. A little farther, Dolerval found a man in the agonies of death, who proved to be the postillion of Murville. And, on the other hand, we heard groans, imprecations and blasphemies, which gave me to understand that the highwayman I had vanquished was not ready to expire. Our situation amongst so many persons dangerously wounded, became every moment more and more embarrassing. At this time I saw a number of persons coming with torches, and made no doubt but they were fortunately coming to our assistance. These persons who were coming proved to be our domestics; but they came not alone. They escorted a carriage which conveyed to us—alas! my wife herself! Being afraid, that after having joined Murville, we might not be able to persuade him to relinquish his prey, and fearing there would, in consequence of his refusal, arise a fatal strife between her brothers and husband, she came hither with an intention of trying her persuasions upon Murville, which she apparently thought would have more influence than ours. Oh, hapless woman! of what a dreadful scene will thy ill fate soon render thee both witness and actress! What fatal explanations thou art soon to receive!

Murville was the first who recovered the use of his senses.

"In the first place," said he, in a feeble voice, [Page 82] "relieve my doubts. Take the mask from the face of this robber."

He was soon obeyed, and in the features of this ruffian I recognized those of a man whom I viewed with horror.

"Cruel Varmont!" continued Murville, "you were going to sacrifice me for the sake of a woman! and not only so, but you also intended to sacrifice your mistress!"

"His mistress!" cried the man who had spoken before; "no, no, his sister!"

"His sister!" repeated Murville, with terror and amazement; "his sister! O matchless infamy! All is now explained. This is not the first time he has attempted to destroy her! And yet I have been the friend and companion of this monster! Great God! just and merciful God! thou hast not unjustly nor sufficiently punished me!"

"His sister!" exclaimed Eleanor with streaming eyes; "Mysterious heaven! If this is the brother of Juliette, whose wife then am I?"

"His sister!" cried Dolerval in despair; "She is torn from me forever! She is not at liberty! His sister! O Bovile, unfortunate Bovile, you have then forever lost mine!"

"Are you Bovile?" said the elder brother of Madame Florival: "What! is that generous, beautiful, and respectable woman, whom I have so much offended; whose misfortunes I have so cruelly aggravated, and whose virtues I have insulted—is she yours? Is this your wife?"

"No," answered Emilia, who had just recovered her reason, "no;" pointing to Madame Florival, "she is his wife."

"How!" resumed Murville; "O yes! my sister [Page 83] —was free, indeed. Bovile, who believed himself a widower, and whom we believed was dead, is yet alive! Yes, I remember what Dolerval— O now I understand; M. Bovile is found to be the husband of two wives."

He then reached forth his hand to Madame Florival, viewed her with an air of compassion, and mingled his tears with hers.

We could not too hastily quit this horrible scene. Murville proposed that we should put him in his own post-chaise; that Lafleur should be put in with him, and that some person should stay with Varmont, and watch him until we could return and fetch him. But Emilia, with her wonted tenderness, opposed it, and would not permit her execrable brother to be thus deserted. She desired, or rather commanded (for her desires, more than ever before, had now acquired the force of commands); she desired that Murville and Lafleur should be placed in the back part of the berlin, while she, with Madame Florival, should occupy the fore-seat. By these means, her two persecutors might have the consoling, though painful satisfaction, of renewing to her the assurances of their repentance. By these means, my two unfortunate wives might sit together, embrace each other, and, perhaps, by confounding their sorrows, might soften them and diminish their force. By these means also, the execrable assassin of her whom we all hold dear, embrued with the blood shed by his cruel hand, was cast alone into the post-chaise, where his powerless rage breathed nothing but imprecations.

As to the postillion of Murville, I ordered his body to be placed upon a horse. Dolerval and I upon our horses, kept near the door of the berlin, [Page 84] by which means we often heard▪ to our grief, the sighs of the dearest objects of our affection. Being thus prepared, we set off with a slow pace, and, with our whole melancholy train, came back to the city.

We had sent a man forward to go after several surgeons, and when we came home we found them waiting for us. Murville's wounds were examined in the first place. Take courage; this brave youth, so noble and generous-hearted, even in his erroneous and licentious career, corrected by an awful warning and dreadful stroke of fortune, will, I trust, be preserved for an example of complete amendment to his equals in age and libertine principles. The ball only glanced upon his breast, and left but a slight contusion; and, in the unequal struggle against his well armed enemy, he exercised so much dexterity, that he received no wounds except upon his arm. And I am happy to inform you that none of his wounds are either dangerous or mortal.

