The Libertine; vol. 1 [of 4]

The painter, who seeks the admiration of the crowd alone, bestows his chief attention upon vivid colouring, and striking effect, desirous rather to seize the imagination by the boldness of his conception, than to satisfy the judgment by the closeness of his designs from nature.

Thus the writer, who would address the heart, and who has a moral purpose in view, should not, in his delineations of vice, exaggerate, or overcharge the picture, by unnatural representation; but, tracing conscientiously, and steadily, its terrible consequences, aim rather to fortify the mind, by a lesson of severe truth, than to astonish, without impressing it, by the incongruous legends of romance.

It was in that sublimely beautiful part of Switzerland, which the magic pen of the tender enthusiast, Rousseau, has rescued from obscurity, that Montmorency, and his daughter, retired within their cottage, listened tranquilly to the raging storm without. The youthful Gabrielle, in all the bloom of beauty, and simplicity of innocence, the result of a life passed among the mountains, free from the contagion of society, was endeavouring, by the efforts of her pencil, to rescue from decay the perishable tints of a flower. Montmorency was reading, but not aloud, the Maxims of La Rochefoucault; for, though he fled from, and hated the world, he wished not to cloud, by premature misanthropy, the generous dawn of youth.

While thus they were mutually employed, the latch of the cottage door was gently raised, the door opened, and a young man, of an elegant figure, presented himself before them. It was enough;—Montmorency detested the world, but he could not refuse shelter to a stranger;—he rose immediately, and taking him by the hand, placed him in his own chair, while Gabrielle instinctively threw another faggot on the fire, and hastened to procure some wine.

“The kindness which I experience,” observed the stranger, in that polished voice that marks the gentleman, “induces me to hope that I may find shelter here for the night; if so,” he added, looking alternately at Montmorency, and his daughter, but longer at the latter, “how shall I not bless the chance which has conducted me hither?”

“Our accommodations here,” answered Montmorency, “are, probably, not such as you have been accustomed to; for one night, however, you will, I hope, endeavour to conform to them.”

The stranger was profuse of acknowledgments; but Montmorency was silent, for he had acted only according to the impulse of his heart, and as he considered his duty. He caused a bed, the best his cottage would afford, to be prepared for his guest; he sought to render agreeable to him, by attention, the lodging to which accident had directed him; then, unwilling to enter into conversation which might cause him to unbend, or induce a relaxation from a reserve now become habitual to him, he motioned his daughter to retire, and pointing out to him his apartment, withdrew immediately to his own.

Montmorency, the present inhabitant of a small sequestered cottage, in the village of Meillerie, buried amid mountains, and isolated from the world, was yet a gentleman, in the purest and most positive acceptance of the term. His birth was noble, his ancestry illustrious, for he was descended from the family of the chivalrous Josselin de Montmorency, who distinguished himself in the third crusade against the Saracens, under Philip Augustus. Though now bereft of fortune, friends, and every future prospect, faithful to the sacred memory of his ancestors, he preserved his honour unimpeached, and retained too, amid his disastrous poverty, the genuine dignity which results from the consciousness of true nobility. But what occasioned this painful degradation in the fortunes of the unhappy Frenchman? It was gaming! source of unnumbered ills! insatiate furor which has destroyed the fortune of millions, and still continues to destroy them. Montmorency pursued its seductive allurements, nearly to the gates of ruin; till then he recovered not from his infatuation; he awakened but to behold around him a desolate waste; while in melancholy association with himself, deprived of all, his eye paused in horror upon his unconscious child. What anguish in a retrospect of the past! He stood, with his beggared offspring, alone in the world; friends talked of pity, but remained aloof, and, in the midst of a populous city, he soon beheld himself in the profoundest solitude. Disgusted with the base selfishness of the world, its ingratitude, its delusions, its ephemeral friendship, and time-serving hypocrisy, he, with scrupulous exactness, proudly scorning to explain his situation, gave up almost the whole of what he possessed, assigning to each what was his due, and then, with the young Gabrielle, quitted for ever the haunts of civilised society, where man, polished and cultivated, preys, like a refined barbarian, upon his fellow man.

Such the leading features of Montmorency’s history. On abandoning the world, he had sought to be ever remote from its observation; his was no lukewarm quarrel with, or splenetic disgust against it; he possessed no feeling that momentary exhiliration, or brighter thoughts, might chace; therefore, he desired a solitude, eternal, and profound, where he might live, and die, forgotten and unnoticed by those he dreaded and abhorred. Such a situation he had found amid the wilds of Switzerland,—a desolate retirement, fenced round by rugged rocks, where he had fixed his residence, though with some pangs of the heart, yet with a prouder feeling than swells the bosom of the youthful heir who takes possession of the splendid estate of his ancestors. His fair daughter, alone, accompanied him in his exile; and the pangs of Montmorency were for her only, when he remembered that, thus robbed of fortune, and every future prospect, she must lose likewise the superior advantage of polished education. “Yet can I not” said he, mentally, “be myself her instructor? Assuredly I can;” and, in pursuance of this idea, the best selection of books that his limited means would allow, no inferior substitute for the society of which they would be deprived, some musical and mathematical instruments, and materials for drawing, were soon transferred to, and embellished their solitary abode.

It is a well-known fact, that the Mountaineers of Switzerland, though not an highly-educated race, are far removed from ignorance. Books, Metaphysical, Philosophical, and even Classical, are to be found in cottages that have scarcely, perhaps, a second chair; thus the few scattered inhabitants that resided near the dwelling of the fallen, but noble Frenchman, suffered him to pursue his plan of life, unmolested either by vulgar curiosity, or troublesome remark.

Possessed at once of taste, learning, and a refined understanding, he was well calculated to impart to the ductile mind of his daughter, their exhaustless treasures. Already, in childhood, from his tender and patient instructions, she had acquired a knowledge superior to what she could have attained from the hired, systematic, and mechanical operations of persons wholly uninterested, but for their own advantage. She had received, as it were, the ore refined from the dross; a polished education, without the contagion of evil example; her instructions tended to improve her mind, and to render her virtuous; and nothing tended to counteract their effects. As she advanced in years, Montmorency depicted to her, in glowing, but not flattering colours, the world from which she was excluded, and which fondly he endeavoured to hope it would be never necessary for her to associate with. Availing himself of his experience, and impressed with the severe lessons he had received, he represented to her, mankind as monsters, from whom it was happiness to escape.

“There is a world, beyond these sublime solitudes, my Gabrielle,” would he say; “but seek not to know it, for your knowledge must be purchased by the destruction of your innocence, and the wreck of your peace. Society corrupts the heart; if in retirement, it should be urged that the active duties of life are not so powerfully called forth, neither does the comparatively limited sphere of existence require them. Oh, may you never quit this seclusion! for here alone can you remain both virtuous and happy.” The frequent recurrence of this subject, wherein Montmorency continually presented to his daughter the worst side of human nature, ever pourtrayed with increasing bitterness, inspired her innocent mind with a feeling amounting almost to horror of her fellow creatures; the first wish of her heart was, to live and die, in the seclusion of her childhood; and fervently did she concur in the wish of her father, that never might she be necessitated to quit it. Whether the plan of Montmorency was just and safe, in thus describing all men alike, in levelling all distinction, and teaching her, that all should be equally distrusted; or whether, by so doing, he did not run a risk of leaving her open to the wiles of the first accomplished seducer she encountered, who might appear a being wholly different from his description, remains to be proved; but, taking the hue from his feelings, and trembling with the anxiety of a father, he had no mode of preserving her from temptation, but by an exaggeration of the danger to be encountered.

Gabrielle, however, possessed a natural energy of mind, and strength of character, that no education could give, and which to exist must be imbued with the soul: though a life of solitude might never call forth these attributes, yet was it powerless to subdue them. She reflected often on the conversation she held with her father, and sometimes allowed herself to ask, “Are all mankind, then, equally bad? Can there be no exceptions?—Surely, surely, my father has been ill treated by the world—he has met with ingratitude.—Or if it be, indeed, a world such as he describes, if such are human beings, it is almost a reproach to be of the same species.” Her mode of life, her habits of gloomy reflection, and the doubts in which her enquiring mind was occasionally involved, contributed to throw over her air a certain melancholy, that, though little suited to her period of life, appeared in her beautiful and interesting. This was chiefly perceptible after conversing with her father; an uneasy impression remained on her spirits, and, like those who entered the cave of Trophonius, animation was long after invincibly chilled. The pictures of Montmorency, sketched ever by the pencil of a misanthrope, could not fail of deeply affecting the youthful mind, permitted only to behold the miseries of social intercourse, without a reference to its comforts; yet he persuaded himself, that he was right in doing thus,—that he did not wish her to hate, but merely to dread the world; and, fearful lest she should imagine it a heaven, he verged into the opposite extreme, and painted it a hell.

The person of Gabrielle resembled her mind; it was majestic; her noble features were animated by the sublimity of her soul; her eyes darted at once, sparkling intelligence, and grandeur of sentiment; her fair cheek, unlike the ruddy mountaineers’, was of the white rose teint; it spoke a charming pensiveness; and over her whole appearance was diffused a dignified grace that showed a soul at ease with itself. As a fair lily flourishes beneath the shielding umbrage of some spreading oak, so did she flourish beneath the eye of a father, cherished by his anxious love, and shielded by his care.

Count Angelo D’Albini, the stranger who had sought shelter beneath the roof of this peaceful pair, was of noble family, and possessed of an extensive fortune. His father, by birth an Italian, had married a young English female, of considerable rank, who had become known to him in England, during a temporary residence of pleasure there; unable, however, to obtain her hand, but by consenting to remain in England, he acceeded to the condition, (for to resign her was from the question) and fixed his residence in the place of her nativity. One son only was the fruit of this marriage; he was the hope and idol of the house. Count D’Albini lived only to behold him enter his twenty-fifth year, when he paid the debt of nature, and, in less than another year, was followed to the grave by his wife, who had remained inconsolable for his loss: Thus, in the full bloom of youth, and pride of fortune, Angelo beheld himself almost alone in the world, (for so may he be considered who has no human being to whom he is united by the tender ties of consanguinity.) These melancholy events having so rapidly succeeded each other, filled him with a melancholy, which the dissipation of the gay metropolis was powerless to divert; he determined, therefore, to quit the dull round of unsubstantial pleasures, and irrational delights, (the very repetition of which rendered them disgusting, or converted them into toils) for a mode of life, if not more useful, less uniform at least, and boasting the charm of novelty; he resolved on travel, and quitting England, he visited Paris, where he remained till the same frivolous pursuits, noise, and folly, reminded him of the scenes he had quitted. He next passed into Italy; the demon of disgust followed him there. Failing of finding the variety he had sought, from change of place, where the similarity of the scenes, the same gay nothings pervading, rendered it a change of place only, without a change of pleasures, his thoughts wandered beyond the careless circle of society, and in the wilds of animated nature, in the independent majesty of solitude, he conceived that he should find those pure delights, which he had failed of experiencing in the idle clamour of the giddy world.

Thus, then, he abandoned for a time, his gay connections, and the crowd of beings, who, while they complain that life is short, are ever busily employed in destroying time, to breathe at large among the mountains of Switzerland, and to presume to think, amid the expansive waste of his silent scenery, and romantic beauties. Thither, ever accustomed to yield to his first impulses, and to regard his own will as law, he quickly transported himself. For a while he wandered delighted o’er Geneva’s majestic lake; he coasted along its borders, enraptured at the rich and varied prospects he beheld, where nature has done so little, and man has effected so much; where cultivation reveals her stores, and where the lately barren rock now smiles in the green treasures of vegetation. Next along the banks of the winding Rhone, among the mountains of La Valais, where, in the quaintness of character, and blunt honesty of the good Helvetians, he discovered already the variety he sought, in the forcible contrast which they exhibited to the manners of the world he had left; ennui and vacuum fled, and he began to experience a little rational pleasure.

It was one evening that, allured by the sublime beauty of the surrounding scenery, he remained out longer than he intended, night, accompanied by a dreadful hurricane, overtook him; the sense of his danger, in a situation unknown, and teeming with hazard at every step, caused him, amid the savage and nearly desolate mountains among which he found himself, to hail with joy the first appearance of a human habitation; he hastened towards it, and without otherwise announcing himself, according to the established custom among the hospitable Swiss, than by simply lifting the latch which fastened the door, (for thus easily had he till now insured himself a welcome) he requested, and instantly obtained, admission beneath the roof of Montmorency.

From the circumstance of having been an only child, the count D’Albini, as is too frequently the case, was loved by his parents, “not wisely, but too well”—he was rather, like a scarce exotic, tenderly cherished, than improved; the brilliant rather than the solid, was attended to in his education; content with beholding him an engaging child, and an accomplished man, they sought no further; no prominent vices, or glaring imperfections, had hitherto developed themselves; consequently, the decided bent of his character remained unknown, and uninvestigated. He attracted homage, he met with universal approbation; his parents, satisfied with this, as most parents are, did not trouble themselves to enquire, how far justified was this ephemeral approbation, or how much of it was attendant upon the circumstances in which he was placed by the adventitious combination of birth, rank, and fortune. Thus left to form itself, the character of Angelo had no decided principles, no solid foundation, no fixed rule of action; he possessed not powerful judgment, nor sound discrimination to enable him to distinguish between right and wrong, or to give him a basis on which to form his conduct; no strong hypothesis had ever exercised his youthful reason, no circumstance had occurred materially to draw it forth, nor no rule bounded in his mind the nice and almost imperceptible gradations which mark the limits between virtue and vice. His heart was by nature generous, and impassioned; but, proper education having never corrected the exuberance of these feelings, they had degenerated into vices, while the germs of many virtues became withered in his breast. A good action was with him an impulse, not a principle; if he acted wrong, it was involuntarily, from the want of due reason, or just discrimination for his guide: when made sensible of any impropriety of conduct that, in its effects, had been productive of injury to others, the regret which he felt was only to be equalled by his anxiety to repair the mischief. Thus, often his very faults seemed graceful in him, as they were accompanied by virtues, which were attendant upon them, and which could not otherwise have existed. Weak, volatile, and unsteady, because of an undisciplined mind, he yet possessed a quick, tenacious pride, which ever took alarm at the least thought of dishonor, and a susceptibility of soul, which, while it rendered him alive to his error, was continually leading him into the most dangerous excesses: remorse ever followed his faults, and faults again succeeded to the upbraidings of his conscience: all his sensations were, however, too transient; his pliable feelings, like the fickle reed to the wind, yielded readily to every allurement; his wishes were his guides, and the decision of one moment was ever in danger of being broken, by the temptation of the next.—Thus was his character a mixture of good and evil; while he charmed the undiscriminating part of society, by the frankness, naiveté, and gracefulness of his manners, he ravished admiration from the wiser part; he extorted from the coldest a praise which it surprised them to hear themselves bestow, and philosophy’s self could not but exclaim “pity that, in so beautiful a garden, such noxious weeds should have sprung up with the flowers!”

