Seraphina: a novel. / From the French of M. Mercier. ; To which is added Auguste & Madelaine. A real history. By Miss Helen Maria Williams.

Seraphina: a novel. / From the French of M. Mercier. ; To which is added Auguste & Madelaine. A real history. By Miss Helen Maria Williams.

Table of contents

Title page

Preface.

SERAPHINA: A NOVEL, &c.

AUGUSTE AND MADELAINE: A REAL HISTORY. [From the Second Volume of Letters from France, by Miss Helen Maria Williams.]

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SERAPHINA: A NOVEL. From the French of M. Mercier. TO WHICH IS ADDED Auguste & Madelaine. A REAL HISTORY.

By Miss Helen Maria Williams.

CHARLESTOWN: PRINTED BY JOHN LAMSON. 1797.

Preface.

[Page]

THE very entertaining Stories which compose this little work, are said to be founded on well authenticated facts, and are calculated to afford much rational amusement to the young reader.—One being from the pen of the celebrated M. Mercier, the other from the much admired [Page]works of Miss Helen Maria Williams, it is hoped will be a sufficient recommendation to the work—which is respectfully submitted to the readers, by their very humble servant,

THE PUBLISHER.

SERAPHINA: A NOVEL, &c.

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SERAPHINA, born at Florence, of noble and wealthy parents, was the single object of their affection. To a beautiful person she added a cultivated understanding, and that easy gaiety that is so rare an accomplishment, while her mind displayed a firmness much superior to what could have been expected at her age.

[Page] When ten years old she lost her mother, and when twelve managed the affairs of her father's house. At seventeen her heart, become now mature, and warmed by the ardent climate in which she was born, felt that void, that secret listlessness which agitates souls of sensibility. She disdained every common character, and sought a heart she had not yet found. She had heard much in praise of Sicily, and eagerly wished to visit that country; and as her father had a considerable estate there, she easily persuaded him to accompany her [Page] thither; they accordingly set sail for Messina.

On their arrival in this beautiful country, the Elysium of Italy, Seraphina was enchanted. The Sicilian ladies are fair, but the fair Florentine surpassed them all in beauty. A crowd of youths of the most noble families thronged around her; all wished to please, some sought her hand, but no one touched the heart of Seraphina: this triumph was reserved for a Frenchman. Sicily about that time began to attract the attention of Europe. This [Page] country, so rich and fertile, would have become a desert under the iron yoke of Spain, had not the people resolved to break it. The Sicilians called in the aid of France to assert their rights, and France sent them troops, at the head of which was M. Vivonne, a man of distinguished abilities and merit.

This general was the brother of the famous Madame de Montespan, and in elegance of person and accomplished manners was the counterpart of his beauteous sister. She was the mistress of the king, and his favorite. Her influence had raised him to the rank of a [Page] marshal of France, an honour of which his personal merit, valour, and abilities, rendered him worthy. Victorious alike in war and lovd, his only fault was derived from the manners of his nation. This was inconstancy. He too frequently violated the vows he swore to credulous beauties.

He made his entrance into Messina in the character of viceroy, and the people received him with acclamations, as their long expected deliverer. The city on this occasion displayed all its magnificence. A band of martial music [Page] opened the procession; a splendid train of horsemen followed. Next came the magistrates of the city in their robes of ceremony, followed by the state coaches, the pages, and guards, richly dressed in the livery of the viceroy; last came Vivonne himself, on a superb courser, and magnificently habited. He displayed the most exalted dignity, mixed with complacence, the noblest, yet most condescending affability. Never did a more accomplished and perfect man present himself to the eyes of an astonished multitude.

[Page] All the balconies were filled with Messinian ladies elegantly dressed. The eyes of Vivonne were directed to them: he saluted them according to the degree of their beauty, their rank, and the impression they made upon him. When he came before the balcony of Seraphina, he gazed a long time upon her. She was dressed in a white robe, and her hair neatly and elegantly adorned. In the midst of a score of beauties sparkling with jewels she eclipsed them all; and Vivonne drew in the bridle of his horse, that he might admire her for a longer space. [Page] The most inconstant lover in the world was wounded, and wounded forever. Seraphina perceived it. The glances of Vivonne penetrated her soul, and to him she surrendered her heart.

Absorbed in admiration and [...] she was incapable of listening to the voice of reason. Vivonne was notorious for his inconstancy: but love, which so powerfully triumphs in the warm climate of Italy, prevented every reflection. On the next day Vivonne began a round of visits to the ladies of Messina, and it will [Page] not be imagined that Seraphina was forgotten. His conversation with these ladies turned on news from the court, the eulogium of the king his master and sovereign, and agreeable flatteries. But before Seraphina he was mute, no gallant compliments, no descriptions of the brilliant festivals of Paris, he addressed her only by tender, but expressive glances.

But the eloquence of French gallantry would have had little effect on the fair Florentine. She had been accustomed to praises; and what more flattering praise [Page] could she receive than that which the eyes of Vivonne expressed so well? Hope succeeded to the disquiet she had experienced; and certain of being beloved, she abandoned herself without reserve to the sweet pleasure of loving.