But why is capricious fortune equally favourable to the infamous Varmont? The pistol shot which he received from his own valet, did, as it were, but glance upon his shoulder; and, although I brought him to the ground by several strokes and thrusts of my sword, not one of them is thought to be mortal. The pains which Murville now feels, deprive him of rest; but Varmont has already fallen asleep! I tremble for fear he may be restored, to continue the scourge and disgrace of human nature. Should it be so, I shall repent that I did not perform my part more effectually.

On the contrary, the miserable Lafleur, much enlightened by the questions we were obliged to ask him, and still more by the grievous pains he endured, [Page 85] soon conjectured what the physician told us in a low voice, and cried out, "I am certainly poisoned, there is no doubt of it." And, at length, when he found there was no relief for him in the remedies prescribed, and his convulsions becoming more frequent and strong, he desired Emilia, Dolerval and myself, to draw near his bed, and hear his last confessions. And what follows is nearly all he told us with which you are unacquainted: I shall not, however, undertake to relate it exactly in the same rusticity in which it was delivered.

"When I brought the boat to my master at Brest, I was ignorant of what he intended to do on board the Centaure. But after the crime was committed, he confessed it to me, but protested that if I betrayed him, he would acknowledge the fact, and, at the same time, declare that I was his accomplice, and would persist in the declaration till the last moment. Soon afterwards he was informed that his victim was alive, and charged me to go and perform, what he called, our operation. Out of fear, lest the former crime should be discovered, and lest Varmont should conduct me to the wheel along with himself, by declaring me his accomplice, I was resolved to do it. But I was not hardy enough for such an exploit; yet I made my master believe I had well performed his commission. Varmont, as I believed, had already determined my ruin, but retained me in his service; and I, poor wretch, remained in it, because his threatenings of pursuing me, in case of my leaving him, affrightened me: but, I confess, my greatest reasons for staying with him, was the hope of obtaining the money he had promised me. He continued to amuse me with fair promises until he might find a favourable opportunity of putting me out of the [Page 86] way. At length, about the first of this month, he told me that M. Murville had insulted him, and refused to give him satisfaction, and that he intended to give him a challenge. 'I cannot do it at Brest,' continued he, 'because he has too many friends there; but go there yourself, my dear Lafleur, and as soon as he shall be so unfortunate as to leave that city, follow him every where he goes, and do not fail to write me, and let me know where he makes any stay.' Fool that I was! this was the snare in which I was caught myself! After receiving my first letter, my master came with all speed into the neighbourhood of Tours, in which city Murville had been concealed during four days. How it happened I cannot tell, but yesterday was my unlucky day. Early in the morning I gave Varmont an account of what Murville's postillion, with whom I had just been drinking, had told me; which was, that his master expected this very evening to return to his farm, with a little comrade. 'We must lie in wait for him on his passage,' cried he, with great satisfaction. And, in fact, directly after it was noon we went to keep centinel, you know where; and, when it was almost dark night, we heard the noise of a post-chaise, and I thought I heard the voice of James, who was hurrying his horses. 'Well!' said my rascally master; 'but, my dear Lafleur,' added he, taking a vial of brandy out of his pocket, which he knows I love to a rage, 'you must first take a drink. Take courage, for, perhaps, I shall want your assistance.' I swallowed it with dispatch, but did not tell him till afterwards—'M. de Varmont, I have no arms.' 'That's just as it should be, poltroon!' answered he with irony and brutality. 'Have you deceived me then, you beggarly rascal? Very well! stand still [Page 87] at present, and see me do it myself, and if you stir one step, I'll blow your brains out.' Then he made haste and got into the road, and as soon as he knew it was the livery servant of Murville, he ran up to poor James, clapt the pistol almost to his breast, and shot him dead. You know all the rest."

This confession, Celina, which was frequently interrupted by the sufferings of the wretch who made it, we could not collect from him in less than an hour. At length he asked pardon of his mistress, who was moved with pity and terror, a thousand times over. He also desired her blessing; and, soon after he had obtained it, happy in the approaching termination of his miseries, he breathed his last.

But how shall I describe the admirable conduct of your sister, through the whole course of this long and dismal night! Behold our Emilia, anxious about the continual lethargy of her brother, not leaving us a moment but for the purpose of acquainting you with a part of her late misfortunes; running to the pillow of Varmont, whom she yet calls her brother, but who does not hear her; running also to that of Murville, who is both comforted and surprised at her unmerited kindness; striving to give courage to Dolerval, who is abandoned to despair; fortifying my mind against our hard fortune; uniting her tears with those of Madame Florival; and sighing, alas! on the death-bed of Lafleur!