On the morning succeeding to the arrival of the Count D’Albini at the cottage of Montmorency, Gabrielle, as was her custom, rose at an early hour to pursue her customary avocations. D’Albini, awakening at a time at which it had been more usual for him to retire to repose, rose likewise, and perceived from his lattice the fair daughter of Montmorency tending the little garden which spread its green carpet on a small spot of the rugged rock, and flowered along the sides of a frowning precipice. Struck with the beautiful simplicity of her appearance, which, instead of detracting from, added a singular charm to her majestic figure, he stepped back a few paces, for the purpose of contemplating her unobserved; for Angelo did not pride himself on possessing the vulgar effrontery which can look on modest beauty with the bold stare of avowed libertinism. When Gabrielle turned her face towards him, its sweet and noble expression, energetically animated, yet devoid of boldness, conveyed a novel sensation to his breast; his heart beat; a sensation of shame assailed him, and this feeling was occasioned by the reflection of what women, how different in seeming to the creature before him, had hitherto attracted his admiration, and enslaved his senses.

“Oh, daughter of innocence,” he said to himself, “if all women looked like you, men would reform, and feeling in the presence of superior beings, abjure all guilty thoughts.”

Such were the ideas of Angelo, and involuntarily, in a moment, he found himself at the side of her who had inspired them. Scarcely would it be imagined, that, habituated so long to the great world, the gay and admired Angelo should feel embarrassment in addressing a simple mountaineer; yet such was in reality the case, for the unaffected dignity of innocence will ever inspire awe in minds the most unfeeling or depraved. Gabrielle, who felt only a natural timidity, resulting from the circumstance of speaking, for the first time, with any other man than her father, replied to the confused observations of Angelo with delicate reserve, yet without shame, or hesitation; his admiration encreased; and if the peculiar beauty which belonged to her, had first charmed his fancy, the unstudied elegance of her manners now added to that sentiment a feeling of surprise, and began powerfully to interest the sensibility of a heart ever alive to the attraction of female loveliness.

In Gabrielle he beheld a woman different to any he had ever seen; therefore to her other charms, in his eyes, she added that of novelty; by her replies to his questions, and from some few remarks that she occasionally ventured of her own, he moreover discerned, that she had a mind, and that of itself was a novelty greater than any which he had ever yet discovered; for, till now, he had believed with the Mahometans, that women had no souls; in which idea, certainly, he had been justified in his intercourse with such of the sex as he had known. Gradually their conversation assumed an interest; and, as the eyes of Gabrielle sometimes met in furtive glances the eyes of the traveller, mentally she would say “and can this man then resemble those monsters of depravity, of whom my father has so often spoken? If so, nature, methinks, should have fixed some mark upon them, or rendered them less prepossessing.”

Mean time Angelo, more and more delighted, probably from the difficulty he perceived of prolonging his pleasure, was considering what plea he could invent for remaining some time at the cottage of Montmorency. The good Swiss, with whom he had occasionally sojourned during his tour, had ever pressed him to extend his stay beyond the period of his inclination, but with Montmorency he feared it would be different; for his dignified air, his look of proud superiority, stamped him of a class above those beings among whom he had chosen to fix his residence. With him, therefore, he felt that unqualified freedom would be misplaced, or be esteemed presumption; and his mind became on the rack to discover what line must be pursued to facilitate his wishes.

While thus ruminating, Montmorency appeared, coming from the cottage. On beholding the stranger with his daughter, he involuntarily started, and a shadow of displeasure passed over his features. He advanced towards them hastily, and taking the arm of Gabrielle, was in an instant, without seeming to purpose it, between her and Angelo; on the latter, as he returned his salutation, he cast a look of coolness and distrust, as though he would have said, “You are of the world, and I dread you.” With pain did Angelo observe this expressive glance; he felt dispirited, but not discouraged; he entered into conversation with Montmorency; his natural politeness, aided by the interest he felt in gaining the good-will of his host, made it gradually agreeable to him; and by little and little, the anxious Angelo succeeded in drawing him from the intrenchment of his reserve: at length he ventured a remark on the sublimely beautiful situation of Meillerie. Montmorency, to whom its beauties were familiar, coolly acquiesced; next he reverted to his cottage, its magnificent views, the salubrity of the air; with equal indifference Montmorency acquiesced. “How happy should I be,” cried Angelo, involuntarily looking towards Gabrielle, “to live and die in such a spot as this.”

A sceptic smile was the only answer of Montmorency.

“Might I hope,” pursued Angelo, resolved, since he had proceeded thus far, to make a grand effort, “might I hope, for permission to remain your guest a few days?”

Distrust darkened again the brow of Montmorency; the sceptic smile was succeeded by a piercing look; and, as he half bowed, his air of constraint marked how inimical to his wish was the desire of the stranger. Feeling it necessary, however, to make some reply; “You would soon be weary of this place,” he said; “and be more anxious to quit it, than you are at present to remain.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Angelo, with vivacity; and checking what further hovered on his lips.

Montmorency looked at him more penetratingly than before. “If such be the case,” he emphatically observed, “then must you have some motive of which I am not aware.”

“Why should you think so?” with deep embarrassment, enquired Angelo.

“Because men do not abandon their habits, or their prejudices, without some strong inducement; that inducement, for the most part, is the suggestion of some secret interest.”

At this plain language, to which Angelo was unused, his ingenuous cheek became slightly suffused; and with consequent hesitation he replied, “I am not aware indeed of any interest I could derive from receiving your permission to remain with you a short time, excepting the pleasure I must naturally experience from being in such society.”

In this answer Angelo had adhered to truth. Montmorency, sceptic as he was, felt an emotion of regret at his uncalled-for severity; and, stretching forth his hand to Angelo, he said, “There seems honesty in your manner; though too well I know, many seem honest, that are not so.—Since you desire it, I will endeavour for a few days to render your stay here as agreeable to you as I can.”

Angelo bowed with a smile of gratitude and joy, which lighted up his fine features with an additional beauty; the preceding harshness of Montmorency was forgotten, and an expressive silence spoke his thanks. No sooner, however, had these few words of comparative complacency escaped the lips of the suspicious Frenchman, than instantly he repented of them, and the transient ray of sunshine was succeeded by the most frozen constraint.

Angelo, beginning now to perceive something of the character of his host, appeared not to remark this change; he talked on various topics, and was not discomfited by the observations, sometimes severe, oftener just, by which he was answered. On receiving permission to remain beneath his roof, he had thought it incumbent on him to state explicitly his name, situation, and rank in life, his motives for travelling, &c. Montmorency listened in silence, and then said; “You are of the great world, Conte D’Albini, and yet seek a solitude so little appropriate? how may this be? for you are yet too young, too little experienced, to have become disgusted with society; consequently, however we might approve our guest, we could not long flatter ourselves with enjoying his company.”

“Ah,” replied Angelo, “never could I be weary of society so refined as this; yet, frankly I own, that I am not absolutely disgusted with the world.”

“No,” cried Montmorency, with a cynic laugh, “I will be sworn you are not; yet I was disgusted with, and quitted it at an age, when, for many, it retains charms still stronger than in the high tide of youth; I am now upwards of three-score; yet, during eighteen years passed in this solitude, have never once regretted that I left it.”

“We should not be too fastidious about the things of this life,” answered Angelo, gaily, “I think the world, with all its inconveniences, a most bewitching place. What would you more? Pleasure on all sides, and pleasure of every description, courts the acceptance of him who is blest with independence; the most delicious fruits for his palate, rational enjoyments for his mind, lovely beings for his softer passions, friends for his sober reason.”

“Friends!” interrupted Montmorency, “did you say friends? Young, mistaken enthusiast, what a picture does your heated fancy draw of a miserable world! now behold mine, pourtrayed in somberer colours, indeed, but far more just. Those lovely beings, which you speak of, are dangerous to men; men first causing them to become so, they teach them evil, and they retaliate on their masters.—Your friends will laugh with you, drink with you, live with you. This day you shall sumptuously entertain them; they shall depart from your roof, professing the strongest regard, the most anxious desire to serve you; the following day, sickness shall assail you—where then are your bottle companions?—where are your friends?—Or, you shall require some aid, some trifling assistance—where are the nothings?—where are they still?—Die.—Which of them will grieve?—those hours of merriment they passed in your society are forgotten, because they are past;—the laugh of the moment was excited; it was transient as their friendship. High in blood, elevated by wine, exhilirated by converse, they made you professions, which lived and died in the instant that gave them utterance. Do you believe there are any sincere friends in the world?—if you do, try them, and be undeceived. Self interest is the center of their passions—throughout all nature it is the actuating principle.—Man preys on man, beast on beast, the very tree which vegetates, and seems unincumbered, is covered by countless animalculæ, which drink up its juices, and are in turn preyed on themselves by a race still more minute.

“Heaven!” cried Angelo; “to prove your terrible system, already you have roamed through the regions of earth and air; next you will dive beneath the bowels of the briny deep, or analyse even the element of fire, in support of your assertion. You are a misanthrope; to listen to you is sufficient to infect the very soul of mirth. I almost fancy that I feel a sensible oppression at my heart, from having listened so long.

“I am no misanthrope,” answered Montmorency, “although I know mankind well; it is a mass of depravity, cruelty, and illiberality; it does no justice to motives; it decides by effect, and not by cause; it condemns misfortune, as if it were a crime; it worships greatness, as if it were a virtue; it is uninterested in your miseries, and interested in your welfare only, in hopes of pleasure or benefit to self. Self is the predominant idea, self is the darling theme, self is the focus to which every principle converges. Mankind are a species of civilized monsters, without hearts. Society is the hot-bed of crimes and vices; in solitude alone can we be free from the contagion of example, and enjoy a comparative felicity.”

“Oh, cease!” cried Angelo, shocked at the picture, “in mercy cease; let me partake of your solitude, let me—” His eyes met those of Gabrielle, and he could not proceed, while she, unknowing why, blushed deeply as she marked his hesitation. Montmorency observed both; his penetrating eye caught the lucid beam of Angelo’s, as it withdrew from commingling with his daughter’s; and, in an expressive voice, he said, “Do you think then, Count D’Albini, that my system of self is so very erroneous?”—He paused; then added,—“Do you think that my society alone would be charm sufficient to attract you to this solitude?”

“Now, indeed,” cried Angelo, with graceful naiveté, “that is asking a most malicious question. Can it be doubted, that society, such as it is at present, is too precious to be diminished, and requires no addition?”

Montmorency sighed, as in his brooding mind he began to revolve over, and lament, the various motives and passions which incessantly actuate the heart of man. Yet, gloomy and sceptical as he was, there was a something in Angelo with which he could not avoid being pleased,—a warmth, a sincerity, an enthusiasm, resembling what he had himself possessed, before ill treatment, and long seclusion from society, had obliterated in his heart all but the remembrance of what he once was. While he pitied the sanguine hopes, and vain delusions, of his guest, which prompted him to dress the world in its gayest colours, he could not avoid seeing they had their source in a heart as yet not infinitely polluted; and surely, thought he, better thus, than one out of love with the world, disgusted with human nature, supposing intended treachery in every appearance of friendship, and, to guard against deception, be the first to deceive. Montmorency easily perceived that he had cast a damp over the warm imagination of the young enthusiast, and this very circumstance caused him to regard him with additional interest; for men insensibly feel a complacency for those who appear impressed by their opinions, or convinced by their arguments. “At least then,” thought he, “this youth, so far from being corrupted by the example of others, is scarcely aware of their depravity; ignorance in this case is comparative virtue; he is not therefore, as yet, to be classed among the herd.” Short-sighted philosopher, as though it were impossible that man should be vicious from other causes, than the mere influence of example!

Angelo succeeded completely in his views; Montmorency not only yielded to his earnest desire, of being permitted to prolong his stay with him for a few days, but, when at the end of that indefinite period, Angelo spoke not of departing, Montmorency, though he conceived the propriety of the movement, could not compel himself to urge it. Spite of his systematic reserve, he began again to taste the charm of society, of conversing with a human being of his own sex, of a superior mind, of polished taste, of manners elegant and refined; sometimes he reproached himself for the irresistible pleasure which he took in the company of the being chance had thrown in his way. He feared lest he should cause him to deviate in his abhorrence of mankind, or bring him back to the slavish dependence of hanging upon others for some charm to enliven the vapidness of existence. “Yet surely,” would he cry, “I cannot be deceived in this youth; but, if I am, what matter? I seek no friendship from him; I place no reliance, I expect no favor, what, if he be even a villain at heart, which I think improbable; circumstances will never place it in his power to make me a sufferer; the entertainment of his company I may use without danger, as from poison the chemist extracts a salutary medicine.” But Montmorency did not consider, that confidence grows from association; that, from long indulgence in luxury, it becomes necessary; nor, from a view of relative situations, could he pierce into the future, or discern the probable arrival of a period in which he might bitterly repent having, in a single instance, deviated from the resolution he had formed, of never more suffering his heart to relax, or his opinion to vary, in favor of any human being whatever.

Meantime, the fair and innocent Gabrielle became sensible of a species of happiness, different from any she had ever yet experienced, and which, from its novelty, delighted. She enjoyed a sort of halcyon pleasure, which, to dissipate, it were only necessary for her to anticipate the departure of Angelo. When she thought on this, a deep sigh rose involuntarily from her heart; she felt a void there, as though suddenly she had lost a dear friend,—even as she conceived she might feel, if she were to lose her father. At this depressing idea, surrounding objects seemed divested of every charm; occupations, which formerly had attached her with interest, now lost their power to please; nay, often her employment was thrown aside; and, with her head languidly leaning on her hand, she contemplated the image of Angelo, scarcely conscious perhaps that she had done so, till roused by his presence into painful confusion. Unsophisticated Gabrielle! she knew love only in its feeling, and knew not yet that it was love; it was, with her, a pure emanation of the soul; a refined mysterious sentiment, that disordered her, she knew not how, with an emotion she could not define. In her breast it was delicacy’s self, divested of every degrading or ignoble idea attendant upon that passion, in minds less pure, contaminated too by more intimate acquaintance with its effects on the minds of others. Yet still in this genuine, uncorrupted state, was it conceived with a degree of enthusiasm, of ardour that, even in infancy, gave warning of the pitch to which it must arrive, if thus proportionably encreasing, till it reached its climax; if, indeed, it be possible to define the precise period at which love may be said to have attained its climax, in certain minds.