Vivonne gave splendid entertainments to all the nobility of Messina. Seraphina, who was present at them all, constantly refused to dance; contented with the company and conversation of her lover, she drank deep draughts of the nectar of love, One day, [Page] at a particular ball, Vivonne advanced with a timid air and offered her his hand. A kind of shuddering shot through the veins of Saraphina: she rose, her knees trembled under her; without being able to speak, she made an obeisance, tottered, found herself indisposed, and immediately retired.

The next day Vivonne paid her a visit to enquire concerning her health. He found her pale, confused, her eyes cast down, and with difficulty restraining her sighs, What Frenchman, as well as Vivonne [Page] would not immediately have divined the cause of her malady! He makes with transport a confession of his passion, he presses and is listened to. Seraphina, all emotion, mutters a few words, and an ardent kiss seals their union.

Yes, Vivonne, I love you, said Seraphina, when she had recovered her voice—I love you and glory in it. Doubtless in your country, women are more reserved and cold, but in France there is no Mount Etna. Your distinguished qualities, your virtues, all I behold in you, and the love I read in [Page] your eyes, attach me to you with the fondest passion: be for ever the chosen object of my heart and the disposer of my destiny.

Vivonne, in reply, swore to her an eternal constancy; but this virtue is seldom the portion of his nation. His heart, however, remained devoted to her longer than he himself could have expected. His time was divided between war and love. But the vivacity of his passion at length diminished, and envious persons, succeeded in their attempts to disturb the happiness of Seraphina. For who is the [Page] warrior, or who the favourite of a prince, who suffers not by the attacks of envy? It was whispered at Versailles that Vivonne suffered himself to be entirely absorbed by a blind passion, while the Hollanders were in arms and the brave Ruyter under sail for Sicily. The glory of the French arms, it was said, could no otherwise be maintained, nor the Dutch prevented from an easy victory, but by appointing another commander.

Madame Montespan with great difficulty prevented these murmurs from reaching the ears of the [Page] king. She hastened to write to her brother, and insisted in the most pressing terms on his renouncing a passion so prejudicial to his glory and his fortune. Vivonne, piqued at the reproaches of his sister, replied like a man of wit and gallantry, that she herself could not but know the weight of the chains of Cupid and his power: that tho' devoted to the object of his love, he had never neglected the service of his king, nor had ever been, nor ever would be, on that account, wanting in the just discharge of his duty.

[Page] An opportunity to prove the truth of this assertion soon presented itself. The Spaniards had just concluded an alliance with the States General of Holland, of whom they had so long been the enemies, and whom they had treated as rebels. They demanded succours against France, and it was resolved to send a fleet to Sicily. This fleet was not numerous, but its strength was deemed sufficient, because it was to be commanded by the celebrated Ruyter, that intelligent and experienced man, who from the low station of a common seaman, had arrived at the rank of [Page] admiral, and to whom the king of Spain had offered the title of duke; an honour which he refused.

The first commander by sea of the age in which he lived, whom few have equalled and none surpassed; Ruyter, more than once the deliverer of his country, esteemed by the English, though their enemy, and dreaded by all the maritime powers of Europe, now advanced in years, but still possessing all the fire and activity of youth, appeared at the head of the fleet of the United Provinces in the Mediterranean.

[Page] Vivonne exulted with joy that he was to enter the lists with such a rival and tore himself from the arms of Seraphina, for he had less difficulty to leave her than she to part with him. He went on board the fleet, commanded by the immortal Duquesne. The French seamen impatiently demanded the battle with shouts of joy, while the Dutch admiral calmly prepared for it with a cool unruffled courage. In the mean time Messina waited with anxiety the issue of a battle which must decide, whether patriotism should triumph or yield before its formidable enemies. [Page] Seraphina, little mindful of the event of the war, thought only of her lover; instead of glory, she wished him to possess fidelity to her; her farewell was cold and distrustful, and nothing could console this fond beauty, who considered the indifference of Vivonne as the greatest of misfortunes.

On a sudden a report was spread through Messina, that the passion of Vivonne was known at the court of Versailles and that the proud Montespan had required of her brother the sacrifice of his love, and that Vivonne had promised [Page] it. Seraphina, transported with anger and resentment, wrote thus to the marshal: "Why have you never spoken to me of your haughty sister? Is it true that she wishes to break the tender connexion between us? Conceal nothing from me. Does she not reign without a rival in the heart of your master and sovereign? Yet would I not change my fortune for her's, while I retain your love. How have you received the command she has dared to impose on you? Can you still consider her as your sister, after the insult of which she has been guilty? Your answer [Page] will either restore me to life or terminate it in despair."

Vivonne, whose amorous ardour was now cooled, replied to her in soothing and vague terms, and assured her of the continuance of his love but he no longer felt the same passion as before): Seraphina was not to be deceived. All is over, exclaimed she: the ungrateful man loves me no longer; but I will once more read his heart; and immediately assuming the disguise of a man's habit, she took a boat, and caused herself to be carried on board the admiral's ship.

[Page] The astonishment of Vivonne can scarcely be conceived when he saw a young man abruptly entering His cabin, and recognized Seraphina. I come said she, to require an answer to my letter; that you sent me not being satisfactory; but while the marshal endeavoured to pacify her with some incoherent excuses. Seraphina perceived a beautiful young girl who retired at her approach. She instantly conjectured she was her rival, for lightening is not more rapid than the imagination of jealous love; Vivonne had for some time ceased to-love her, another object had doubtless [Page] engrossed his attention, and this beauteous and fatal object she had seen. Seraphina was silent, but her looks loudly spoke her mind: she made a sign to her conductor, hastily left the ship, and caused herself to be carried back to Messina.