But, imagine on the other hand, notwithstanding her severe misfortunes, how great must be the triumph of her long-persecuted virtues, and her late acknowledged innocence. Represent to your imagination, my dear Eleanor, who, perhaps, is less afflicted with her own trials and sorrows than [Page 88] those of her friend; and Dolerval, bitterly reproaching himself for the unjust jealousy he entertained, for the cruel and injurious suspicions he was tempted to conceive against Emilia; whilst Murville, continually becoming more and more convinced of his errors, more and more repenting his past conduct, and more and more grieved to think he has not merited the esteem of this adorable woman! "Yes, Dolerval," cries he, "your sentiments were just; she is, as you said, deserving universal homage!"

Endeavour to imagine, Celina, how much I am enchanted, and how desperately my feelings must be excited, while I behold these two women, who, if not equally beloved, are at least equally accomplished. Strive to form an idea of the alternative horrors and charms which the different pictures around me present to my view!

LETTER LXXXIX. Bovile in continuation.

Tours, December 13, 1782, 5 o'clock evening.

WEEP, Celina, for you are bereft of a brother! Congratulate yourself and your sister, for the earth is delivered from a monster!

To day, till the clock struck twelve at noon, she stayed with him, sitting constantly on the side of his bed, waiting, with impatience, the termination of the oppressive sleep which still held dominion over him. At this time, he awoke, and casting his eyes fiercely upon his sister, he knew her, and [Page 89] sprang furiously towards her. She screamed aloud with terror, and fled from him; and, as she was flying him, I hastily stepped between them and stopped him. This was a seasonable movement, for had I waited a second longer, he would have caught her, and then it would have been all over with Emilia! In the mean time he was affected with a burning fever, which gave him prodigious strength; so that if every one in the room had not come to my assistance, he would have overpowered me. The blood-thirsty savage then turned all his rage against himself. He rolled upon the floor, tore himself, and rent to pieces the bandages which covered his wounds. At first they tried to prevent him. "No," said I, "leave him to accomplish his own fate; he had much better die here than at the place of public execution. Have not his crimes sufficiently distressed his family? Do you wish him, according to the inhuman prejudices of our country, to dishonor it still more upon a scaffold?^* And what executioner could place his hand upon this villain with sufficient horror and disgust? No, let him alone. Let the infamous monster himself execute the decree of his vindictive fate. There is none but Varmont who can suitably inflict the punishment merited by his crimes."

Out of respect to you, Celina, I will not relate the horrid imprecations which his impure mouth has uttered. Nor will I afflict you with a recital of those continual dreams in which he seemed to be surrounded by the most frightful spectres. Nor will I describe to you the fearful delirium in which he [Page 90] passed the five last hours of his dreadful agony. But you may be assured, that the hell in which we believe, has no torments to be compared with these.

He died but a few minutes ago. He died, denying his family, his country and his God.

Not so much as his sister was present to close his eyes. Tender-hearted and credulous Emilia! She still relied on the goodness of heaven. She required of all who were present, a Confessor for her brother; but finding no one ready nor speedy enough for her desires, in great confusion of mind, she ran off herself with an intention of bringing a Confessor to Varmont. Unhappy woman! she ran abroad but to find a new subject of affliction!

LETTER XC. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

Tours, December 17, 1782.

AFTER so many fatal eclaircissements, and after the unhappy rumour of our misfortunes had been spread abroad, it was necessary, my sister, that Bovile and Dolerval should not remain more than twenty-four hours at the place where they could hear the sighs of the unfortunate Eleanor and disconsolate Emilia. They departed together about three days ago; they are going to follow the seas, in order to lessen their sorrows and encourage their hope. Yes, Celina, I say their hope: for the parting words of Bovile have raised my courage, and, in some measure, relieved me from my extreme dejection.