Nor was this evolution in the mind of Gabrielle surprising; nurtured and educated in profound seclusion, beholding no one in the semblance of man, save a few Mountaineers, blunt and unprepossessing in their manners and appearance, having no society, save that of her venerable father, or occasionally of a respectable female, who resided nearest to them. The majestic Montmorency, whose noble, yet care-worn features, whose silver hair, whitened by the joint power of grief and age, whose fine figure yet slightly bending from the same cause, could scarcely give her an idea of a being possessing the grace, elegance, and beauty of Angelo; consequently her surprise being stronger, the feelings that accompanied it were stronger likewise. Thus total seclusion from the world has its dangers, if not similar, yet not inferior, to those that may be incurred by too close an intercourse with it.

Some weeks elapsed, and Angelo was still an inmate at the cottage of Montmorency; Montmorency endeavouring to shut the eyes of his mind against the pleasure he took in his society,—and Gabrielle, in her virgin breast, fondly cherishing the dangerous image that now revelled there uncontrouled. The heart of Angelo, too, participated in the havoc he had caused; a passion wilder, fiercer, less refined then hers, internally consumed him; his person underwent some change; he became pale and haggard, while fanned by the breezes of health, and Montmorency expressed apprehension, that the keen air of the mountains, where he dwelt, was too powerful for him. Thus the mind of man, by a resistless infatuation, often blindly leads him to his own destruction. Montmorency, from extending his ideas further than his reason could profit by them, by including in his condemnation and mistrust the whole of mankind, forgot carefully to examine the limited sphere wherein he moved, and to guard against those nearer evils, which he viewed so clearly at a distance. So, often the sage, intent on observing the course of the heavens, beholds not the precipice at his feet; and the traveller in the valley, anticipating the distant storm, sees not the overwhelming avalanche, that rushes down the mountain’s steep.

One day Gabrielle, overcome more by the intenseness of her own sensations than actual weariness, seated herself in a rocky recess, there to muse in secret over the terrible feelings that oppressed her; for the calmness of the first infancy of her love had now passed by; it was no more a gentle and delicious sensation, but a turbulent and uneasy passion, that blended itself with every idea, that monopolized every feeling, that made every former pleasure appear inane and wearisome, that distracted her mind by day, and revelled in her dreams by night. Suddenly the object of her thoughts appeared before her. Gabrielle was frequently in the habits of walking with Angelo; often, too, the conversation would involuntarily become so mutually interesting, that, on her side at least, a pause of confusion would ensue. She did not shun him, for she was unconscious of artifice; but she started and arose, for she feared lest the tender trouble of her heart should be discovered through her eyes. Angelo gently took her hand, and walked on with her in silence, as he contemplated the celestial beauty which innocence diffuses over those with whom it dwells. Something of vague compunction shot through his heart, as involuntarily he asked himself the question, of what he could propose by the indulgence of the passion which occupied him? The pang was, however transient, expelled from his breast by sensations more welcome, though more dangerous. He desired ardently to make known the extent of them to the object that had inspired them, and to ascertain how far they were returned.

Though his eyes had already told the fair girl that no common feelings actuated him towards her, though her’s had already betrayed to him, that the soft confession was not received without the deepest emotion; yet, so full of vanity is the heart of man, that it is not enough for him to feel that he is loved? he must have a direct avowal of it, for sweet is the offering that is accompanied with such incense. At length, unable to restrain the powerful sensations that battled in his bosom for vent, he suddenly stopped, almost resistlessly urged to give them expression; but he found the attempt vain; for it was not that pride, dignity, or severity, awed him in Gabrielle; it was her innocence, her agitation, the result of the purest modesty that was depicted in her countenance, that he feared to offend, and which took from him the power of prosecuting his wish. Unable to declare his love, unable even to utter a word, he cast himself at her feet, and, fixing his eyes upon her countenance, endeavoured to temper even the ardour of their glances, lest they should convey to her chaste bosom anger or alarm.

Gabrielle, ready to sink into the earth, dared not behold him; her eyes wandered round in search of relief, and momentarily fixed upon every object, save the eyes of Angelo, which she dreaded to encounter. At this moment, when the hearts of both overflowed with the sweetest and most dangerous sensations, when conviction was on the verge of being conveyed from each to the other, of the strongest and most ardent love, at that very moment Montmorency appeared, descending the rock on which they were. Gabrielle, overwhelmed with the first painful confusion that attends the fear of having acted wrong, hastened forward to join him, while Angelo followed her footsteps, uncertain whether to grieve, or to rejoice at the interruption, and said in a low voice as he drew near her, “do not, dearest Gabrielle, appear as if flying from me; uneasy ideas will be instilled into the mind of your father.” Involuntarily Gabrielle slackened her pace, while a feeling of troubled delight thrilled through her breast, at the tender appellation bestowed on her by Angelo.

The good Montmorency saw them advancing together, but saw no more; three score winters, and the tears that he had shed, had not improved the brilliancy of his sight. He began to consider Angelo, if not as the best of human beings, so little contaminated by the vices of the world, and so far removed from it at present, that he might, without danger at least, be associated with. He therefore beheld their approach with pleasure, unalloyed by suspicion, and welcomed them with a smile.

Entering immediately into conversation with Angelo, Gabrielle had sufficient time to recover herself, and to collect her scattered ideas. Angelo had confessed to her nothing; he had not spoken, but in his silence there was an eloquence, at least to her heart, that spoke enough. She endeavoured to join in the conversation, but the effort was feeble, and attended with embarrassment. Soon, therefore, as they reached the cottage, she took the first opportunity of escaping to the solitude of her chamber. Here, a burst of tears relieved her full-charged heart; she felt she was adored, though she had not been told so; this delicious conviction was followed by a transport so exquisite, that her whole frame trembled: then undefined terrors, doubts, and apprehensions succeeded to her happiness; peace appeared for ever banished from her bosom, and the most gloomy terrors crowded, in sad perspective, on imagination’s eye. But still, still, her fascinated heart reverted to the fond idea, which formed now the chief, nay only interest of her life; on that she paused, on that she dwelt, till the very excess of the delight she experienced awakened her again to renewed pain, to the agonizing thought of the time when it should exist no longer, or to the tormenting fear, that all was even now but sweet delusion.

Thus, in the very midst of solitude, guarded from all communion with mankind by impervious rocks, and mountains nearly impassable, was the heart of the virgin surprised by love, and pierced, as in revenge, by the most terrible of his darts. Though no direct confession had escaped the lips of either, yet there now appeared a sort of mutual understanding between the hearts of both; the words, ‘I love,’ seemed unnecessary to be uttered by either, for the meaning of those words was sufficiently expressed in their looks, their eyes, their manners towards each other. Yet, though both fondly loved, how differently did they love; Gabrielle, with all the enthusiasm, purity, and warmth of an innocent heart, Angelo with all the wildness, furor, and uncontrolled passion of one accustomed to give the reins to inclination, and rushing to attain the object of his wishes. The love of Gabrielle was such as an angel need not have blushed to know; that of Angelo, such as a mortal should endeavour to overcome.

When souls once understand each other, the reciprocation of love is unconfined; it emanates in the tenderest expressions, in a resistless interchange of sentiments. Could Gabrielle have lived always thus, in the presence of the object beloved, gazing on his countenance, listening to each word fondly treasured, she imagined, that she could have been for ever happy; but Angelo, whose passion had increased, not only beyond his power, but beyond his wish to conquer, resolved that she must become his.

The constant view of an object that had inspired him with sensations so ardent, who was near, and yet so distant from him, became too much for his reason to combat; the struggle was more than he could endure, and he felt that Gabrielle must decide whether happiness or misery must be his lot. So far did the violence of his present sensations obtain the mastery over every other consideration, that he determined at once to make known to her the state of his mind, while an idea, (as yet to himself, even vague and indefinite) of some attempt to prove the extent of his power over her heart, glanced through his mind. Hurried on by his invincible impulses, he seized the first moment, when he beheld her alone, and, after endeavouring, in compliance with her evident wish, to converse with, and answer her, upon a few uninteresting topics, he suddenly exclaimed, seizing her hand with impatience: “But all this is idle, Gabrielle—I have things of higher importance,”—he paused—“which claim attention,”—another pause.—“I—I can no longer live without you; I am abrupt, I feel it—but—say, say, at once—what hope can you give me?—what reply?—on your answer depends my life.”

“Alas,” said Gabrielle, in a timid voice, but neither surprised, nor affecting to be so, “what hope can I give you?—what reply?”

“You give me then no hope? Ah, Gabrielle, you do not love me, or else, having lived in this profound seclusion, you are too ignorant of the dreadful power of the passions over the human heart, to pity or conceive the pangs which are consuming mine.”

And Gabrielle, indeed, knew nought of the dreadful power of the passions; the precise meaning of Angelo’s words were not clear to her; but her heart taught her fully to comprehend that pangs might be attendant upon love. Still she spoke not, for she was unused to the language of artifice; and her genuine modesty would not suffer her to speak the language of nature. Angelo’s impatience became unbounded: “Say, Gabrielle, say,” he cried, unable to restrain his violence, “you will give me then no hope?”

“Give not way to this transport, Angelo, it will injure you;—say, my dear friend, how would you have me act?”

“Your friend,” cried the passionate Angelo, throwing her hand from him; then seizing it again, he said, “tell me, Gabrielle, do you love me?”

“Yes, Angelo,—I think, I am sure—I do.”

“But how,—how cold, girl? As you love your father?”

“Oh no, with a different love; a more pleasing love, as it were, and yet more painful; it gives me only pleasure, Angelo, to love my father, but in loving you, I sometimes feel a pain.”

The eyes of Angelo sparkled with fond conviction; he gazed in the face of Gabrielle, and, in a faultering voice, he said, “Will you then be mine, Gabrielle?”

“I do not understand you,” answered Gabrielle; “I think my heart is your’s, and as for my society, it is your’s likewise, so long as you remain in this part of Switzerland.” And, as she uttered the last words, a profound sigh rose heavily from her bosom.

“Ah, but, beloved Gabrielle, I know not how long I may remain here; besides, you are only my friend, my adored mistress, not wholly mine, not my wife.”

But though Angelo gave utterance to the term wife, he meant such as it is understood only in the language of love, not as it is considered in the estimation of the world; yet, to the chaste ears of Gabrielle, he durst not offer a word bearing other than honorable construction. Gabrielle paused a while, and then said, “And from what you have observed, Angelo, how am I to infer that you wish me to act?”

“Dare I say, Gabrielle?—hear me then;—quit with me for ever the roof of your father.”

What had obtained to Angelo attention till now? It was the pure, the guiltless innocence of Gabrielle; but, though innocent, she possessed strong reason, principle, and a pride, inherited from her noble father. She did not start back, like a world-taught heroine, in affected surprise, but she remained motionless at the last words of Angelo; she remained rooted to the spot, as though her reluctant feet durst no longer assimilate their movements to his. In her countenance was depicted scorn and resentment; she regarded him steadily, and the stern expression of her features gave way gradually to a marked sorrow, as though she grieved for him, that he should be a creature so base.

“Poor, poor, Angelo!” at length she said, and hurried onwards.

In an instant the precipitate Angelo was sensible of his error; he felt that he was lowered in the esteem of Gabrielle, and that he had alarmed the genuine delicacy of her virtue, and sound principles. He rushed after her, and, in the most impassioned language, implored forgiveness. Gabrielle heard him, but she felt that he did not merit forgiveness, and did not even cast a look, upon him. He accused himself, he acknowledged his fault, and only ventured to urge, in extenuation, that excessive love had deprived him of the power of right reason. Gabrielle was silent; her natural fine sense taught her, that it was impossible but he that loved must value above all the virtue of his mistress, and respect her duties and her principles; yet, in love, the heart of woman is weak, contrary to the suggestions of her better reason; when at length she turned her eyes upon him, and beheld his countenance suffused with tears, the deep contrition, and the grief that was depicted in it, she felt a strong wish to extend her hand towards him, and pronounce, “I forgive you, Angelo, and pity your errors.” In all probability, she would have yielded to the powerful pleadings of her heart in his favor, which would have compromised her own dignity, and given Angelo too great an advantage over her, had not her guardian angel, once more, in the shape of her father, interposed to prevent this act of weakness, and yet a little delay her advancement in the path of danger.

Now, with the gratitude of an innocent and pious mind, she beheld his approach; for, however she might have perceived him before, under the conviction of having done wrong, she now felt that his appearance had preserved her from the commission of an error. To Angelo, however, it conveyed a two-fold pain; first in the interruption it had given, thus preventing him from the expected triumph of ascertaining his influence over the heart of the innocent girl, by irritating, and softening her, in the same moment; and next, in the reproachful whisper of conscience, to have such ends in view.

So is there often a strange inconsistency in the mind of man; he shall have sufficient virtue to condemn, what he shall not have fortitude to resist. Angelo felt strongly that he was acting a base and dishonourable part, and the blandishment of his heart could not bring over his reason to tell him otherwise. But, though he felt that his passion, if indulged, would bear down all before it, either he had not, or would not, find arguments to overcome it; he had neither courage to fly, nor to desist, and, while guilt stared him in the face, while remorse pressed heavy on his soul, he madly permitted its violence to conquer and drag him onwards.

To dwell on subjects that cause us to abhor human nature, and dread to associate with civilized man, can surely convey no pleasure in the perusal, nor, in the present system of things, be productive of benefit. Let us, therefore, pass lightly over details that have no useful tendency, and revert to events, which almost justified the distrust and misanthropy that so long had governed the mind of the unhappy Montmorency, and which, perhaps, it had been better for him had he still persevered in.—Suffice it then to say, that Angelo daily beheld those obstacles which had opposed themselves to the gratification of his wishes becoming less formidable. The love of Gabrielle acquiring fresh force, though the suggestions of her virtue became not weaker, rendered the task of conquering it more and more difficult.