She returned to that city without speaking a word; a dreadful tempest heaved in her bosom, and gave birth to an extraordinary project. She knew that Ruyter lay at anchor before Agetta, and hiring a small vessel, she caused herself to be conveyed to the Dutch fleet and [Page] carried on board the admiral's ship. Having procured an audience of him:—Are not you, said she, the invincible Ruyter?—I am Ruyter, answered he coolly; the title you give me belongs not to me, and it would be ridiculous pride should I accept it.—You have however come hitherto vanquish the French—That is my highest ambition, my most ardent wish, and I will venture to declare, I am not without hopes of success.—Well then, illustrious commander, I come to offer you the means; for they are in my power.—In your power, madam? I cannot guess your [Page] meaning!—You know the mareschal de Vivonne?—I have but little knowledge of him, madam, at present, but I have a great desire to know him; I saw him once at the Hague, he appeared to me a brave man. I believe he possesses as much merit as his sister does beauty.—Who? Madame Montespan! Ah! I cannot endure the name of that woman.—Whence, madam, this aversion? But if you please we will mention her no more; for her brother I have the highest esteem. The victory I hope to obtain will double my fame, and hasten the [Page] time of our better acquaintance. Ah! would to heaven I had never known him, he is the most amiable, but, at the same time, the most perfidious of men.—I have heard that he possesses the most agreeable good qualities, but in what is your accusation of perfidy founded? His courage and probity, I have frequently heard praised.—And that praise he deserves; in his attachment to his country and his king he has ever been faithful: Ah! that he had been so in love: but he sports with the most sacred oaths, and is the deceiver of our sex, Oh, did you know all [Page] the crimes of this kind of which he has been guilty!—Madam, I understand you but imperfectly; I am indeed but little acquainted with the manners and character of your sex. I have travelled much, and have every where found that what is called good or bad fortune varies according to the ideas of mankind. In Holland, my native country, our manners are very simple; our women devote themselves to domestic cares, they nurse and educate their children, and are incesantly employed in promoting the happiness of their families. When we leave them, they moderate their [Page] regret, for they know we are employed in the service of our country.—I believe you, brave hero, and I perceive well that you cannot understand me, if you know no other women than those you have described to me. How shall I find words to explain to you what I suffer? I loved Vivonne, I was beloved by him; I existed only in that ungrateful man, and not in myself. The most insulting infidelity has been my reward. I perceived it; I flew to him, on board his ship. Heavens! what did I there see! a rival, a beauty I confess; but both shall die.— [Page] Madam I perceive your heart is rent by a dreadful despair. What can have given birth to, or what have nourished, so violent a sentiment I know not. But what can I do for you?—Revenge me—Revenge, madam, is a passion absolutely unknown to me.—But surely love is not so; with that you are doubtless acquainted.—No; I know the love of my duty, and the love of my country, but that love which is the offspring of effeminacy and indolence, the fruit of a disordered imagination, has never reigned in [Page] my heart. The place which that love must have occupied has long since been filled.—But are you not married?—I am for the third time.—How! three wives, and unacquainted with love!—My two former have been well satisfied with me; the third yet lives, and tells me the same. I have done for them all that I could do to render their lives agreeable. When I was at home, we never disagreed: when absent, I took care that they should want for nothing. As often as I returned I saw and embraced them with [Page] pleasure, but without superfluous transports. I left them without immoderate regret; and felt only the pain excited by their tears, for I did not love to see them weep.—How! have you never felt that severe pain, that inexpressible pang, with which the last kiss is given to adored lips, when it is necessary to tear ourselves from an embrace to which we return an hundred times?—No, my duty commanded me to depart, and I went calmly, and without weakness.—And your children?—I have several: I leave the daughters with their mother, [Page] to console her in my absence: the boys, when of sufficient age, I take with me, to shew them in what manner they may rise from the station of a common sailor to the rank of admiral. I have two at present on board, whom I hope soon to bring acquainted with your mareschal.—That, fir, is to hope too much; the mareschal is not so easy to conquer.—So much the better, I shall obtain the more glory, and set a higher value on my victory.—Will you then refuse the means I offer you to insure this victory?—I know not yet what they are.—Behold this dagger. [Page] My caresses were devoted to Vivonne while he was true to me; but this he deserves since he is become unfaithful. He shall die; I should not have waited so long but that I am determined not to take my revenge by halves. I have wished to inform you of my design, that you might assist me in it: for it is not sufficient for my revenge that Vivonne should die: I wish also to deprive him of his glory, and compel that nation which delights to deceive us to fly before their enemies. Will you assist me in this project? I wait [Page] your consent. Brave Ruyter, have your fleet in readiness, sail towards Messina; I will precede you with my poignard in my hand. You shall soon be informed of the death of Vivonne; attack then with all your force, and the fleet of France, panic struck, shall not even think of defence.—And can you imagine, madam, that I can assist you in such a design? I hope I shall never entertain such a thought. I have never yet departed from the principles of justice in war, nor has the least treachery polluted my conscience. I have cultivated integrity not less than courage; and [Page] I would die a thousand times rather than change my conduct. I have sailed on every sea, fought against almost all the nations of Europe, and every where have I conducted myself so as to acquire esteem. Firm against the English, haughty towards the Spaniards, formerly our enemies but now our allies; frank and open to the French, generous to the Swedes, when I defended the cause of the king of Denmark; every where I have been victorious, and every where honoured with some esteem: even when engaged against the [Page] pirates of Algiers and Salle, I have not forgotten the rights of humanity. Such is my principles; the use of the poignard is unknown in Holland. Honour and our duty have placed arms in our hands; and, according to the example of our ancestors, assassination will ever be a crime unknown to us.—Is this then your ultimate resolution?—It is, madam, and suffer me to conjure you to renounce a project which makes my heart shudder, after it has braved a thousand dangers. How could so ferocious a design have taken birth in the heart of a woman! Gentleness is the [Page] most powerful charm of your sex: be calm: your soul is susceptible of great emotions and great courage; give them a proper direction and renounce all ideas of so dark a revenge.—I had been told, replied Seraphina, that in the Belgie seas nature only produced half-formed sketches of beings, and that the souls of their inhabitants were cold and frozen. Of such phlegm I before had no idea. Farewell, insensible man, who are terrified at the idea of a poignard, whose conscience is that of a monk, and who pleadest the cause of the base man [Page] who has made me suffer a thousand deaths. Ah! I see it too plainly, all men combine together to justify their own perfidy, and condemn our sex. But I will revenge myself. Thus saying she departed, and, with despair in her heart, her hair dishevelled, and a mortal paleness in her countenance returned hastily to Messina.