[Page 91]"The government," said he, "an enormous burden, which hangs like a dead weight upon my country, cannot be much longer supported. A reign of iron and dust dishonors the people whom it oppresses, and begins to weary its astonishing patience. In the mean time, the enemies of our nation, actuated by a spirit of inconceivable giddiness, instead of lightening the yoke, daily continue to render it more burdensome. Soon must this oppression come to an end; soon must my country be ruined, or undergo a complete regeneration. Alas! I cannot but hope and pray that the great Arbiter of the universe, who governs and decides the fate of kingdoms and empires, may support France through the horrors and convulsions of that awful crisis, which alone, after some moments of anguish, can restore the lustre of her former youth with a vigor thenceforth unalterable, and raise her again to the highest rank amongst nations. Then shall we behold the sudden fall of many prejudices, as ancient and despicable as the ignorance and superstition which gave them birth. Then," continued he, pressing my hand in his own, "your dear Celina will no longer groan in her wretched confinement: for the cloisters, opened or rased to their foundations, will let their victims escape: then the poor and unfortunate M. Sevin, who is now so wretched, may find some consolation on earth: for celibacy, not satisfied with filling the convents, but extending even to the clergy, will no longer embrace whole generations. Then," continued he, addressing himself to Madame Florival, "we shall no longer hear our tribunals ring with those demands in case of a separation, which must be followed with such great scandal, and obtained by [Page 92] the price of so much disgrace; which is attended with the unhappy consequence of condemning young married people, who may be separated, but not disunited, to drag themselves along, if I may so express myself, even to the grave, between the evils of celibacy and the crimes of adultery. Then those unions, so improperly termed unions of convenience, might be easily done away; those marriages, so suddenly contracted by deluded young people, who, not being mutually informed of what fortune each other is possessed, believed themselves sufficiently acquainted, and often, upon better acquaintance, detest themselves and one another. Then shall we behold many others, not less unhappy, desirous of becoming husbands and fathers of families, who are discouraged by the examples of present marriages, are afraid to take a wife who must eternally be theirs, and, sooner or later, are found guilty of seducing the wives of other men. How many laws are wanting in this vast empire, to insure a sudden reformation in its manners; laws, which, to millions of individuals, would be the end of their misfortunes or beginning of their happiness! One only, the law of Divorce; a law, which, in its effect, would infallibly prevent the necessity of having recourse to it. This would impose on every married person, an obligation of continually practising those mutual kindnesses, those delicate attentions, and those tender cares, which might daily increase their affections. As soon as this beneficent law shall be proclaimed, a thousand married persons will break their chains, which were formed under the yoke of indissolubility; their chains continually bedewed with tears: and, under the most favourable auspices, a thousand lovers [Page 93] will form the desired union. Dolerval will then obtain the woman he loves, and Bovile, the fortunate Bovile, will again find his Eleanor."

Such were his last words and sentiments at parting, in which our tender credulity could easily confide, and which Eleanor recollects with the greatest delight.

However, this hope, so far removed beyond our present reach, is not sufficient to support my excellent friend under her sorrows: alas! and could I say it if the unfortunate woman did not repeatedly say it herself, against her remorse! Notwithstanding all I can say or do, she often falls into a deep melancholy, which, I fear, may, in its consequences, prove as dangerous to her as her tender offspring, on whose conception she often reflects with unavailing regret.

And O that the spectacle of her affliction were the only one which tortures my imagination! But another, not less painful to endure, although it has but once afflicted my sight, unceasingly torments me with its cruel remembrance. Have pity upon me, O my sister; for the portion of evils allotted me is more than I can bear!

LETTER XCI. Emilia in continuation.

Tours, January 4, 1783.

IT is six days, my dear Celina, since I received your last letter. It is owing to the distress I feel on the subject of that letter, that I have not, till the present time, had the pleasure of sending [Page 94] you an answer. Notwithstanding the injuries we have received from Madame de Varmont▪ I cannot but lament her untimely death: and as she was our mother, we ought to mourn for her. I believe, with you, that the news of her son's crimes, and his consequent tragical end, too soon spread abroad by the voice of the public, have hastened her to the grave. How great must have been her sufferings in her last moments! O my God! God of all justice and goodness! have not her sufferings atoned for her crimes? Freely pardon her, O most merciful Father! as I pardon her myself.

You tell me, my sister, that nothing can hinder me any longer from retiring to your solitude, there to receive and bestow the consolations which to us are mutually necessary. Permit me, however, to delay. Madame Florival will need my attendance. She expects me to attend her to a certain village, whither she is going to conceal her situation from her acquaintance, and stay till the time of her delivery. After this, she authorizes me to promise for her, as well as myself, to go and take refuge in your convent. M. Murville has recovered of his wounds, and is now at Brest. But he has given his sister encouragement to expect he will accompany her to Paris whenever she is prepared to establish herself there, with my sister and me. In consequence of this, I have taken all my arrangements accordingly: for I know you too well to suppose you will require me to abandon my friend when she will most require my attendance.

As to one particular cause or subject of affliction, of which you accuse me of wishing to hide from you, I am now ready to reveal it. In the [Page 95] first moments of our agitation, on parting with Bovile and Dolerval, almost every circumstance of it was out of my mind; but since that time, by a strange and inevitable propensity, it constantly employs my thoughts.