Angelo had so far perceived his power over her heart, that he had dared a second time to hazard to her the proposal of quitting her father’s roof, but this was again received indignantly, with bitter reproaches, and with tears of burning anguish, to see herself so fallen in the estimation of the man she loved; that at this late period, when he should have known her better, he still should presume to think her capable of sin so abominable. Thus she thought, yet still she listened to, and forgave more readily than before the man who could thus presume. Angelo perceived, and availed himself of every increasing advantage, and pressed the subject with renewed ardour; but no, though far advanced in the path of error, though tottering on the brink of a deceitful precipice, though feeble from the excess of her love, she had still virtue enough to hear this proposal with horror, and to reject it with firmness. What! desert her venerable father? the fond guardian of her childhood, the tender friend of her youth; abandon him; abandon that faded, that majestic form, which now seemed to stand accusingly before her? Deprive him of the sweet support, the staff of his declining years! terrible and alarming guilt was in the thought. Could such an image dare then for an instant to present itself before a mind once so pure? But one step remained to ensure her safety; it was to make a confession of the whole to her father. She turned this idea in her mind, but abandoned it with terror, at having proceeded so far; the shame attendant upon such a confession, the dread of the reproaches, but more of the misery of Montmorency; above all, a latent unacknowledged fear, which shook her inmost soul, that she should then be for ever torn from the object of her fatal love, prevented her from yielding to this safe suggestion of her better reason.

She suffered then the evil daily to acquire fresh strength; her virtue, her innocence, were no longer sufficient protection, and destruction became inevitable; true, she did not quit with her seducer the roof of the miserable father; she remained, and pointed the dagger at his heart, even while cherished beneath the wings of his unsuspecting love, and by that fond pride which rejoiced in the fancied contemplation of her spotless purity. Even in the midst of his felicitations was he deceived, and robbed for ever of the valued treasure of a daughter’s innocence.

To attempt description of the feelings of one, who, till this fatal period, had been sinless, even in idea,—to paint the horror of mind of that being, whose torturing remorse told her loudly of her guilt, while that guilt infatuated too much to be abjured,—would be a task no pen could accomplish. The temptation to evil once admitted, it is no longer easy to repel its insidious advances; a dreaded step once taken, another quickly follows; and the wretched victim of error seldom awakens, till repentance is in vain. Thus, with the unhappy Gabrielle;—miserable, degraded in her own eyes, having plunged in an ocean of guilt, she continued to sail amid its dangerous straits; the sun of delusion flashed over her gloomy way a momentary ray of deceitful pleasure, nor was she roused to the full horror of her situation, till, like a thunder clap sounding in her ears, the voice of Angelo spoke of his departure.

For some moments the power of speech was denied her; when, at length, she recovered the power, she had not the wish to speak,—a deadly chill crept through her blood, an universal weakness trembled through her frame, her mouth became parched, now her cheek turned of an ashy paleness, and now flushed with the crimson of agony; she did not even look at Angelo, for despair possessed her wholly.

Angelo beheld her agitation; he took her hand, “Why are you thus, my love?” he cried, “what is there so terrible in my departure? or, if you indeed consider it so, why not, at once, determine to accompany me?”

Gabrielle shook her head, but replied not.

“Why, then,” proceeded he, “this apparent unhappiness? you always knew, fair Gabrielle, that I could not remain for ever here.”

“True, true;” faltered Gabrielle, looking at him, and turning hastily away.

“We may meet again, my love, under happier auspices.”

Gabrielle clasped her hands in silent agony; the tears rolled down her cheeks, and again she ventured a glance at Angelo.

He pressed her hand; “Say, then, shall we go together?”

Gabrielle withdrew her hand; and, though Angelo made the proposal, who shall say, that now, as eagerly as ever, he desired that she should accede to it? “Oh, Angelo!” she indignantly exclaimed, “is this consolation?”

“Really, dearest Gabrielle, you are not yourself to-day; why thus unkind; why thus disposed to reject, with scorn, all I can say?”

“Miserable, yet justly, punished wretch that I am!” cried Gabrielle, and quickened her steps. Angelo followed, but not with quite such eager anxiety as once he had followed her with, when involuntarily he had offended her; “Come, dearest Gabrielle,” he cried, “sweet girl, be reasonable;” then, willing to divert her grief, he added sportively “what of my departure,—I would venture now, you will soon forget me.”

“Oh, this is too cruel,” exclaimed Gabrielle, bursting into tears, “Oh God, I begin to feel that my father, my dear father, spoke not too severely of man.”

Angelo was affected, not at her tears so much, but she had interested his feelings through the medium of his self-love; the heart of man is often vulnerable through that medium, when it can be touched through no other; he saw that Gabrielle really loved him, and was tortured at the thought of his departure. He instantly seized her hand again, and falling at her feet, implored forgiveness for an unintentional offence, swore that he loved her with an unabated passion, and would not rise till she had sealed his pardon.

Gabrielle sighed; with the pangs of love she had now, alas, become fully acquainted; they had followed closely upon its short-lived pleasures.

“Rise, rise then at once, Angelo,” she said.

He arose—they proceeded a few paces—Angelo still dwelt upon the excess of his love; to this Gabrielle replied not; but in a melancholy voice she said, without raising her eyes from the ground, “you will write to me, Angelo?”

“Can you doubt it, my love?”

“It would be a terrible thing now, Angelo, to be forgotten.”

“That can never happen, fair Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle sighed, “Where do you go from hence.”

“To Italy, where certain connections of my father will, no doubt, render my stay desirable for some time.”

A weight of ice fell upon the heart of Gabrielle; Angelo could talk of being happy, of being so without her!—A new world opened to her view; a world of misery; her doom—a dreadful doom, seemed fixed; she was no longer what she had been,—peaceful because innocent. She felt a wretch, and felt, by anticipation, what despair would be hers, when left in the terrible solitude of guilt, to her reflections.

The heart of Angelo was not systematically bad; he erred from the want of firm principle, and persisted in his errors from want of energy to combat them. The allurements of vice wire too strong for his sense of right, and while he yielded readily to every temptation, he felt not much remorse that he did so. His character was not an uncommon one; but such as is frequently met with among men; some few perhaps better, more infinitely worse; many possessing his weak heart, and wandering mind; few his sensibility, frankness, and generosity, to counterpoize the opposite balance. He had told Gabrielle that he loved her, and he had told her truth, to the extent of which his soul was capable, for deception was foreign to his nature. That he did not love her with that delicate, refined, and rare affection of which superior minds alone are capable, was not attributable to him as a fault; he loved her more than he had ever before loved woman; but his was not a mind to admit that sentiment, and to feel it in all its fine-drawn and boundless ramifications. Gabrielle, whose soul knew not vice, and whose eyes had never beheld it, loved differently; her’s was an ardent, pure, and unsophisticated passion, which, having taken root in a rich native soil, was calculated to exist, while she existed, strong and immutable. Over the conviction of her love she shed bitter tears; she felt that she ought to overcome it, but reason was unable to attempt the arduous task.

In a short time Angelo was no longer an inmate of the cottage of Meillerie. Montmorency took leave of him with feelings of regret; his solitude for some time past had been cheered by the presence of a rational, and, as he believed, a not unworthy human being; for, with all his experience of mankind, he could not consider Angelo in that light; he had seen him, without alarm, the companion of his daughter, for he thought him too artless to be dangerous; he did not take into his calculation, that Gabrielle, from her inexperience, required no artifice to be misled; he did not remember that from that very inexperience she would be unable to judge but from appearance, to penetrate into motives, or to draw correct deductions; above all, he forgot,—for he was not of an age when those ideas present themselves forcibly to the mind,—he forgot the danger attendant upon the circumstance of her being a stranger to man, till one the most engaging in form and manners presented himself to her astonished view. In the world he dreaded, Montmorency would have been the guardian of his daughter, because in the mass of mankind, he would have prepared himself to encounter the greater part villains; but, independently of his believing that the innocence of the one, and guilelessness of the other, were sufficient security for the safety of his child, he did not, in all the severity of his judgment of society, conceive that there existed a creature base enough, under such circumstances, to repay his trust with treachery and ingratitude: he did not consider that man became as often base from weakness as from depravity, and that even the firmest, and best-intentioned minds are not always proof against the powerful temptation of combining circumstances. Thus is it ever with short-sighted mortals, who, shielding themselves by the strong habergeon of caution and mistrust, are assailed in a path where least they dreamt of danger, and vanquished in points which were considered too insignificant to guard. Thus too with Montmorency, who, while cautiously guarding the out-posts, admitted the enemy into the camp.

Some time had now elapsed since the departure of Angelo from the cottage of Meillerie, but its inhabitants were no longer in the state he had found them; in his once animated and blooming daughter, Montmorency found no more the intelligent and rational companion, or the cheering associate; on her fair cheek, where, indeed, the teint of the red rose had never blushed, he now beheld the sickly hue of grief, and marked the change with fond unsuspicious solicitude. He divined not the cause, for no superior female, and superior she must have been to have charmed Montmorency, had ever taught him to feel for her the pain or delirium of love; he knew, therefore, but little of the extremities to which it sometimes drives its victims. All he knew, and all he beheld, was, that the only happiness of his life, the only charm which bound him to existence, was fading before his eyes, like a fragile flower at the approach of autumn. The conviction struck a dagger to his heart; and, looking tenderly upon her, he would sometimes say, “Oh, my beloved child, what is the cause that thus I see thee perishing before my aged eyes? Wilt thou die, Gabrielle, and leave me to support alone the burthen of increasing years? Wilt thou not exert thyself, my child? wilt thou not endeavour to live for the sake of thy father?”

These words would pierce Gabrielle to the soul; oft was she on the point of confessing all, but dread of the grief she would inflict, horror at the thought, lest such dreadful acknowledgement should hasten him to the grave; these were the thoughts, rather than the shame that restrained her, for that oppressive shame humbly she would have submitted to, as slender penance for her inexpiable guilt, the terrible idea of which weighed down her aching heart.

But soon remorse for her crime became not the only anguish or punishment of the wretched Gabrielle, that anguish and that punishment, which had already more than trebly exceeded the transitory delight she had enjoyed; soon more dreadful, boundless, and overwhelming misery opened to her view,—she found, with horror that mocks expression, that long she might not even spare her miserable father the terrible secret of her grief, and that one might yet exist, who to the reproaches of her conscience might add others bitterer still, for being called into life the offspring of guilt and shame. Unhappy Gabrielle! unfortunate Montmorency! fate pursues thee, even in thy solitude, with re-doubled rigour; thy seclusion from man shall not preserve thee from misfortune, and thy cottage, in the bosom of mountains, shall, equally with the habitations of the populous world, become the house of mourning and despair.

In vain did the distracted Gabrielle endeavour to consider the best steps to pursue; her mind was chaos, and she could not organize it to reflect. First, she imagined to quit the roof of her still unconscious father, and save him the dreadful pang that knowledge of her guilt must inflict; but then again, this, by leaving him in all the horrors of suspence, would cause him torture equal to a knowledge of the truth; and yet a knowledge of the truth!—The idea was madness; it would be instant death; how then determine? how act? she could decide on nothing. Day after day passed on; her secret wretchedness, her concealed anguish, became almost too great for endurance; her form faded, her melancholy became uninterrupted by even occasional attempts at vivacity, and the hapless Montmorency, catching the infection of her gloom, resigned himself to a hopeless woe, which seemed neither to expect or look for termination but in the grave.

It was the sight of this awful grief that increased the sufferings of the wretched daughter; add to all, Angelo had now been three months absent. During that space, she had heard from him but once, and that in the first fortnight after his departure. His letter then informed her of his arrival at Naples, in what spot he had taken up his residence, and that his stay in the country being rendered so agreeable by numerous connexions of his father, all anxious to pay him tribute, he could fix no certain period of departure, but rather imagined it would not take place for some months at least. He concluded by the most tender protestations (which Gabrielle, however, thought cold and constrained) of undiminished affection, and intreaties to render her mind as happy as possible, till propitious fate should permit them to be re-united. To this letter Gabrielle had returned an answer, but not at that time surmising her situation, had merely expressed her deep sorrow at his absence, the remorse and anguish which preyed upon her mind, and conjured him to write speedily, as his letters alone could rouse her from the gloomy melancholy that oppressed her. Unhappily, however, with this pathetic entreaty on the part of the forlorn Gabrielle, the correspondence had ceased, and the wretched girl, though necessarily uncertain of the fate of her letter, felt too much pride, supposing him to have received it, to trouble with love-sick reproaches, a man who, perhaps, desired to forget her. For the same reason could she not consent to inform him, that forgotten as she might be, her cruel fate ordained that in tender anguish she should still remember him.

In truth, Angelo had received her letter, received it too in a brilliant society, and, retiring a moment, had hastily perused it; he had kissed it even, and promised himself that ere he slept he would answer it. Overcome with wine, however, he had retired to rest, and forgotten his intention; he slept till late the following morning, and scarcely awoke in time to attend a party of pleasure, which had been planned the preceding evening. Pleasure, pleasure varying, though unvaried, left no room for the performance of a duty. Brilliant beauties present, eclipsed the memory of an absent love; another, and another day, and still something intervened to prevent his writing. At length so many days had elapsed, that when a spare half hour did present itself, accompanied by the recollection of his unperformed promise to Gabrielle, the gay Angelo took up the pen, but suddenly decided, that now to think of answering a letter so long ago received, would lead Gabrielle to suppose, that neglect or indifference alone could have hitherto caused the delay. He therefore determined, that he would wait for another letter, and then answer that on the instant; and perhaps, the vanity so natural to man, made him desire this additional proof of being fondly remembered by the girl, whose superior love he was so little capable of appreciating.

Meantime, great was the pain, and bitter were the feelings which this unknown arrangement, in the giddy mind of Angelo, gave to the susceptible heart of Gabrielle; yet did not Angelo intentionally inflict this pain, but purely from not considering that he did so. Had Gabrielle been with him, had she been present, it is probable he would have still loved, admired, and dedicated his fondest moments to her; but, immersed as he was in voluptuous gaiety, he thought not often of his poor girl of the mountains, who for him had sacrificed all, and become a wretch. The idea grew fainter and fainter in his mind, and when he had leisure to remember that she did not write, his pride became offended at the omission, and he considered himself now justified in not having answered her first letter. Oh, man! such is your cruelty and injustice; by setting first the example of indifference, you provoke and induce that conduct in woman, which ye are likewise first to censure and condemn.

Thus was Gabrielle left to pine unnoticed.—Though Angelo possessed feelings, they required to be roused; Gabrielle was absent; her presence might have acted as a stimulus, for in some respects Angelo resembled the flint, which, to emit a spark, requires the strong collision of the steel.