A profound insensibility seemed to have taken place of all the passions that had agitated her; even the report of an approaching battle between the two fleets made no impression on her. She wished [Page] the defeat of Vivonne, without interesting herself for the cold Ruyter. Soon after, the expected engagement ensued. The fleet of Duquesne was the strongest, and he had the greatest number of soldiers; but the example of Ruyter effected wonders. His men fought with desperation, and seemed rather to be fighting for their country, and all that was dear to them, than for the advantage of allies who had been so lately their bitterest enemies. At length the French gave way, two of their ships were sunk, and Messina was seized with consternation.

[Page] At this news Seraphina felt a kind of joy. He flies, then, exclaimed she, the traitor flies: his pride is at length humbled. But this defeat did not satisfy her. A short time after, the French fleet, reinforced with ships, soldiers, and ammunition, prepared for a second engagement. The ships of Ruy [...]er, wanting the same succours, and the Spanish ships, ill-built, ill- [...], and worse commanded, [...] the encounter. Notwithstanding, however, the natural pride of the nation, Ruyter alone was sufficient to counter-balance this fear and discouragement. [Page] But no human bravery can render its possessor invulnerable. In the midst of the fire, in the heat of the action, in the most dreadful moment, when victory seemed ready to decide in favour of the veteran and intrepid admiral, he fell by a cannon ball, and with his fall ended the success of that memorable day. The battle was not decisive; but the death of Ruyter, who expired the next day of his wounds, completed the defeat. The allies were finally vanquished in a third battle, and Duquesne and Vivonne returned triumphant.

[Page] The victory drew Seraphina from the lethargy in which she seemed plunged: her heart more than once had offered up secret and involuntary, vows for her lover, while her offended pride required his destruction. Now he returned, crowned with glory, and all the inhabitants of Messina hastened to meet him with shouts of joy. Young maidens, from the balconies, threw flowers on his head; and he passed through the city in triumph, appearing more amiable than ever. This scene which reminded Seraphina of the day on [Page] which she first beheld him, completed her distraction.

She ran to the great square of Massina: there she heard the songs of the people in honor of the hero, while some proposed to erect a statue to him. At these words a sarcastic smile appeared on her lips, she raised her voice, and spoke thus to the assembled Sicilians:

Blind people! what can have given birth to this general enthusiasm in behalf of the French? How long, and from what cause, has the antipathy you formerly [Page] entertained against that nation ceased? How differently did our forefathers think! A hatred to the French, and the story of the Sicilian widows, were the first ideas they transmitted to us. Have you forgotten, that this inconstant and cruel nation has shed the most pure and illustrious blood? They spared neither rank, youth, nor innocence. There is no people on the earth so dangerous to us as this insolent and perfidious nation, whose pleasing manners are a dangerous charm, and who, to satisfy their voluptuousness, pollute the most respectable bonds, and to whom [Page] the most sacred promises have never been a restraint.

A silence of some minutes succeeded to this vehement harangue. Seraphina perceived the effect of it on every countenance. Is it necessary, exclaimed she, to give you incontestable proofs that the French still are what they formerly were? Alas! I am myself a wretched example of gallic perfidy. Oh Messinians! my name and rank are known to you. You bestowed distinction on me while my heart was yet free, and my [Page] honour without blemish. The dangerous Vivonne has deprived me of all, and left me only despair for my portion. This perfidious Frenchman has abandoned me; another victim to his deceitful vows has taken my place. Husbands, tremble for your wives! fathers for your daughters! brothers for your sisters! Who among you can beast himself secure from a similar insult?