Our brother, my dear Celina, in a fit, during his ardent fever, attempted to destroy me; and, in the anguish of his delirium, he strove in vain to destroy himself. I found there was no relief for him except in the tender mercies of God. I supposed the all-powerful consolations of religion would, dissipate the fearful alienation of his mind. After it was noon, I had repeatedly required a confessor, who had not arrived. At length, when the fury of the poor mortal was so great that every person in the room was employed to restrain him, I ran out myself. In the city of Tours, where I was totally unacquainted, I could not go to inquire for a priest; but I went to the neighbouring village, fully persuaded that the curate of St. Cyr would not refuse his assistance.

I a short time I arrived at the parsonage. Russel, the old domestic of Madame Florival, opened the door, and, with surprize in his countenance, asked me what I wanted.

"To speak with M. Sevin," answered I.

"With M. Sevin, Mademoiselle!"

"Why, yes."

"With M. Sevin! is the young lady sure of it?"

"What a question is this!" replied I: and, pushing him away in a gentle manner, I went in.

"Very well, young lady," said he, "I am not made to employ my strength against you: look in the garden."

Upon this I ran thither. "M. Sevin," said I, "come quick!"

[Page 96]"Poh!" cried he; "is it she who is there?"

"Of whom do you speak?"

"Oh! but it seems to be her! Ah! of whom should I speak?"

"But we do not understand one another! I pray you to go and visit a sick person, in order to perform your last duties to him."

"Oh! is that all," replied he, and turned around to go back again.

"But it is one of my relations who is in a dying state."

"What, then! this is no urgent matter. Besides," said he, "why do you come to entertain me with death? let's talk of nothing but marriage."

"But my —"

"I cannot, fair lady," interrupted he. "She cannot come but while I am without! imagine—."

"But, my uncle!—"

Hearing this, he turned round; and the air with which he viewed me confirmed me in a melancholy truth, which, in the fluttering state of my mind, I did not perceive before. "Yes," said he, with much softness of expression, "it was by this title she once called me! Do you know her then?"

"My dear uncle!" At first, in an impulse of compassion and surprize, I attempted to take him by the hand.

"Don't touch my hand," cried he, drawing back: "don't touch my—. She kissed my hand! And hold: there is the place" (pointing to his hand). "O sweet and beloved girl! It was in this place she dropt a tear—My lips immediately collected it; and I felt it even to my heart. Take care! you are going to step upon this honeysuckle! I had rather any one should walk upon my body. It was she who propped it! Besides, I take great [Page 97] care of it myself. The others withstand the winter very well; but this must be exceedingly tender; and, to keep it in better safety, I have covered it with straw.—Come this way: the flowers which you see here I have put in this sort of green-house; because I must keep them to the end of my life. Only consider, it was she who has sprinkled them with water an hundred times. Don't you think, when she returns, that she will be pleased to find every thing as it was, and in the best state possible?"

While he was speaking in this manner, I was far from feeling easy, and gradually withdrew from him, and advanced towards the parsonage.

"You are removing from this grove," said he, "and you do well. Love in this place is but a terrible god. It was here that an unjust jealousy tore my heart asunder: here it was that my malady commenced. My God, what a malady! I thought I should have died of it: and, had it not been for Dolerval, I should have died. I took it in my head to believe she loved me better than him. I did not consider that she could not discover her love for me until they should marry the priests. It was me she loved, and not Dolerval. This dear friend told me so himself. How then! he has done better. One day—on that day I was ready to go into the other world: I could neither eat nor sleep; foolish besides. Always complaining; striking the third and fourth parts^* to no purpose. Well, Madame, he came—this dear friend. He brought with him, from Paris, a large gentleman,^† of good [Page 98] countenance and good humor. But a brave man he was! He was not afraid of me! and a learned man. This polite man could speak Latin as well as myself. Madame, he was the father of my sweet mistress. 'Do not be discouraged,' said he; 'she loves you; she will come to-morrow! To-morrow they will marry the priests!"

By this time we had come to the yard, and I hastened to get to the door. "Go into the house, one moment," said he. I endeavoured to get rid of him; but he held me by my arm. Then Russel spoke to me in a low voice, and told me not to resist him, and assured me that M. Sevin would not do me the least injury. Upon this, I yielded to his entreaties. No sooner had we entered the dining room than a great number of birds came flying around us, and several of them, as it were in strife, repeated, "Juliette, Juliette!" And another of them very distinctly said, "come to-morrow!" "Yes," said my uncle, leaping for joy, "yes! because to-morrow they will marry the priests! It is true I expected her to-day," continued he, pointing to a plate covered with a napkin, "but I am mistaken. It is to-morrow! because it is to-morrow they will marry the priests. Wait for her to come, that you may listen to her music."