There was no human being with whom Montmorency himself associated, or permitted his daughter, save the female inhabitant of a cottage, situated a little way down the rock on which his own was built. This female, though amiable, and by no means arrived at an age when the pleasures, if any, of life have with some lost their zest, lived in almost total seclusion, justly considering herself superior to the many that courted her society, among whom were not wanting certain independent Mountaineers, who boasting of their bit of cultured ground, their flock of sheep, and their cows, as the great ones of the world boast of their gold, did not think they presumed too highly in soliciting her hand. But the good Madame Bertrand had no desire to change her present freedom for the controul of a husband; neither did her experience in a married life render her wishful to enter again that state. She, therefore, mildly declined all overtures, and resisted even the earnest entreaties of Pierre Boffuet, the most ardent and persevering of her admirers, to regard his suit with more complacency than those of his contemporaries. This worthy female, the steadiness and rationality of whose character operated in her favour with Montmorency, was occasionally a guest at his cottage; but soon discovering his fondness for solitude, and almost hatred of society, her visits were sparing, and never long. During the stay of Angelo there, she had appeared but once; since his departure, however, she had been frequently, because her observation easily informed her, that some secret grief lay heavy at the heart of Gabrielle, and her penetration led her to fear that the departed guest was not unconnected with it. Often in her walks with the silent and wretched girl did she long, with the kind solicitude of friendship, to hint at her apparent unhappiness, in order, if possible, to invite her confidence, not from an idle or unworthy curiosity, but in hopes that she might be enabled to administer some consolation.

What would not the forlorn Gabrielle have given for courage to repose her dreadful secret in the bosom of friendship? but shame, horrible shame, prevented her. Often some complaint, often a word relative to the subject of her misery, hovered on her lips, but in the same instant her heart beat with the increasing throb of agony, her cheek became dyed with a burning crimson, and her tongue, refusing to perform the terrible office of divulging her disgrace, cleaved, parched and trembling, to the roof of her mouth. In the covert of the woods, in the most solitary paths, did she then alone dare to vent the lamentations of her despair.

A little before his departure, Angelo, in one of those moments of fondness, (which amid the horrors that surrounded, still presented themselves before her with increased fascination, and dazzled, as a bright distant flame in a gloomy forest, her deluded eyes,) had given her a medallion, surrounded with diamonds, which presented on one side the portrait of his mother, on the other that of his father, and opening with a spring, disclosed within his own, designed for him when a boy, with his name, age, and date of his birth on the opposite side. In giving to Gabrielle this valuable pledge of affection, valuable from him, because he prized it, and valuable from the correct likenesses it gave of parents that he remembered with the tenderest regret; he had said, on taking it from his bosom, where he had ever worn it, “You, my dear Gabrielle, are the only girl I ever loved; therefore, you alone shall possess the thing which I value most in the world. It was given to me by a dear, lamented mother, who idolized me, a little before her death; because it bore my picture, she had ever treasured it in her bosom, and on presenting me with it, said, ‘Never, Angelo, part with this but to one you love as I love you.’ She loved me to excess, Gabrielle,—as I love you now, therefore do I bestow her gift upon you. Yet loving you as I do, I would not give it you, were I not certain, that thus I do not part with it, and it will still be mine through you.”

Gabrielle took the offering with respect, and answered, “I swear, Angelo, that I will never part with this, but to one I shall love as I do you;” thereby implying, that she would keep it for ever, as she could not conceive the possibility of ever loving a human being as she did him. Angelo understood her, and accepted, with an expressive smile, homage so grateful to his feelings. On his portrait (for though she often gazed with respectful interest upon those of his parents, the medallion was almost always open to gaze upon his,) did she now breathe those tender confessions of an unabated love, once timidly whispered to the original; on those adored eyes, which she fancied regarded her with an answering look of love, as in happier deluding days, shed bitter tears, that were concealed from all others, and to that beloved image alone, impart her plaints, her anguish, and remorse.

The fourth month of the absence of Angelo now drew towards a close; the cheeks of Gabrielle became haggard and pale, and the increasing change in her slender elegant figure it became necessary to conceal. Great was her terror, as she perceived that no precaution would be long sufficient to elude the anxious observation of a father; and though, in the dreadful anticipation of discovery, shame nearly weighed her to the earth, still she dreaded less the confusion to herself than the raging anguish that, well she knew, would be inflicted upon him.

One night that they were sitting together, Montmorency, as usual, reading, and Gabrielle employed by his side, repressing with her utmost efforts those tears that rose incessantly to her eyes, Montmorency, without looking up, said, “Gabrielle, my child, a draught of water.” Gabrielle, rising hastily, filled out some water, and presented it to her father, while scarcely could she look upon his venerable and pensive countenance, without her deep anguish bursting forth. She stood beside him holding the glass; Montmorency put forth his hand, took it from her, and as he was raising it to his lips, his eyes glanced involuntarily over her figure. Suddenly, like the lightning’s flash, the alteration struck him; his eyes shot rapidly from the figure to the face of his daughter, and his fingers became nerveless; the glass fell to the ground, and, incapable of giving utterance to his dreadful sensations, his parched and trembling lips murmured only, “Gabrielle!”

“My father!” cried Gabrielle, unable to say more, as Montmorency, his eyes still rivetted in horror upon her, sank back in his chair, and gasped for breath.

Some minutes elapsed in this fearful state of mutual agony. Montmorency recovered first; he struck his forehead in despair!—the whole truth flashed at once upon his aching brain!—Clasping his hands together, he suddenly exclaimed, in a voice which struck horror to the heart of Gabrielle,

“Poor girl; poor girl; thou art not to blame.”

It was the manner of his delivering these words, more than the words themselves; it was the wild expression of his countenance, which conveyed so dreadful a sensation to the heart of Gabrielle.—She ventured, trembling, to take his hand, and kneeling at his feet, bent down upon it her fearful face. Montmorency laid his other hand upon her head, and again repeated, “Poor girl, poor girl.”

Gabrielle raised her eyes; she beheld those of her father, not gazing upon her, but stretched on vacancy.—Alarm seized her soul; she started up—she threw her arms round his neck, and cried, “Oh, has my father then nothing to say to his miserable child?”

Still Montmorency repeated only, “Poor girl, poor girl!” still his eyes remained fixed, nor did a single tear refresh the burning glare of madness which they wore. The terror of Gabrielle increased; in vain she now tried every means to excite his feelings; in vain endeavoured to call forth some emotion, to draw him, if possible, from this dreadful insensibility, more frightful than the wildest grief. Useless was every effort, and compelled to resign the task, she seated herself beside him in hopeless anguish.

At length it occurred to the unhappy girl, that if her father would be prevailed on to retire to bed, that rest and tranquillity might restore him. She took his burning hand, “My father, shall I lead you to your room?” she said, while her quick tears dropt upon the hand she held; Montmorency, however, seemed insensible to them, and in a faultering voice, she repeated her question. He then slightly started, and arose as it were mechanically; Gabrielle led him to his room, and assisted him;—he suffered her aid, but spoke not; she kissed his hand as she retired, for his cheek, she dared not, nor did the voice of Montmorency call upon her to return.

Though Gabrielle left the room, it was only from the idea, a terrible one indeed, that her presence disturbed the spirits of her father, which, perhaps, might regain some composure in her absence; for herself, she thought not of bed, but determined to watch during the night in an adjoining chamber. She sat down accordingly as near the door as possible, solitary, forlorn, and in a state of mind that language is powerless to describe. In a short time, unable to rest tranquil, she gently opened his door, and on tip-toe listened;—by his breathing she knew that he slept, and, for this happy circumstance, in a transport of gratitude she kneeled on the threshold, and kissing the ground, returned thanks to that supreme and merciful being whom, though deeply she had offended, she still tremblingly adored. Still, however, she resolved to remain awake, lest the sleep of Montmorency should be short, or he should require some assistance which she would not be near to administer.—Frequently, during the night, she anxiously listened; he still slept, and towards morning, worn out by grief and fatigue, for this was not the only sleepless night which for months past had been the portion of Gabrielle, she fell into a disturbed slumber.

Soon she wakened in alarm, dreaming her father called, and flew to his chamber. What terror seized her, when she beheld the bed empty; she hastened from the cottage into the garden, and with comparative joy descried him winding down the rock, with footsteps slow and solemn. His cheek was pale, his eyes were fixed on the earth, and his arms were folded on his bosom.—Gabrielle ran towards him, and, with humiliated love, offered him her arm. Montmorency stopped a moment, looked at her, sighed deeply, and shaking his head, as if to refuse her proffered assistance, walked on.

The tender, yet reproachful look, the expression of deep despair and anguish with which he regarded her, was too much for the already harrowed feelings of the wretched Gabrielle, and she burst into tears. Instantly Montmorency stopped again, gazed on her with pity, and put forth his hand. In an instant Gabrielle was by his side, he spoke not, but accepted the renewed offer of her arm.

During the whole of this miserable day, Montmorency uttered not a word; the next passed the same, and the next, and the next; a certain number of hours he slept; sometimes he walked, and sometimes he sat in a fixed attitude for hours together. He took scarcely any nourishment, and never at stated hours. A week, a month elapsed, yet still no change; and the wretched daughter at length acknowledged to herself with horror, that the mind of her father was verging on confirmed melancholy madness.

In this dreadful situation the good Madame Bertrand was her only consolation. Now, no longer at leisure to feel for herself, or if she did, hailing her shame and confusion as expiatory pangs, she no more refused to acknowledge what was indeed incapable of further concealment; she confided then, without reserve, the whole of her unhappy secret to this sympathising and only friend, who promised, and who determined to render her every assistance in her power. Together they watched over Montmorency, together attended him; but vain were all their cares; he seldom repaid them by even a look of recognition, much less a word.

It was the spring of the year, when Angelo had arrived at Meillerie, and the charms of the innocent Gabrielle were as fair, and more blooming than the spring itself. It was now autumn; the season had lost its loveliness, and was succeeded by storms; she too was divested of her richest beauty, and of halcyon serenity of mind. Already had she passed two months of the third æra that was to usher into life a friendless being, whose existence would be owing to her crime, and who might, oh! dreadful thought, live to reproach her as the cause. The progress of time, by presenting more forcibly to her mind the view of her guilt, increased her wretchedness and remorse, whilst the daily afflicting sight of her father’s situation pointed every pang with redoubled anguish.

The silence of Montmorency, with the slight exception of now and then a vague exclamation, had for long been uniform; during the day he wandered, heedless of the weather, among the slippery rocks, sometimes accompanied by Gabrielle, sometimes by Madame Bertrand; when, however, they judged from his manner, and his frequently changing his path, that their society was displeasing to him, or considered by him as a presumptuous restraint, they affected to leave him to himself, but still followed and watched him at a distance. As evening drew in he returned home, and, seating himself silently by the fire, either mechanically took a book, or folding his arms upon his breast, fell into an uneasy slumber. He appeared not to take note of any thing that was passing around him; his air was usually wild, or abstracted, and though Gabrielle could not bear to entertain the terrible idea that he had utterly forgotten her, she often more than feared that he did not always know her.

That once proud and noble countenance which seemed to disdain, as it repelled the thought of outrage, that high and towering figure, which looked contempt upon inferior beings, and over which was diffused a sacred majesty which commanded respect, now how changed! Where was the expression of those features? pallid, wasted, wan, no bright intelligence, no fierce consciousness of superiority; his very face bespoke, even in the wreck of intellect, the deep humiliation of his soul. His moody eyes, now burning with a wild melancholy lustre, seemed as if desirous to pierce through space, or, oftener bent on the ground, seemed fearful to raise them on the light; over that once open, and unshrinking front, now furrowed and contracted, the silver hair hung scattered and wild; his figure, no longer haughty and erect, attired in disorder, bent listless and inane; scarcely sensible he seemed of existence; had he been more so, he would have desired death.

At length, one evening, after sitting for several hours in moping melancholy, he fell into a deep sleep, that lasted a considerable time. On awakening, the first object he beheld was his daughter, leaning over him in anxious solicitude; he fixed his eyes upon her, but no longer with that wild stare they had of late worn. When he looked towards her, he gazed on her a few moments, and started, as if now first beholding her altered form; then, passing his hand across his eyes, he said, “Ah, poor girl! I remember—no, no, I do not blame thee,—the fault is mine, all mine; I feel it here,” he added, laying his hand on his heart;—“but you forgive your father,—he little thought”—he pressed his hand on his forehead, for a moment, as in confusion, then resumed,—“fool,—fool, that I was;” then again, regarding her steadily, he exclaimed,—“how unjust, to blame thee, poor girl!—come to my arms, then, come, and let us mingle our tears together.”

So saying, he stretched forth his arms; the overpowered Gabrielle rushed into them, and once more her head reposed on the paternal bosom. Too happy, at this joyful return of something like rationality, to remark the unconnectedness and incoherence of some parts of his speech, she wept the sweetest tears that for long she had shed, and wished even that he could shed some likewise; but her wish was vain; for though Montmorency had said, “let us mingle our tears together,” still was his cheek unwet, and his eyes tearless.

By degrees, Gabrielle recovered sufficiently to gaze upon her father; the sight of his countenance shocked her, for there was not in it the feeling air of recovered reason, but, notwithstanding all he had said, a fixed and dreary vacuum, a stern insensibility, that bore no testimony to the words he had uttered. In vain Gabrielle endeavoured to rouse him; if he for a moment appeared affected by her efforts, a smile which seemed rather only a relaxation of the muscles, than an emanation from the heart, was the only evidence of it. Still she fondly flattered herself with the hope that, though for the present confused, his mind would ultimately recover its tone, as he had certainly evinced strong symptoms of recollection.

In a few moments Montmorency spoke again. Pressing his hands upon his temples, he said, “I have been ill, Gabrielle,—very ill; have I not?”

The tears of Gabrielle were her only answer; “I feel still ill,” he pursued, “a dreadful weight, an oppression here,”—laying his hand upon his breast.

“Let me conduct you to your chamber, my father,” faultered Gabrielle.

“Come, then, my love! Once you were my little love, and my pleasure,” he added, with a mournful smile.

“Come, my father;” sobbed Gabrielle, unable to return any answer to his painful remark, “come,” and placing her arm under his, she assisted him to rise.

“No, no;” said Montmorency, in a low voice, as his eyes glanced over her form; “no, no, poor girl, I want not your assistance;” and trembling he rose, leaning but slightly upon the slender arm of Gabrielle.

She led him to his chamber; when he reached the side of his bed he stopped, as if exhausted, and said, looking upon his daughter, “Gabrielle, I know what would cure me.”

“What, my father?” eagerly asked Gabrielle.

“The bursting of my heart!” he answered, with an air of frightful calmness.

Gabrielle felt her blood chill: “Yes,” he pursued, “my heart has become too big for my breast;—its bursting would relieve me, and I should, of necessity, be cured; yes, yes,” he repeated rapidly to himself, as if convinced of the rationality of his observation; and Gabrielle, with dismay, perceived that his senses were relapsing into chaos. At length she persuaded him to retire to bed, and when his head was on the pillow, she seated herself by his side to watch, determined that during the night she would not leave him.