A murmur now ran through the crowd, the signal of general discontent, and the populace repeated, in a sullen tone, the French [Page] are perfidious. Ah! exclaimed Seraphina, perceiving their resentment excited, I see I have addressed myself to minds of sensibility; you participitate in my hatred against Vivonne, and his nation. The noble Aragonese never treated us thus, even when they loaded us with taxes. They respected our manners, our modesty, and never violated the oaths they swore to the tender sex. Even when our resistance obliged them to employ force, and render our yoke more heavy, they departed not from their austere virtues. Let us return to our former sovereigns. [Page] Palermo, and the greater part of this island, is still faithful to them. Their alliance with the Hollanders, their friendship with the emperor, and their proximity to Naples, secures their power. Vivonne could have made no resistance had Ruyter lived; and in Holland, there are yet other Ruyters, who will soon appear. Come, my friends, my fellow citizens, accompany me; let us shout forth, Long live the Spaniards, and let us drive the French who have so often insulted us, for ever from our island.

[Page] It is the character of the Sicilians easily to receive sudden impressions. The multitude who, some hours before, had extolled to the skies the victory of Vivonne, moved by the eloquence of a woman agitated by passion, whose beauty and expressive grief still spoke when she was silent, uttered a shout, which soon became general, and was propagated throughout the whole extent of the city, Long live the Spaniards, but let Vivonne die!

Without regarding the numerous French garrison, which was then in Messina, or remembering [Page] the victory the mareschal had just gained, the multitude increased every moment, and rushed, with the impetuosity of a torrent, towards the palace of the viceroy, armod with whatever weapons came first to hand; some even bearing lighted torches; and who was at the head of this wild multitude?—a woman in tears.

Vivonne was at table, little apprehensive of any disturbance, when the news of the tumult was brought him. Without losing a moment he put himself at the head of his guards, [Page] caused the gates of the castle to be opened, which his people had been at much trouble to barricade, and shewed himself to the riotous multitude. The first object which presented itself was a woman holding a dagger, which she had lifted to strike a French officer. The mareschal flies to her, wrests the poignard from her hand, and to his inexpressible astonishment, recognizes Seraphina. She endeavours to speak, but rage stifles her voice. Vivonne in vain endeavours to pacify her. His voice, so powerful over her soul, only increases her despair. What then is [Page] your design, madam, said he? Leave my arm at liberty, replied she, and you shall see me strike a blow which shall tell you more than my words can explain. Vivonne let go her arm, casting on her one of those glances by which he had subdued her heart. Seraphina felt the full force of it, and love, like lightning, again took possession of her soul. Ah! base man, exclaimed she, you still know but too well your power over me. I came to take your life; but now it is I who must die. I leave you to suffer the remorse due to your infidelity. Behold, and judge [Page] whether my love was sincere. And, in an instant, before Vivonne or those about him were aware of her purpose, she drew a concealed dagger, plunged it into her heart, and fell dead at his feet. The mareschal threw himself on her body, without regarding in whose presence he gave this proof of weakness and sensibility. His tears and grief, which were indeed sincere and heartfelt, disarmed the multitude; they commisserated the painful pangs he manifestly felt, and presently dispersed without further disturbance.

[Page] This tragic scene made such an impression on Vivonne, that he ceased to be a seducer, and renounced the arts of deceiving beauties. War and the fine arts from that time occupied his attention. His praises have been sung by the most celebrated French poets. Boileau himself has given his eulogium. He was crowned with glory; but a tender and painful sentiment, and the melancholy image of Seraphina, perpetually filled his heart, and compelled him, in the midst of the most brilliant festivals, to heave involuntary sighs.

AUGUSTE AND MADELAINE: A REAL HISTORY. [From the Second Volume of Letters from France, by Miss Helen Maria Williams.]

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A FRIEND of mine, who is lately gone to Toulouse, has sent me from thence an account of some circumstances which happened not long ago in that part of France, and which, she says, are [Page] still much the subject of conversation. I shall transcribe this narrative, which I believe will interest you. Perhaps a novel-writer, by the aid of a little additional misery, and by giving the circumstances which actually happened a heightened colour—by taking his pallet, and dashing with the full glow of red, what nature had only unged with pale violet, might almost spin a volume from these materials. Yet, after all, nothing is so affecting as simplicity, and nothing so forcible as truth. I shall therefore send you the story exactly as I received it; and in such [Page] parts of it as want interest, I beg you will recollect that you are not reading a tale of fiction, and that in real life, incidents are not always placed as they are in novels, so as to produce stage effect. In some parts of the narrative you will meet with a little romance; but perhaps you will wonder that you meet with no more; since the scene is not in the cold philosophic climate of England, but in the warm regions of the south of France, were the imagination is elevated, where the passions acquire extraordinary energy, and where the fire of poetry flashed [Page] from the harps of the Troubadours, amid the sullen gloom of the Gothis ages.

A young Frenchman, whose usual residence was at Paris, having travelled as far as Toulouse the year before the revolution, was invited by a party of his friends to accompany them to Bareges, where some of them were going in pursuit of amusement, and others in search of health from the medical springs which rise so plentifully, both in hot and cold streams, among the Pyrenean mountains.