Saving this, he led me into the next room, and seated himself by the side of the piano, took his base-viol, made a short prelude, and endeavoured to persuade me that a woman was singing, and he accompanying her voice with his instrument. In a little time his instrument fell from his trembling hands, and he listened with mute attention. At length he fell upon his knees, "Sweet mistress!" said he, "well beloved! enchanting girl! soul of [Page 99] my life! come! don't delay! come to-morrow; for to-morrow they will marry the priests."

And I, my sister, a witness of his senseless transports, could not refrain from tears; and could not but make this indiscrete exclamation, "Poor M. Sevin!"

"Do not pity me," answered he, "I am the happiest of men. I have, in this manner, heard her all day long! All night long I seemed to see her! But to-morrow she will certainly come! To-morrow I shall really see her, for to-morrow they will marry the priests. But go now: you will wait too long; she will not sing under two long hours. You know that otherwise she would hurt her lungs. And if you should die, Juliette! if you should die! the whole world, the world which you captivate, would, at once, come to nothing."

At this time we came to the door, and I was extremely solicitous of escaping this too affecting, and too doleful spectacle. "Oh!" said he, "since you are acquainted with her, endeavour to accompany her this evening. Talk with her concerning him who adores her. Tell her, that for her I have preserved every sweet remembrance; that it is for her I languish; that I wait for her with the impatience of a lover. Oh! let her come, sweet mistress! Let her come to-morrow! because, to-morrow is the day when they will marry the priests!"

How great, my dear Celina, is the frailty of human reason! In this poor unfortunate man we may behold a striking picture of its imbecility. This, alas! is the consequence of my imprudence! What stupidity in me to retire to such a place for security against human passions! In every place to which I have retired, I have conveyed misery and disorder! Wherever I turn my eyes I behold [Page 100] wretched persons, and those who have been rendered miserable by my influence! Poor M. Sevin!— And the young man! Is he less to be pitied? Does he love me any less than M. Sevin? Is he not as fatally separated from me? Can I ever become his? Tell me, my sister, is not M. Dolerval as much to be pitied? No, certainly: for he is the object beloved. Heavens! Celina, what have I written? What doleful thoughts possess me? Almost under the eye of a husband! Almost at the grave of a mother! Ah, my sister, how sad is my condition!

LETTER XCII. Madame de Varmont to her Daughters.^*

JUST heaven! In what an abyss of gloominess and misery do I find myself, and in which I am lost! A sudden flash of lightning casts into it a horrible gleam of light, by which I behold, almost at my side, the daughter whom I buried alive, clad in mourning vestments; and, somewhat farther— but a few steps at most, I behold a monster, born of me!—embruing his hands in his younger sister's blood! My eyes, alas! are opened—too late! and are about to be closed forever.

But you, my daughters, whom I have so cruelly immolated; who, seemingly, ought to have breathed nothing but hatred against me, may learn, perhaps, in the end, that I am deserving your pity.

My barbarous parents, also, made a sacrifice of [Page 101] me. I was sacrificed with, perhaps, greater inhumanity at the marriage bed, than you, Celina, at the altars of religion. A passion, ardent in its commencement, had inflamed my heart. At this time, they proposed to me, for a husband, M. de Varmont. Alas! what did the only pleasures which nature seeks, even in her rude simplicity, avail me in my lively adolescence; of what consequence were the talents, the wounds and victories of a brave man to me▪ It was not the most experienced, the most brave, nor the most renowned that I desired. The youngest and most sprightly were, in my fancy, the most amiable; and I had already determined my choice: nothing was wanted to complete my wishes but the consent of my parents. But to my entreaties they turned a deaf ear. They snatched from me the object of my tenderest affections, and cast me, like a slave, into the arms of this stranger. What horror seized me when I became capable of understanding the duties they had imposed on me, in their full extent! Those ties with which they had bound me, were indissoluble! Even to my grave, without relief or without intermission, must I wear my detestable chain.

Despair took possession of my soul, a soul as impetuous in its hatred as its love. Attend, my daughters, and blush at my deep disgrace; tremble to reflect on the extreme misfortune which extorts the confession from me. My ever-oppressed sex has but one mean of obtaining revenge, and that is speedy, easy and infallible. Without delay, I endeavoured to employ it. Poor Emilia! let her be less surprised at the cruelty of her brother. She and her cruel assassin had not the same father. This barbarous youth was not the son of M. de [Page 102] Varmont. He was neither the child of love nor marriage; but the fruit of a premeditated criminal intrigue.