Montmorency soon fell into a disturbed slumber, which continued for about three hours; at the end of that time he started up, and looked eagerly around; he beheld his daughter beside him, and fixing his eyes upon her, he said, “Gabrielle, my child, bring me my sword.”

Montmorency possessed a sword indeed, but in their peaceful secluded residence being useless, it had long been hung unnoticed against the wall; his request, at this period, that it should be brought him, struck Gabrielle with a mingled sensation of hope and alarm; hope, though it implied mischievous ideas on one hand, yet announced a power of recollection on the other. She, therefore, without evincing terror, replied, “your sword, my father, wherefore do you need it?”

“To relieve my heart,” he cried, emphatically; “or I shall never be at ease.”

Gabrielle shuddered, and arose; she bent over him, and laid his head upon her bosom. “Compose yourself, my beloved father,” she said, in a broken voice, “your heart will yet recover without the aid of your sword.”

Montmorency looked at her, and faintly shook his head; then, as if in sudden resentment, lifting it from her bosom, he cast himself back on the pillow, and muttered, “Never shall I be well till my heart bursts; and the cruel girl refuses me my sword.”

Gabrielle durst not reply; drowned in tears, she seated herself again by the side of the bed, and sleep once more overpowered the unhappy Montmorency.

Morning at length dawned; that morning, whose splendid sun he was doomed never more to behold.—Montmorency opened his eyes, and said, in a faint inward voice, “Raise me, Gabrielle.”—Gabrielle, tremblingly obeyed.—The dim light, which shone through the vine-entwined lattice, revealed to her the pale face of her father, already marked with the insignia of ruthless death; he rested for an instant on her bosom, then, with a convulsive shudder, started from it; he pressed, with all his strength, his hands upon his breast; his whole frame violently trembled; he became cold as ice, and turning his dimly-glazed eyes upon his daughter, as a deep sigh burst from and seemed to relieve his heart—he cried,—“Oh, my God!—at length I am easy,—my heart has burst!—Did I not, did I not tell you, I should never be at ease till then?”—Violent struggles seized him, and the dews of death gemmed his forehead.—The wretched Gabrielle alone, incapable of rendering him any assistance, could scarcely restrain him in his bed. At length he became calm; his struggles subsided; a ray of perfect recollection beamed through his mind; he regarded his weeping daughter with a mournful air.—“Gabrielle,” he murmured, “my heart is broke!—Dear girl, I forgive thee! Heaven look down with mercy, and forgive us both!” The last words were scarcely formed upon his lips; he could say no more, but his closing eyes were still turned upon his daughter, with an expression such as shewed that reason had returned in his last moments, to harrow up the fleeting soul, and double the agony of death. He made a feeble movement for the hand of Gabrielle, who now knelt beside him; with his cold damp hand he tremblingly raised, and placed it upon his eyes, from which the sight was waning fast, as though he would have said, “Thou shalt close my eyes.” Short and tremulous breathings heaved his breast, they became fainter and fainter,—irregular,—now for a moment they ceased,—and now they ceased for ever!

For a few minutes after the last breath had issued from the lips of Montmorency, Gabrielle, her trembling hand still placed over his eyes, neither spoke nor moved, for she believed that her father was sinking into sleep, and feared to disturb him; at length she ventured softly to remove her hand; the fixed features struck a fearful anguish to her soul. She gazed upon him, and still dreading to admit the terrible conviction, placed her hand near his mouth; she felt no breath;—upon his heart she felt no movement;—a piercing and distracting shriek escaped her lips; she rushed wildly towards the door, but ere she could reach it, overpowered with unutterable horror, sank insensible on the floor.

How long the wretched Gabrielle might have remained in this situation, or what might have been her dreadful fate, admits not of conjecture, had not the amiable Madame Bertrand, who had not seen her the preceding day, deemed it an act of duty and propriety to visit her as early as possible upon this. Raising the latch of the door she entered; but perceiving no one in the outer room, she advanced to the interior, where a scene of horror met her view.

Well aware of the situation of Gabrielle, with courage of true friendship, unchecked by selfish terrors at an hour like this, she hastened instantly towards her, and raising her in her arms, placed her as well as she could by the side of the bed where the unfortunate Montmorency had breathed his last. By slow degrees Gabrielle recovered, but awakened to life rather by the severest bodily pangs, than the efforts of friendship. To what did she awaken? to recollections that almost quenched, in a sea of horror, the feeble ray of returning reason; yet she did not relapse into insensibility, for increasing agony kept too dreadfully alive the sense of feeling. But of herself she thought not; it was of her father she raved—of the pangs, the pangs of the heart that she had occasioned him. Madame Bertrand had covered over the face of Montmorency; Gabrielle beheld him not, and the idea of his death appeared like a frightful dream to her mind. Alarmed for her; fearing the consequences that might ensue, even to the risk of her life, should she remain where she was, and insist on contemplating the cold body of her father, the wish of the good Bertrand was to take advantage of the present distraction of her mind, to withdraw her from the chamber of death; in this she succeeded, partly by intreaty, partly by stratagem; and having brought her to her own room, induced her, without much solicitation, for the wretched girl was incapable of resistance, to repose on the bed. Steady and courageous she remained beside her, and ere long, in pain and in sorrow, the forlorn Gabrielle ushered on the world a female infant.

Every attention, every aid in the power of the most sincere and ardent friendship to bestow, was administered by the excellent Bertrand to the distressed mother, and extended to the unconscious infant. She watched by her with the most unremiting care, and left her only to facilitate the means of procuring such assistance as her situation might further render necessary. This she did through the means of her ardent admirer Boffuet, who, too happy in an opportunity of obliging her he so assiduously courted, ransacked the canton for such things as Madame Bertrand informed him she required, and desired no other reward than the permission of visiting her sometimes, during her stay at the cottage of Gabrielle.

The bodily sufferings of the unhappy Gabrielle being at an end, those of her mind increased ten-fold; she beheld the picture of the past as it was, no longer confused or distorted by transports of agony, or bewildered by distraction of idea; all was before her frightfully clear: she contemplated it in horror; and weakened nature, incapable of enduring the renewed torments of reflection, sunk under such accumulated sufferings; and fever, with raging delirium ensued, threatening to put a speedy period to the life which still feebly existed.

Five days had now elapsed since the death of Montmorency, when Madame Bertrand conceived it proper that his sad remains should be consigned to their parent earth. She consulted with Boffuet, without suggesting aught to Gabrielle upon so melancholy a subject, and agreed with him, that his burial should not be deferred beyond the following day.

From the time of her confinement, whatever Gabrielle had said of her father had been but in incoherent ravings; it seemed, as it were, impossible for her to dwell on the idea of his being no more, and retain her reason; upon this subject never had she for long been rational; and when the vague harrowing recollection of his death darted like the lightening’s flash through her chaotic brain, it became immediately followed by the wildest effusions of an horror-stricken fancy.

It happened on the morning of the day fixed for the interment of the unfortunate Montmorency, that having been tolerably calm during the night, and towards morning falling into a slumber, Madame Bertrand imagined that she might venture for a few minutes to leave her, in order to speak with Boffuet in the adjoining room, respecting some requisite arrangements; she accordingly closed the curtains round the bed, and softly stepped out of the chamber, drawing the door gently after her. This movement however, slight as it was, interrupted the light and feverish sleep of Gabrielle; she started, and opening her eyes, missed from her side her accustomed friend and guardian; at the same time she heard whispering, and some little bustle in the adjoining chamber, separated from her’s only by a thin partition, in which was, likewise, the door which Madame Bertrand had purposely not entirely closed.

She listened eagerly, and heard Madame Bertrand say, in a low voice, accompanied by a sigh, “Poor Montmorency; alas! what now must be the fate of the daughter thou hast left, of her who was thy pride?” The heart of the wretched Gabrielle beat hard against her breast, her cheek flushed with the wild crimson of agony, when she distinguished the voice of Boffuet, in reply, “Poor Montmorency, say I too; he disdained us all when he was alive; but he is now no more, and his pride must be forgotten.” Gabrielle heard no more; the scene that was passing in the next room was now fully revealed to her; nerving horror lent her bodily strength, she sprang from the bed to the door, and rushed into the room, despair and madness painted in her countenance. Madame Bertrand, in dismay, turned towards her, and sought to force her back; while Boffuet, standing before the pale corpse of Montmorency, endeavoured to hide it from her view. Gabrielle spoke not, but she resisted the efforts of Madame Bertrand with an immoveable strength. Her hands were clasped together in agony; her eyes started from their sockets; and in defiance of every intreaty or attempt to restrain her, she made her way towards the bed, where she stood gazing, with a wild and steady stare, on the livid features of her father, majestic even in death,—on those features which so fully conveyed the idea, that he never could survive a stain upon his honor,—on those features which bespoke a courage and a pride to be conquered only by disgrace!

At length, in a low voice, she murmured, bending over his body—“Oh! God, is it even so?—my father—what a wreck!”—Her hands, before clasped, were now twisted together—her whole frame became convulsed; yet in the midst of these dreadful workings of nature, her eyes still strained upon the harrowing object before her, as some conscience-stricken wretch gazes on the goary phantom of his disturbed imagination.—A deathy film spread itself over her sight—surrounding objects became misty and confused—all appeared a fearful scene of visionary horror, too dreadful to be real,—completely overpowered, every nerve relaxed, she fell prostrate on the bed upon the unconscious form that lay stretched before her.—In that state the terrified Bertrand conveyed her in her arms to bed, exerting a strength of which her energetic friendship alone made her capable.

In a situation so dangerous as that of Gabrielle, it may readily be conceived there was every probability that the scene she had undergone must in its consequences become fatal to her. Thus however it did not prove; those only who have survived the most dreadful sufferings, and overcome the most imminent dangers, know what human nature is capable of sustaining; certain it was, that though for long even after the violence of her mental paroxysms had subsided, and the malady of her body yielded to the strength and goodness of her constitution, her recovery remained more than doubtful; and when some slight portion of returning convalescence enabled her to quit, for a few hours in the day, her bed, her appearance bore every symptom of alarming atrophy, threatening soon to terminate her miserable existence. Yet still she lived, and time and nature triumphed over the ills of mortality.

Meantime her infant daughter increased daily in strength and beauty; the good Bertrand, almost despairing to preserve the mother, had attended with indefatigable and most assiduous care the child. Her plain and benevolent heart, which knew only what the best feelings, and what unsophisticated virtue, without the aid of philosophical refinement, teaches us to practise, did not calculate whether by essaying to rear the infant, and preserve its life, she did not perhaps commit an error, by reserving it for incalculable evils, and unforeseen misfortunes. She only considered that a tender and helpless human being was in question, that if it perished a life would be lost, and if it were preserved a life would be saved.—Upon these genuine and simple suggestions of nature she acted, and the babe more than repaid her beneficent care, in the pleasure it gave her to find it effectual.

Gabrielle, in process of time, became enabled to quit her bed altogether, next to inhale the mountain breeze, and next to enjoy it while taking gentle exercise. Still however, though now perfectly sane in mind as well as body, a melancholy gloom oppressed her. Since the fatal funeral day of the unfortunate Montmorency, she had never been seen to smile; and the afflicted Bertrand, though willing to cherish hope, sometimes was compelled to fear, that this unvarying depression would end ultimately in confirmed and moping madness. To avert this dreadful result, she exerted every effort to rouse and call forth her feelings, “Come my dear Gabrielle, would she say, look at our child, speak to it—kiss it—see how it smiles upon you.” But at this the unhappy Gabrielle would mournfully shake her head, while she gazed sadly upon its innocent countenance. At other times, when she seemed totally absorbed, and her tender friend feared with increased anxiety for her intellects, she would endeavour to affect her even, by presenting to her mind the most painful images.

“My dear friend,” then would she say to her, “why this incessant melancholy? consider, that though your father no longer lives, your sufferings have more than expiated the uneasiness you may have given him.—— Heaven has accepted the atonement, and when heaven forgives, it becomes impious to persevere in a grief that implies a doubt of, or ingratitude for its mercy.”—At these words Gabrielle would exclaim, “Ah, cruel Bertrand, what tell you me of heaven’s forgiveness—dare you outrage the great God, in supposing that he could ever forgive such crimes as mine?—Am I not a wretch?—have I not sinned against the purity of virtue?—did I not disgrace my honorable father?—did I not destroy him by so doing?—have I not brought his grey hairs in sorrow to the grave?—did he not fondly cherish me—and I repaid him by breaking his heart?—What tell you me then of heaven’s forgiveness? No, no; horror be my portion, no grief, no remorse, can blot out at the bar of holy heaven guilt and crimes like mine.” In speaking thus she would burst into a passion of tears, she would weep long and copiously, and her mind becoming thus in a degree relieved from the vent given to her feelings, she would for some time afterwards appear less gloomy and despairing.

One morning that Madame Bertrand had been out, with the little Agnes, for so had she named her, she found on her return, that Gabrielle was not in the room where they usually sat, and she proceeded to seek her in her chamber; she was not there either; and as she was retiring, she perceived that the door which led into the chamber that had been her father’s, and which for long had remained unopened, appeared now not perfectly closed.—Somewhat surprised, she approached and gently pushed it, when by the side of the bed on which the high soul’d Montmorency had breathed his last, she beheld his daughter kneeling, her face hidden on the coverlid.—She drew near her; deeply affected, and slightly touching her shoulder, she said “Wherefore thus; my dearest Gabrielle? suffer me to lead you hence.”

Gabrielle raised her face from the bed—its expression was neither wild nor desperate, but it was paler then death, and bedewed with tears.—“My dear friend—my kind Bertrand,” she said in a calm and solemn voice, without rising from her knees, “this is my birth day; the fevered and lamented being who expired on this bed, kept this day ever with a little feast, and with fond rejoicing.—He would with a tearful eye of love gaze upon me—retrace the days of my childhood, and bless the Almighty that he possessed such a daughter!”—Stifled sobs compelled her to pause for a moment, and she resumed—“he is now no more—this day, therefore, I shall pass in sorrow and mourning; I too shall retrace the days of my childhood—the tender love he bore me, the tender care he lavished on me—how he cherished and protected me, and the reward I gave him!—All this will I remember, to new point the pangs of my remorse—to increase my sufferings, and shew me how unworthy I am of the forgiveness of heaven.—— When midnight has passed, and not before, will I quit this room, where that dear father died, and retire to my own; therefore, dear Bertrand, attempt not to oppose me, for my resolution is fixed.”