[Page] This young Parisian, who had some taste for the sublime scenery of nature, felt that it would be luxury to leave a little longer the regular walks which art has planted in the Thuilleries, and the trim gardens and jets-d'eau she has formed at Versailes, to wander among those piles of mountains which overhang each other, and listen to the torrents which fall down them with loud and irresistible impetuosity.

"Rich in her weeping country's spoils Versailles

[Page] May boast a thousand fountains, that can cast

The tortur'd waters to the distant heav'ns:

Yet let me choose some pine-topp'd precipice,

Abrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy stream,

Like Anio, tumbling roars."—

What powerful sensations does the first view of such a scene produce!—We seem to begin a new existence; every former impression is for a while erased from the memory, and the mind feels enwrapped and lost in the strong emotions of [Page] awe, astonishment, and admiration.

Bareges was crouded, as it usually is in the season, not only with French company, but also with strangers, who travel from other countries, in order to use its celebrated baths. The company amused themselves, as they generally do at water-drinking places, by sauntering, lounging, cards, lotteries, jeux-d'esprit, and scandal.

Bareges is a very expensive place. Even moderate accomodations must be purchased at a high [Page] rate; and provisions, as well as lodgings, are sometimes obtained with difficulty. Bareges is therefore seldom resorted to by any but people of considerable fortune, who can afford to level the obstacles which mountains interpose to their conveniences and comforts, by the all subduing force of gold.

Among a number of persons of rank and fortune, there was, however, one family at Bareges in a different situation. This family consisted of an elderly infirm French officer, who had long been afflicted with the palsy, and his daughter, a young woman about [Page] nineteen years of age. Their appearance and mode of living seemed to indicate, that, though in search of relief this old officer had journeyed to Bareges, he had in so doing far exceeded the bounds of economy which his circumstances prescribed, and was forced to deny himself every accommodation his infirmities could spare. He lived in the most retired manner, in the worst lodging at Bareges;—and while the other ladies were dressed in a style of expensive variety and profusion, his daughter wore only a plain linen gown, which though [Page] always perfectly clean, was coarse; and her dark hair was left unpowdered, and without any ornament whatever. Fortunately for Madelaine, however, (for that was her name) her person was calculated to make her coarse gown appear to the best advantage; and though she was not very beautiful, her countenance had an expression of sweetness which answered the end of beauty by exciting love and admiration.

The company at Bareges soon became acquainted with each other, and the ladies always took notice of Madelaine when they met [Page] her in their walks, which, however, did not happen very often, for her father was frequently unable to go out. When he did, he was supported on one side by Madelaine, and on the other by his servant. It was impossible to see with insensibility, the attention which this interesting young woman paid her father, whom she never quitted one moment. It was remarked with what careful tenderness she used to lead him along the streets of Bareges, walking the slowest pace she could, and watching his steps as he moved feebly [Page] on. And when he was not able to venture out, she was seen at the window of their little parlour reading, in order to entertain him.—Her looks and manner announced that her disposition was naturally sprightly, and that she would have been gay, if her father had not been sick. But all the cheerfulness she could assume while he suffered, was exerted to amuse him, and shorten the tedious hours of languor and debility.

Though Madelaine was handsome, the obscurity and seclusion in which she lived preserved her from the envy of the women.— [Page] They knew well enough, that the gentlemen at Bareges were, for the most part, men of the world, who tho' they may admire beauty, and approve of virtue, are never so far the dupes of any tender or moral sentiment as to let it interfere either with their vanity, their ambition, or their interest. Although the French revolution had not yet happened, these ladies were aware that with respect to marriage, the age of calculators was already come, and therefore no rival was to be feared in Madelaine. The ladies joined with the men in admiring [Page] the graces of her person, and amiable qualities which her conduct displayed. Madelaine, in short became the object of general esteem.

Auguste, for so I shall call our young Parisian, who has lost his title since the laws of equality have been established in his country—Auguste spoke less of Madelaine than the other gentlemen at Bareges; but it was perhaps because he thought of her more. Sometimes in his solitary morning rambles he used to make comparisons between her and the Parisian ladies, among whom he had passed the winter, [Page] and the comparison generally ended with a deep sigh. The scene of these meditations was certainly much in Madelaine's favour. Perhaps at Paris or Versailles, Auguste might have been dazzled by the polished graces of a fine lady rouged, powdered, persumed and equipped for conquest. These artificial attractions might, perhaps, have accorded well enough with clipped trees and angular walks. But Madelaine's simple manners, Madelaine's natural smiles, and unstudied blushes, were far more in unison with the Pyrennean mountains.

[Page] One evening when Auguste was walking in the town of Bareges with some ladies, he saw Madelaine at a little distance assisting, with great difficulty, to support her father, who appeared to be seized with a fit. Auguste darted like an arrow toward the spot, and held up the officer till he found himself somewhat recovered; and then Auguste, with a sort of gentle violence, obliged Madelaine, who was pale and trembling, to let go her father's arm, and suffer him to assist the servant in leading him home, which was but a few steps farther. Auguste entered the [Page] house, where he remained till the old officer was a little revived;—and, after prevailing upon Madelaine to take a few hartshorn drops, he retired.