This was not all. I did not commit this crime to hide it from my husband: for I expected he would disown and forsake me when the child of my infidelity was brought to the light. This was what I desired and intended. But, to my disappointment and grief, it happened quite otherwise: from my stoic of a husband I obtained nothing but the persecutions of tyrannical jealousy. This pretended hero was so weak as to persecute me with his odious love, notwithstanding my deliberate infidelity, and though I took pride in his dishonor, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *. Pardon me, O my daughters! for I detested you because I knew you to be his children!

Towards my son, I preserved a continual and fatal partiality, and brought him up in the hatred of his sisters. He was taught to view the daughters of his supposed father in the light of troublesome co-heirs of a large fortune; intruders who were born to deprive him hereafter of a great part of those immense riches, which ought to be reserved for his mother, as an only and small indemnification for the miseries she endured for his sake. How well did the hard-hearted youth improve his wicked instructions! What a dreadful price he has paid me for the unnatural lessons I gave him!

Although an unfaithful and incomplete recital of his crimes may have, in some measure, extenuated their horrors, yet it has frozen my heart with terror, and his cruel spirit possesses me! His soul, insensible to the cries of nature and kindred blood, has taken complete possession of mine! This cruel son, although he is no more, still urges me to the [Page 103] commission of unnatural deeds. 'Tis the phrenzy of his soul by which I am hurried along. By another crime, his mother is about to follow him to that execrable tomb, into which his enormities have thrown him!

Adieu, my daughters—your father's pistols are on the table before me while I am writing this setter. I have charged them without trembling, and, without trembling, shall I make use of them. I shall not leave the business of my destruction to the pains of a slow poison, nor apply for assistance to the feeble succours of art; nor, like a feeble victim, struggle several hours with death. No, let a sudden, single and remediless stroke, cut short my destiny; and let renowned warriors, who are vainly proud of their courage, learn, that even a woman can attain to that sublime virtue.

No one, however, will support me in the horror and confusion of my last moments! Not one word of comfort will be addressed to me! Nor will one of my children be present to close my eyes! Thy children! wretched woman! thou never hadst but one. He it is who stands near, waiting for thee, urging and beckoning thee away! he who is continually saying, "Cruel mother! which of thy daughters was the most worthy? Which of them hast thou rendered the most unfortunate?" Alas! when they shall receive this vain memorial of my guilt, I shall be no more. Although I have been a continual cause of their unhappiness, the manner of my death may bring tears from their eyes, and pity from their tender hearts. But what dangerous thoughts are these which pursue my imagination, and delay my designs! Perhaps, by a longer delay, my weakness may prevent their execution. Hasten, hapless woman! [Page 104] hasten thy necessary departure. Emilia, Celina, adieu! Adieu, my daughters! And thou, my son, receive thy departing mother.

LETTER XCIII. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.

Paris, January 9, 1783.

YES, my dear and benevolent Emilia, come at some future day, and again be the consolation of thy sister; come—but be, in the first place, the preserver of thy friend.

Tell, however, this interesting Madame Florival, that, by the reception I shall give her at this place, she shall see whether I am not worthy of being the sister of Emilia.

But let us attend to a melancholy subject—let your tears flow again—tears of tender compassion. Read the enclosed letter, written entirely by the hand of Madame de Varmont, which was not found till the opening of the papers which contained her will. Read, my sister—you will doubtless tremble—but you will, perhaps, see that our mother, though dying by a crime, merited the presence of her daughters to close her eyes.

Adieu, my dearest Emilia; pardon the shortness of this letter, and impute its brevity to the sensations I must naturally feel on the subject of the one I send you. Adieu.

[Page 105]

CONCLUSION.

THE author of Emilia de Varmont subjoined the following address to his readers, at the conclusion of the third volume:—

‘When the National Assembly shall have decreed the marriage of the Priests and Divorce, it will then be lawful for me to give you, in a short pamphlet, which, if you please, you may call a supplement, the details of a triple marriage, that may, perhaps, be interesting to the reader: that of Bovile and Eleanor, that of Dolerval and Emilia, that of M. Sevin and —; I will tell you who—I will then tell you what woman, possessed of such charms as greatly to resemble his Juliette, has been able to restore the good Curate to reason and happiness.’