“But dearest Gabrielle,” cried Madame Bertrand, while the tears coursed down her cheeks, “such incessant suffering will kill you.”

“How he suffered who died on that bed, Bertrand,” with affecting solemnity, answered Gabrielle, pointing to the bed—“his sufferings killed him;—I inflicted those sufferings—and yet live;—oh, just God, chastise me; heap pain and misfortune on my head;—let me not go unpunished for my dreadful crimes;—so shall I know that, great as they are, thou hast not wholly forgotten me; for if thou hast not, thou must in thy justice punish me.”

“Oh! forbear, my friend,” cried Madame Bertrand, “you rive my heart.”

“Leave me, kind Bertrand,—yet stay;—first let me kiss my child.”

The weeping Bertrand brought near the child to its penitent mother, who taking it in her arms was on the point of kissing it, but suddenly drawing back, exclaimed—“No! I who have killed my father, deserve not, on such a day, the happiness of kissing my child:—Leave me, leave me! dear Bertrand, even the sight of you, with that cherub in your arms, is a pleasure greater than I merit.—Oh, God,” she added, “as I gaze on her did my father gaze on me; what if she should curse me with ingratitude, as I have cursed him!” So spoke the unhappy Gabrielle, and hiding her face on the bed, wept in the eloquence of silent woe.

Madame Bertrand readily perceived that to attempt to dissuade her from her present purpose would be both useless and distressing; she therefore, after silently contemplating her for a few moments in tender compassion, quitted with gentleness the apartment, respecting even the wild enthusiasm of her grief.

Steady to her purpose did Gabrielle remain, fasting, and solitary in the dying chamber of her father, fixed on her knees beside his lonely bed, contemplating, with deep remorse, her past guilt, and its terrible consequences; and looking to the future with nought but saddest anticipation. Oft, from extreme debility, and remaining for long in one painful position, did she feel on the point of being overcome; but determined not to relax, she hail’d sickness, pain and uneasiness, as expiations, though slight, for her offences, and resolved to die rather than abridge an instant of her prescribed time of penance.

Night drew in, and she became involved in darkness; fancy presented to her, her departed father, now as sitting with her in the days of their peace, his eyes fixed on his book, or raised only to look fondly upon her; now she beheld him walking in unsuspicious confidence with Angelo; now plunged in melancholy madness, brooding and suffering from the dreadful effects of that confidence;—now, on the bed before her, she saw him stretched in sleep, as he appeared the night previous to his death; now, starting and looking wildly round, death closed these visions of sad retrospection, and she beheld him a cold and pallid corpse; it receded from her view; now his holy phantom hovered before her, she saw it mount to heaven, and her strained eyes in fancy followed till it was lost amid the clouds.

Midnight approached; she raised her hands to the throne of mercy, and said, “Oh, my God! I ask thee not to pardon me, till bitter misfortune shall have atoned my crimes in thy sight, if atoned they may be; but I implore thee to direct my future conduct, and to chastise me in any way that, by obtaining thy pardon, may permit me, after death, to be reunited to my father, and obtain his pardon for my mortal sins.” She then arose from her knees; though her feeble frame was sinking to the earth, her heart seemed lighter, and her mind more calm, for she felt as though she had performed a sacred and indispensable duty.

Gabrielle had retraced, brooded, and wept over the past; but she had likewise imagined a plan for the future; thus, though still melancholy, she was less so than before. Such is the power of moral, over physical feeling; when the mind is ill at ease, bodily health is vain, and sickness often vanishes when that is rendered tranquil. With tottering steps she quitted the chamber of death, and entered that where the anxious Bertrand impatiently awaited her. This excellent creature, anticipating the enfeebled state to which so many hours of exhausting penance must have reduced the scarce recovered Gabrielle, had prepared a slight repast, in order to restore and refresh her.

Gabrielle perceived, on her entrance, this kind attention; and though it grieved her to disappoint her tender friend, still, faithful to the spirit of her resolution, she firmly, though with gentleness, refused the smallest refreshment, determined to conclude the day as she had commenced it, in abstinence and in prayer; for justly she argued, that when a pain is succeeded by a pleasure, the memory of the former quickly fades from the mind; therefore is its pressure but half sustained. Madame Bertrand found herself as incapable of opposing this determination as the first; her superior mind fully entered into the sacred conceptions of the repentant Gabrielle, and reasoning as she did, persuasions would, she felt, be useless and improper. She therefore accompanied her to her chamber, and assisting her to bed, followed speedily herself, as had been her custom since the illness and deranged state of Gabrielle had rendered necessary the unremitting attentions of friendship.

More than six months had now elapsed since Gabrielle had given birth to a daughter; the infant, cherished by the joint care of a friend and a mother, was healthful as the breeze of the mountain; by the latter, its opening graces were often contemplated with a sigh and a feeling of bitter anguish; and when Madame Bertrand would sometimes call her attention, while gazing herself with enthusiastic pleasure on its lovely features, she could not immediately reply, or give to her praises the well-deserved meed of assent.

Meantime she had digested and arranged a plan for her future adoption, which she waited only a favorable opportunity to declare to her tender friend. One day they were sitting together at the door of their cottage; the sun was fast shrouding in bright western clouds his brighter beams; the shadows of evening were beginning to gather on the mighty brows of the mountains, her dark grey mantle blended some with the horizon, while a shadowy purple was cast on those below. The towering head of Mont Blanc, father of mountains, invulnerable to the warm visitations of the parting beam, though decked in the glittering beauties it bestowed, rose like a hoary and majestic chief above them all, retaining still, in an atmosphere of its own, a flood of dewy light. Gabrielle gazed on the triumphant scene, so proudly rich in solitary beauty,—on the rugged rocks, boasting here and there a vestment of green, given by the patient hand of man; on the rushing cataract, whose foamy spray, as it battled along, enveloped it in a thick smoke; she gazed on the eternally varying scene, but it was familiar to her eyes, and her thoughts were otherwise employed; she was meditating how best she might divulge to Madame Bertrand, who sat beside her, the plan she had in view. Praising, as usual, the beauty of the child she held in her arms, and receiving from the pensive Gabrielle no reply, at length she said, hastily, “Why is it, Gabrielle, that you have never a word, or a look, to bestow upon your child?”

“I am bestowing my thoughts on her,” replied Gabrielle, seriously.

“You are thinking how beautiful she is,” said Madame Bertrand, gazing on the child, with admiring fondness.

“Poor infant,” said Gabrielle, with a sigh.

“And why do you pity her?” enquired Madame Bertrand, somewhat angrily, and kissing the babe with fervour.

“How can you, my dear friend, demand that question?” replied Gabrielle, mournfully; “is she not a wretched, friendless babe? no father, no friend!”—

“No friend?” interrupted Madame Bertrand, reproachfully.

“True, true my kind Bertrand; pardon me, she has a friend; but that friend cannot supply to her a father’s place, and my heart dies within me, when I reflect upon the misery, the dangers, the contempt, this unconscious child may have to encounter; should she be thrown upon the careless world, no father will step forth to shield, or to rescue her;—if the breath of the defamer should blight her, no father will revenge the insult; or, if the seducer should destroy her,” she added, faulteringly, “no father will call him to account. Her birth will not entitle her to respect or consideration; to defend her might be even deemed disgrace. Ah! my poor child—would—would—”

“Would what, Gabrielle?” cried Madame Bertrand, sadly.

“Oh, would she had died!” cried Gabrielle, bursting into tears.

“Impious,” exclaimed Madame Bertrand, “dare you, rash girl, dispute the wisdom of Providence?”

“No;” answered Gabrielle, “I express but the wish of an apprehensive mortal, nor do I think, dearest Bertrand, that it is an impious wish; for is it not better that this babe should die innocent and happy, then live to become infamous or miserable? And how, offspring as she is of a guilty mother, deprived of a father’s protection, dare I presume to hope that it may be otherwise? Like a frail lily on a barren heath, she will be exposed, defenceless, to every storm;—she will fall, and be destroyed! Alas! what reproaches may I not endure for ushering her into life? Thus then, my friend, do I say, better for her to die now, than be reserved, perhaps, for incalculable ills.

“Why refine, thus,” cried Madame Bertrand; “let her then never enter the busy world.”

“That it is impossible to command,” answered Gabrielle, “and therefore is it my duty to provide for her a shield that may preserve her from its dangers; and, for that purpose—I must quit these solitudes!”

“What mean you?” cried Madame Bertrand, with alarm, “would you quit your child? for assuredly I will not part with her.”

“Neither do I desire that you should, my good Bertrand; but hear me. That tender, helpless, and forlorn child has a father, a father, too, capable of protecting her, and making unfelt, at maturer years, the misfortunes of her birth. As much as obloquy and shame can be extenuated by the rank or elevation of those to whom it attaches, in so much may this babe hereafter claim consideration in the world, from the situation in which she shall be placed. I, indeed, cannot give her any, but her father, from his rank and power, can; therefore is it my duty to neglect no means of inducing him to perform towards her the part of a parent; and I am determined to direct my utmost energy to that point, humbly hoping, that however I may have been the unhappy means of ushering her upon evil and danger, I may yet place her in such a position, and surrounded by a guard so strong, that the deep error of which I have been guilty may be, as far as relates to her, in great measure retrieved. Oh, God!” she added, in a voice of anguish, “I robbed a father of his existence; let not my punishment be visited on the head of my child, nor let me sink into the grave, with the dreadful conviction of having destroyed the two beings dearest to my heart.”

When Gabrielle spoke the dictates of reason and virtue, her friend always found it impossible to oppose her, and had too much of both herself to make the attempt; she therefore remained silent, listening to what further she was going to add. Gabrielle, after a few moments, resumed:

“I will seek the Conte D’Albini;—I will seek the father of my child; that forlorn child calls upon me to do so; obstacles shall not deter me; my plan is arranged, my resolution taken; difficulties will but increase my perseverance, nor, if still he exist upon the earth, shall aught but death force me to resign my search.”

“But, dearest Gabrielle,” said Madame Bertrand, trembling at an animation that bordered on wildness, “surely you are ignorant where to seek the Conte; he has written to you but once since his departure.”

“I know it,” answered Gabrielle, her eyes darting fire, and her cheeks burning with the shame of despised love; “I know it well, but that shall not deter me. Self is from the question at present; I know no delicacy, no punctilious feeling, no idle resentment for myself; those fugitive sensations, whether well or ill founded, belong to happier loves; higher considerations must be mine,” pointing to her child.

“But consider, dear girl, where can you seek?”

“Over the world, if necessary; but first I will visit Italy; perhaps—perhaps he may be still at Naples.”

“Oh, Gabrielle,” exclaimed Madame Bertrand, “what is it you would attempt? assuredly I can participate in your feelings; I perceive your views, and I admire the noble spirit which would excite you to pursue them, but at the same time I cannot help perceiving the insurmountable obstacles which oppose you. How are you to become a traveller, how are you to encounter dangers of which you have scarcely an idea, bred and educated as you have been in the profoundest solitude, and knowing nothing of a world beyond these mountains?”

“But little indeed,” answered Gabrielle; “I was but a child, when, with my beloved father, I quitted it; but books have told me much, and his extensive information still more; thus, though I have been, as you say, educated in solitude, I am not wholly ignorant of the world I am going to encounter.”

“Poor girl! you will find, that the conception of the world, which you have acquired from books, and verbal information, will be insufficient to guide you through it; think, think I intreat you, more dispassionately, ere you attempt to act; here we may live for ever peaceful, and unmolested.”

“No, no,” answered Gabrielle, “that must not be; a thousand casualties might intervene to disturb your system; say then no more, my friend, and spare me the mortification of being compelled to shew you, that there is a subject on which even you have no power to influence me. I shall go,—I shall tempt the fearful world, beyond these peaceful mountains, which to me, alas! have not proved walls strong enough to protect from guilt and misfortune; offer then no further opposition, my tender Bertrand, but promise me only to protect, till my return, this infant that you now so fondly cherish.”

Madame Bertrand, pressing the child to her bosom, replied, “Do as you will, Gabrielle; believe that in me this child will ever find a mother.”

Gabrielle seized her hand, and fervently kissing it, exclaimed, “Thank you, dearest friend, you have lightened my heart of its chief care; I have now courage for any thing.”

Madame Bertrand wept, but did not reply; and fearful that the dews of evening should injure her tender charge, she arose and entered the cottage.

Gabrielle remained, still meditating on her well-digested plan; and organising in her mind its minuter parts, fully appreciating, and, perhaps, rather exceeding in her ideas, the imminent perils she would have to encounter, by venturing into the world a forlorn and defenceless female. She resolved, therefore, to assume the habit of the opposite sex, and, as a further precaution against discovery, to change the delicate hue of her complexion, by the expressed juice of certain herbs, the properties of which she well knew. Her cottage, and what little it contained, she decided to convert into money, and to divide it equally with her kind friend, previous to her departure. While still she ruminated, the gentle voice of Madame Bertrand, praying her to remain no longer in the air, roused her from her abstraction, and hastily rising, she joined her in the cottage. The evening was past in detailing her plan at large to this excellent creature, and in requesting her assistance, to which, finding opposition vain, she yielded melancholy acquiescence. Though shuddering at the evils to which she might be exposed, she could not, in her heart, deny that her plan was carefully and correctly arranged. It was settled that Boffuet, the still persevering admirer of Madame Bertrand, should be entrusted with her intention; for his assistance would be necessary, as he would be the fittest person to dispose of the cottage, and to purchase a disguise for Gabrielle.

On the following morning, desirous to expedite her movements, she pressed Madame Bertrand to apply at once to Boffuet; to this, though with tearful reluctance, her friend agreed; and Boffuet, as usual, proud and solicitous to oblige his mistress, undertook, with the greatest alacrity, all that was required of him. So strenuously did he exert himself, that in a few days every thing was in readiness for the departure of Gabrielle, who found herself, by the disposal of her cottage and its contents, in possession of a sum far greater than, with her ignorance of the world, she could believe requisite for her necessities. According to her original intention, she divided the money into equal portions, and as she presented one half to Madame Bertrand, she said, “Here, my beloved friend, is a sum which is useless to me; to you, who have my child under your protection, it more justly belongs; and will, perhaps, be more necessary.”

Madame Bertrand, indignantly putting back the proffered sum, answered, with a reproachful look, while a tear trembled in her mild eye, “I thought, I hoped, Gabrielle, that you had known me better.”