The next morning he felt that common civility required he should pay the old officer a visit and learn how he had passed the night. It happened that Madelaine had the very same idea. "Surely," thought she, "it will be very strange if this young man, who was so kind, so careful of my father, and who made me take some hartshorn drops, should neglect to call and enquire [Page] after us." This idea had come across her mind several times; and she was meditating upon it at her father's bedside, when Auguste was announced.

The old officer, who had all the finished politeness of his country and his profession, received him in the most courteous manner; and though he spoke with some difficulty, yet he was profuse in acknowledgments for the service Auguste had rendered him. Madelaine's thanks were few, and simply expressed; but the tone in which they were uttered was such that Auguste felt he could have sacrificed [Page] his life to have deserved them.

The old officer still continued sick, and therefore Auguste still considered it as an indispensable mark of attention to go every day, and learn the state of his health.—He also began to feel that these visits became every day more necessary to his own happiness. That happiness was indeed embittered by many painful reflections. He well knew that to obtain his father the count de—'s consent to marry Madelaine, was as impossible as it was for himself to conquer the passion she had inspired. He knew [Page] exactly the order in which his father's enquiries would run on this subject. He was aware that there were two interrogatories to be answered. The first was—"How many thousand livres has she a year?" And the second—"Is she noble?" And nothing could be more embarrassing than that the enquiry concerning fortune, would, he was sure, come first; since that was the only article which could not be answered in a satisfactory manner; for to Madelaine's family no objection could have been made. By the way, though the former nobility of France would not absolutely contaminate the [Page] pure streams of noble blood by an union with the daughter of a roturier, they had always sufficient generosity to abate some generations of nobility in favour of a proper equivalent in wealth.

Auguste, while he was convinced of the impossibility of obtaining his father's consent to his marriage, did not pay Madelaine one visit the less from that consideration; and when the usual hour of his visit arrived, he often suddenly broke a chain of admirable reason on the imprudence of his attachment, in order to hasten to the [Page] dwelling of her he loved. In a short time he ceased all kind of reasoning on the subject, and abandoned his heart without reserve to the most violent and unconquerable passion.

Auguste made a declaration to the old officer of the sentiments which his daughter had inspired. The old gentleman mentioned it to Madelaine, and she only answered by tears, of which he perfectly understood the meaning. When Auguste explained his situation with respect to his father, the officer desired him to think of his daughter no more, Auguste felt [Page] that he might as well have desired him to cease to breathe. He continued his visits, and the officer was soon reduced to that state of langour and debility which left him neither the power nor the wish to forbid them. His complaints increased every day, and were attended with many alarming symptoms. The season for the water of Bareges was now past, and all the company left the place except the old officer, who was too weak to be removed, and Auguste, who, while Madelaine remained, had no power to [...] himself from the spot. In a few [Page] weeks the old officer felt that his dying hour was near. Auguste knelt with Madelaine at his bedside—her voice was suffocated by tears, and Auguste had scarcely power to articulate in broken accents that he would devote his life to the happiness of Madelaine. The old officer fixed his eyes with a look of tender anxiety upon his daughter, and soon after expired. Madelaine mourned for her father with uncontrouled affliction, nor could all the attentions of her lover dispel that anguish with which her affectionate heart lamented the loss of her parent.

[Page] The winter being far advanced, she proposed to defer her journey to the distant province where she and her father had lived, until spring, and to place herself in the mean time in a convent not far from Bareges. Auguste exerted all the eloquence of love to induce her to consent immediately to a private marriage. She hesitated at this proposal; and while they were conversing together on the subject, the door of the room in which they were sitting was suddenly thrown open, and Auguste saw his father the count de—enter. He had heard of the attachment [Page] which detained his son at Bareges, and had hastened to tear him from the spot before it was too late. He upbraided his son with great bitterness, and began also to upbraid Madelaine: but there was something in her looks, her silence, and her tears, which stifled the terms of haughty reproach in which he was prepared to address her; and ordering his son to leave the room, he desired to speak to her alone. After explaining to her the absolute impossibility of her being ever united to his son, and his determination to disinherit him, and leave his whole fortune [Page] to his second son, if Auguste should persist in his attachment to her-after endeavouring to awaken her pride and her generosity, he desired to know where she proposed going. She told him her intention of placing herself immediately in the convent of—. He approved of this design, and left her to go to his son. No sooner was the door of the room shut, than Madelaine gave way to those tears which she had scarcely been able to refrain while the count was speaking. She had never felt so sensibly her orphan condition as at this moment; and the dear remembrance [Page] of her fond father was mingled with the agony of disappointed love.

Meantime the count de—declared to his son, that his only chance of ever obtaining his mistress, depended on his absolute unconditional submission to his commands, and that he must instantly attend him to Paris. Auguste eagerly enquired what was to become of Madelaine; and his father told him that she had determined to take refuge in the convent of—. Auguste absolutely refused to depart till he was allowed an [Page] constituent assembly, in all its extent and consequences.

The count de—, who was informed of the correspondence between the two lovers, and who saw little hopes of his son's subduing a passion which this intercourse of letters served to cherish, contrived means to have Auguste's letters intercepted at the convent. In vain Madelaine enquired with all the anxiety of tenderness for letters. In vain she counted the hours till the return of the post days. Post after post arrived, and brought no tidings of Auguste. [Page] Three months passed in the cruel torments of anxiety and suspense, and were at length succeeded by despair. Madelaine believed she was forgotten—forgotten by Auguste! She consulted her own heart, and it seemed to her impossible; yet, after a silence of three months, she could doubt no longer.