The American publisher, desirous of gratifying that curiosity which must arise in the minds of American youth, after reading the foregoing relation, informs them, that as the original author has fallen a sacrifice to the guillotine, it is doubtful whether the promised pamphlet has ever been published. But as all the obstacles to their union were removed, when the desired laws were proclaimed, there is no doubt that Bovile and Eleanor, as well as Dolerval and Emilia, have long since met, and enjoyed all the endearments of conjugal affection. A gentleman from the city of Tours has informed the publisher, that the good Curate, with whom he was personally acquainted, actually tried the pleasant state of matrimony soon after the law had passed the National Assembly. Who she was I have not been able to learn. In this particular I [Page 106] must leave you in the wide fields of conjecture. Permit me now to remind the youth▪ of our highly favoured country, that vice will always be brought to ruin, disgrace or repentance—that persevering virtue will ever find a certain and glorious reward.

ERRATA.

Vol. i. page 56, line 26, dele the word not.
89, 24, read qu'il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute.
—, last line but one, for him r. himself.
107, line 27, for sefety r. safety.
109, 14, for ramain r. remain.
Vol. ii. page 9, 17, for meditation r. mediation.
16, 6, for objection r. abjection.
34, 32, for persecution r. prosecution.
46, 20, for inqueitoient r. inquietoient.
121, for vainac r. vaincu.
24, for fuex r. feux.
47, 4, for songer r. songes.
85, last line but one, for verum r. virum.

FINIS.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Emilia de Varmont, or The necessary divorce; and memoirs of Curate Sevin. A moral and political tale. Founded on facts. / Translated from the French of M. Louvet, by Melatiah Nash. ; Three volumes in one. ; Vol. I[-III]. ; [Three lines of verse from Pope] — Emilie de Varmont. English

Author: Louvet de Couvray, Jean-Baptiste, 1760-1797.2007-10

1

2

3

To the Reader.

A LETTER From the Translator to ***** ******.

INTRODUCTION.

EMILIA DE VARMONT.

LETTER I. Celina de Varmont to Emilia de Varmont.

LETTER II. Madame de Varmont to Emilia de Varmont.

LETTER III. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER IV. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER V. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.

LETTER VI. Bovile to Madame Florival▪ *

LETTER VII. Bovile in continuation.

LETTER VIII. Madame Florival to Bovile.

LETTER IX. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER X. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.

LETTER XI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER XII. Murville to Varmont.

LETTER XIII. Murville in continuation.

LETTER XIV. Murville in continuation.

LETTER XV. Murville in continuation.

LETTER XVI. Bovile to Madame Florival.

LETTER XVII. Varmont to Murville.

LETTER XVIII. Murville to Varmont.

LETTER XIX. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER XX. Murville to Dolerval.*

LETTER XXI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER XXII. Dolerval to Murville.

LETTER XXIII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER XXIV. Madame Florival to Bovile.

LETTER XXV. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER XXVI. Madame Florival to Murville.

LETTER XXVII. Varmont to Murville.

LETTER XXVIII. Varmont in continuation.*

LETTER XXIX. Varmont in continuation.

LETTER XXX. Varmont in continuation.

LETTER XXXI. Murville to Dolerval.

LETTER XXXII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER XXXIII. Murville to Varmont.

LETTER XXXIV. Murville in continuation.

LETTER XXXV. Murville in continuation.

LETTER XXXVI. Murville to Dolerval.

LETTER XXXVII. Varmont to Lafleur.

LETTER XXXVIII. Murville to Dolerval.

LETTER XXXIX. Lafleur to Varmont.

LETTER XL. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

EMILIA DE VARMONT.

LETTER XLI. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER XLII. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER XLIII. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER XLIV. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER XLV. Dolerval to Murville.

LETTER XLVI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER XLVII. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER XLVIII. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER XLIX. Murville to Dolerval.

LETTER L. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.*

LETTER LI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER LII. Dolerval to Murville.

LETTER LIII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER LIV. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER LV. Dolerval to Murville.

LETTER LVI. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER LVII. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.

LETTER LVIII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER LIX. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER LX. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER LXI. Murville to Dolerval.

LETTER LXII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER LXIII. Dolerval to Murville.

LETTER LXIV. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER LXV. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER LXVI. Murville to Dolerval.

EMILIA DE VARMONT.

LETTER LXVII. Emilia de Varmont to Celina.

LETTER LXVIII. Emilia in continuation.

LETTER LXIX. Emilia in continuation.

A LETTER From the Translator to * **.

LETTER VI. Bovile to Madame Florival▪ ^*

LETTER XX. Murville to Dolerval.^*

LETTER XXVIII. Varmont in continuation.^*

LETTER L. Celina de Varmont to Emilia.^*

LETTER XCII. Madame de Varmont to her Daughters.^*