Poor Madelaine now recollected with anguish, instead of pleasure, that all Frenchmen were free. She would have found some sad consolation in believing that all Frenchmen were slaves. It would have been some alleviation [Page] of her sorrows if Auguste had been forced to abandon her; and she fancied she could have borne to lose him, if she had been sure that he still loved her—it was losing him by his own fault that filled her heart with pangs almost insupportable.

The little pittance which Madelaine, after paying her father's debts, had left for her own support, was insufficient to defray her expences as a boarder in the convent. She had already by her sweetness and gentleness, gained the affections of some of the nuns, [Page] to whom she was also attached, and who incessantly conjured her to take the veil. "And why," she sometimes exclaimed, "why should I hesitate my longer in so doing? Since Auguste is lost, what have I to regret in renouncing the world? What sacrifice do I make; what happiness do I resign?

Madelaine had no ties to the world, of which she knew but little: but to separate herself irrecoverably, and for ever, from him to whom her soul was devoted—to see him, to hear his voice no more—to take vows which would [Page] make it even a crime to think of him—to banish him even from her thoughts—alas! Madelaine felt like Eloisa—

All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part,

Still rebel nature holds out half my heart!

Sometimes too the idea occurred that Auguste might love her still—"And am I then," thought Madelaine, "going to reduce myself to a state in which I shall be forced to wish he were unfaithful, in order to save me from the agonies of remorse!"—She put off all thoughts [Page] of entering on her novitiate for some weeks longer—no letters arrived, and again her resolution to take the veil returned. Why," cried she, "why should I still continue to lament that inconstant lover who thinks of me no more? Alas, did he not see the anguish of my soul at parting with him?—Does he not know the deserted situation in which I am left?—Oh, yes! he knows I have no other refuge, no other resource than taking the veil—no doubt he wishes to hear I have done so—he will find in my renunciation of the world some excuse for his infidelity [Page] —Oh, heavens! will Auguste hear then that I am separated from him for ever without one sigh?—Ah, why need I deliberate any longer?—My trials will soon be past—I feel that my heart will break—yes, death will come to my relief—and in heaven I shall find my father!"

Madelaine at length determined to join the holy sisterhood of the convent. The white veil for her novitiate was prepared. The day was fixed, when, prostrate with her face toward the earth, and with [Page] flowers scattered over her, and a part of her long tresses cut off, she was to enter upon that solemn trial preparatory to her eternal renunciation of the world—of Auguste!

A few days before that which was appointed for the ceremony, Madelaine was called to the parlour, where she found her lover, with some of the municipal officers of the town, wearing their national scarfs.

Madelaine, at the sight of Auguste▪ with difficulty reached a chair, in which she fell back senseless; [Page] while Auguste could not forbear uttering some imprecations against the iron grate by which they were separated, and which prevented him from flying to her assistance. He, however, procured help, and Madelaine recovered.

One of the municipal officers then informed her, that they had received the day before a decree of the national assembly, forbidding any nuns to be professed. He added, that the municipality had already given information of this new law to the abbess, who had [Page] consented to allow Madelaine to leave the convent immediately. As he pronounced these last words, Madelaine looked at her lover.—Auguste hastened to explain to her that his uncle, who loved him, and pitied his sufferings, had, at length, made a will, leaving him his fortune upon condition that his father consented to his marriage with Madelaine.

When her lover and the municipal officers departed, Madelaine retired to her apartment, to give way to those delicious tears which were poured from a heart overflowing [Page] with wonder, thankfulness, and joy. When her first emotions had subsided, she began to pack up her little wardrobe in preparation for leaving the convent on the following day. "I always loved the revolution," thought Madelaine, as she laid aside the white gown in which she was to be married the next morning; "and this last decree is surely of all others the best and wisest—but it had come too late!"—At this idea Madelaine took up the veil for her novitiate, which lay upon her table, and bathed it with a flood of tears.

[Page] The next morning, Auguste and Madelaine were married in the parish church of—, and immediately after the ceremony, set out for Paris, where they now live, and are, I am told, two of the happiest people, and the best patriots in France.

Information about this book

Title statement

Seraphina: a novel. / From the French of M. Mercier. ; To which is added Auguste & Madelaine. A real history. By Miss Helen Maria Williams.

Mercier, Louis-Sébastien, 1740-1814.

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2008-09.

ID [DLPS]

N36808

ID [TCP]

N36808

ID [STC]

Shipton 48183

ID [NOTIS]

APX8092

ID [IMAGE-SET]

48183

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99024997

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online 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.

Series

Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 48183.

Notes

(Evans-TCP ; no. N36808)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 48183)

Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 48183)

Source

— Seraphina: a novel. / From the French of M. Mercier. ; To which is added Auguste & Madelaine. A real history. By Miss Helen Maria Williams., Mercier, Louis-Sébastien, 1740-1814., Williams, Helen Maria, 1762-1827. Auguste and Madelaine..

Extent

102, [2] p. ; 10 cm. (32mo)

Printed by John Lamson.,. Charlestown [Mass.]: :: 1797..

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