Boffuet, who was present, observed, while his eyes fastened on the gold, that with all due deference to Madame Bertrand, he humbly conceived her delicacy was misplaced, as in case of any accident arising to Mademoiselle de Montmorency, her beautiful little daughter would not be wholly unprovided for.

Madame Bertrand glanced on Boffuet with an air of scorn and indignation; but Gabrielle seeming forcibly struck by this remark, and almost regretting that she had disposed of the cottage, which would have been a certain asylum for her daughter, hastily answered, “How much truth and reason is there in your words, my good Boffuet, and how infinitely ought I to thank you for your seasonable anticipation; here, then,” she added, dividing the half she had reserved for herself in two portions likewise, “I add this to my daughter’s share, and since Madame Bertrand refuses it, do you, my kind Boffuet, take charge of it; for, in case of need, sure am I that you will prove a faithful steward.”

Boffuet eagerly longed, yet durst not stretch forth his hand to take the tendered sum, lest he should displease his mistress; he therefore only said, “If Madame Bertrand permit, I think, indeed, it is an advisable precaution in Mademoiselle de Montmorency.”

Madame Bertrand still remained silent, but her silence was eloquence itself.

“I have only further to observe,” said Gabrielle, perceiving the delicacy of her friend, “that if my kind Bertrand will take the gold, she will set my heart at rest; but if she refuse, I will throw it down the first precipice in my way.”

This last observation, strengthened by an idea which at the moment struck the worthy Bertrand, decided her; for she mentally resolved, that while she possessed this sum, her dear Gabrielle could never want; stretching forth her reluctant hand, therefore, she said, emphatically, “It is enough, give me the gold, Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle was rejoiced, and the countenance of Boffuet brightened, as his twinkling eyes watched the transfer of the gold, from one hand to the other.

The following day was now agreed upon for the departure of Gabrielle; Boffuet left them, and was to return in the morning, to accompany Gabrielle a short distance on her way. This, the last evening that they were to remain together, was passed in tears by Madame Bertrand, and by Gabrielle alternately in deep thought and in administering consolation to her friend. Their melancholy supper passed untouched, each tenderly pressing the other to eat, yet finding it impossible to practise what they urged.

At length, before retiring for the night, Gabrielle taking from her bosom the medallion which had been given her by Angelo, opened it, and gazing for a moment upon his youthful portrait, hastily closed it, and passed the chain by which it was suspended around the neck of her sleeping infant: “This, my child,” she cried, “belongs rather to thee then me, for it is the gift of thy father, who to me, alas, is nothing. In resigning it to thee then, I do not break the promise which I made him, when I said I would never bestow it but on one I should love equally with himself. Little did I then think that such possibility could ever exist; but I love the child of Angelo, as I loved himself. Oh! my friend,” she continued, turning to Madame Bertrand, “be it, I most earnestly implore, your care to preserve to my child this only gift, this only memorial that I have to bestow on her from a father. Oh! may no casualty deprive her of it while under your protection; keep it, I conjure you, from all eyes, even from those of——” The name of Boffuet was on her tongue, for she had remarked the expression of his countenance as he viewed the gold; yet, unwilling to pain her friend, she only added, “From the eyes of all that you may even think well of—for if I should die before the accomplishment of my purpose, and this child be hereafter cast upon the world, it might—it might be a means of conducting her, or revealing her to a father!”

“Be assured, I will watch over your child, and carefully preserve to her this gift, so justly prized by you from the united portraits it represents, and from containing the date of the Conte’s birth, his name, and age, at the period when the portrait was taken; particulars which must ever place its originality and relation to the family beyond all doubt.”

“Therefore is it,” answered Gabrielle anxiously, “that I affix such consequence to its preservation; and affixing such consequence, bestow it on my child, rather than retain it myself. When she is of an age to understand, should I continue far away from her, or perhaps no more exist, for something tells me that these longing looks with which I now regard her, will be the last I shall ever bestow on her, oh! then impress upon her mind, the extensive value of this gift, make it an almost primary object of her consideration, that thus the impression received in her childhood may be permanent, actuate her at maturer age, be daily strengthened by you, and have all the importance attached to it in her idea, which will be necessary for its preservation. No more now on this subject, my dear Bertrand, but let us retire to rest; for to-morrow I shall rise with the dawn.” Then filling out a glass of wine, she handed it to her friend, saying, “Exert, rouse yourself, dear Bertrand, conquer this excessive grief, let us drink a glass of wine, and hope that happiness may yet await us in the happiness of others.”

This very observation of Gabrielle brought the tears afresh into the eyes of Madame Bertrand, for did it not evince how completely she despaired of happiness herself, by placing her only hope in viewing that of others? she forbore, however, to express the painful ideas she excited, and said only, while the glass trembled in her hand, and her lip quivered with emotion, “This then, Gabrielle, may probably be the last glass of wine we may ever drink together.”

The possibility of this, deeply affected even the strong mind of Gabrielle, and she could not restrain her tears; yet, anxious to impart happier thoughts to the mind of her friend, she answered, “Banish such gloomy ideas, and let us hope rather that we do not part for long.”

“I have a foreboding at my heart,” answered Madame Bertrand, in a mournful voice, “that we shall never meet again!—-- and—and that you behold even your child, for the last time.”

“Oh, my God! think you thus likewise?” cried the agitated Gabrielle, “I must listen to you no longer—you will enfeeble, nay destroy the little firmness I have been endeavouring to collect for our painful parting, and this hazardous, though necessary step. Let us then retire at once, nor embitter, by anticipations so dreadful, the few hours we have to remain together.”

The first streak of dawn beheld Gabrielle prepared to abandon the once peaceful asylum of her innocence and youth, and now, though become the tomb of her happiness, viewed still with a sensation of melancholy regret. She was habited in her male attire, her dark hair fastened behind in small compass, and her fair complexion changed to a creolian hue with the juice she had prepared, and of which she provided herself with a sufficient quantity. Complete throughout appeared the transformation, and Madame Bertrand, as she embraced her, almost started, saying, “So much do you seem changed in my eyes, that scarcely can I persuade myself it is my Gabrielle with whom I am parting.”

“Ah, beloved friend,” answered Gabrielle, returning her embrace with fervour, “think, then, that it is not me, if by that means your sorrow may be diminished.”

Madame Bertrand shook her head, and burst into tears; at this moment Boffuet appeared, and interrupted the melancholy scene; when Gabrielle, quitting the room, sought the chamber where Montmorency had expired, intent on paying the last sad duty of a visit to a spot which brought to her ever mourning mind the most vivid and harrowing recollections. Already, as she entered, a cold chill crept through her blood;—o’er the lattice the uncropped vine and honeysuckle twined in unmolested luxuriance; no one attempted now to check or to direct their growth; for it was not meet, that, when the tenant of that room was no longer animated, aught around it should be rendered, as in unholy mockery, trimly gay; the wild branches covered the window, and the chastened light, which gleamed through their interstices, filled the chamber with that sad and pensive gloom best suited to the sacred memory of a departed friend. With slow and reverential step, with inclining figure, Gabrielle approached the lonely bed;—she gazed on it, her eyes filled with tears, and agonizing retrospections began to crowd upon her mind.—She raised her hands to heaven, and groaned; plain, in mental vision, she beheld the martyr’d Montmorency stretched on the bed before her, his dying eyes seemed turned upon her. “Shade of my father!” she exclaimed, “I quit your sacred haunts; curse me not in your wanderings through this deserted spot,—but pity and forgive her, whose crimes have created the duty which calls her hence.”

She then hurried from the room; on her return she beheld Madame Bertrand, though still weeping, more composed; she drew near the bed where reposed her child, yet calmly slumbering; she knelt down beside it, and taking one of its little hands between her’s, she imprinted a gentle kiss upon its blooming cheek, and cried, “Sweet babe—to God I commend thee; may he look down upon thee, guard thy innocence, and protect thee from ill; may’st thou become happy, virtuous and honourable; uninjured by the misfortunes, and unaffected by the errors of thy mother.” Once more she kissed it, and her big tears settled on the bloomy cheek of the babe, as the dew of the morning gems the early and tender rose of spring. Her emotions became too powerful; she felt, either she must waver in her resolution, or must instantly fly. Starting up then suddenly, she exclaimed—“Yes, yes, I go my child—thy interest calls—farewell—Bertrand, my friend!” and she pointed impressively to the child, “my friend, adieu!”

“Yes, yes, rely on me—you may,” cried the good Bertrand, and sinking on a chair she burst into tears, as Gabrielle, her eyes shaded with her hand, rushed from the cottage.

The scene is now changed, and passing over what is not immediately material to be detailed, we behold Gabrielle de Montmorency in Naples, unmolested, and unnoticed in her male attire; and having no imbecile fears of her own to contend against, she had performed her journey without danger, and with little difficulty. She was entering on a world, where all was strange and new to her; but yet her strong mind felt no alarm, nor did she suffer herself to be discouraged; the reflection of her purpose armed her with resolution, and tower-crested fortitude lent her treble shield. Determined to dare the worst in the prosecution of her duty, undismayed she considered every obstacle that might arise, and, undismayed, planned how to surmount them.

Angelo had in his letter informed her, that his stay at Naples would be uncertain. It was not impossible, therefore, but that still he might be there. He had named the place of his residence; at least, the attempt might be made to gain from thence some intelligence of him. Gabrielle had, under the instructions of her departed father, obtained considerable knowledge in various languages; among others, the Italian. She did not, therefore, find it difficult to make herself understood, and by dint of enquiry, and the most patient perseverance, found herself at length on the spot where he had described himself to have taken up his abode.

What now were the sensations of Gabrielle, as she contemplated the exterior of an edifice, which contained, perhaps, the destroyer of her peace and innocence! but still the being whom her heart, in despite of herself, most fondly loved. Trembling, almost overpowered from excessive agitation, the beating of that wayward heart became almost too powerful for its feeble tenement; she leaned for support against some palisadoes, near which she stood, and, for the first time since her undertaking, her firm soul shrunk at what she might have to encounter. Almost in the same instant, however, she became ashamed of this emotion, higher thoughts pervaded her mind, and she determined, ere she left the spot, to be informed whether or not Angelo still dwelt in the mansion before her. It was a late hour of the evening, lights began to appear in most of the apartments; and at least she was convinced that it contained some one who might perhaps, if Angelo were even departed, give her information respecting him. Now she walked to and fro; and now paused in eager examination; presently she beheld the door open, and a servant come forth, who stood beneath the portico. This was the moment for Gabrielle; she hastened towards him, and with as much indifference as she could assume, enquired of him if il Conte D’Albini dwelt in that house.

“He does;” the servant replied, “why do you ask?”

The heart of Gabrielle beat with redoubled violence; but, gathering courage, she said, “Know you if the Conte wants a page? if he does, I would willingly——”

“A page,” interrupted the man, “how came that in your head—who do you come from?”

“I would see your master.”

“No doubt you would, but he’s not to be seen,” he answered, (with a malicious grin) “no page is wanted here;” and entering the house the door was shut, with rude violence, in the face of the disappointed Gabrielle.

Desponding, but not discouraged, she retraced her melancholy steps to the quarter where she had taken up her residence; and though mortified for a moment at the treatment she had experienced from vulgar ignorance, she felt every uneasy sensation more than counterbalanced by the unhoped for conviction that D’Albini was still in Naples; the thought of this was balm for every wound. “Ah!” she mentally cried, “is it then possible,—and shall I again behold that beloved—— Heaven,” (suddenly interrupting herself,) “is this the language for a betrayed forsaken wretch? Oh, let me banish from my mind ideas so degrading, let me think of him as the father and protector of his child, but not as the man who once loved me, and whom I loved.”

Virtue can slumber, even in the midst of misfortune, and Gabrielle was still virtuous, though no longer innocent; she retired to her melancholy bed, and wearied by the succession of new objects during the day, exhausted by fatigue, she soon sunk into peaceful rest, resolving that on the morrow she would renew her endeavors to procure an interview with D’Albini.

On the following morning, at an early hour, she bent her eager steps towards his house; and, now decided that no insolence should check or intimidate her, she placed herself beneath the portico, with firm intent to remain there till she could catch a glimpse of him she sought. A beautiful English carriage stood at the door, and from this circumstance Gabrielle hoped that he would speedily appear. She had not long occupied her position, ere the door was hastily opened, and a servant, whom she perceived was not the same that she had addressed the proceeding evening, came forth. She was on the point of speaking to him, when he exclaimed, “What do you here, boy,—who do you want?” Gabrielle disdained an answer, but did not move, when the same man who had before insulted her made his appearance, and joined his companion. “Ho, ho,” cried he, on perceiving Gabrielle, “what here again, my young Cavaliero, after what I said to you last night? Go, go, get you gone, for my Lord is coming out.”

“I am waiting for him,” coolly answered Gabrielle. The men looked at each other, and he who had first spoken to her, cried, “Why, stripling as thou art, of what service canst thou be?” and turning to his companion, added, “He wants to be page to our master, forsooth.”

“Oh, is it so!” replied the other, “Go, go, my boy! if you want bread, you are light and supple, enlist with the Lazaroni, you would soon out do the best of them, I’d warrant you.” This observation was seconded by a loud laugh from the first man, when, at this very moment, the voice of Angelo was heard, and the mirth of his menials gave way to the most obsequious appearance of respect.

Gabrielle heard too that well-known voice, and her heart died within her;—in a few moments he was before her;—she dared not lift her eyes, but she felt that his were fixed upon her, and she was ready to sink into the earth. In truth, Angelo was regarding her with attention, and turning to his servants, he enquired if they knew aught of the youth, or what he desired; at this question they looked confusedly at one another, uncertain what to reply; when Gabrielle, gathering courage, said, “My Lord, I am an unfortunate orphan, I have no friend,—nor have I the means of procuring bread in this country; if, therefore, you deem not the request too bold, humbly I would entreat, that you should take me into your service.”

“If I were not in want of a page,” returned Angelo, with one of those soft smiles that Gabrielle well remembered, “so interesting a youth as you appear must ever be an acquisition.”

“Do you consent then, my Lord, do you grant my wish?” cried Gabrielle, with undisguised joy.

“I do, most readily;” replied Angelo, “and since you are friendless, I take you into my service without other recommendation than your countenance and appearance.” And nothing, surely, could be more calculated to interest than the countenance and appearance of Gabrielle; her attire, though simple, and that of a page, was highly becoming,—it was grey, van-dyked with black; and a large Spanish hat and feather, while it partly shaded her face, rather added to, than detracted from its beautiful expression.

“I am going,” continued Angelo, “to the Corso; enter the house, and on my return we will have some further conversation.” Then seating himself in the carriage, he gracefully, with a smile, waved his hand to the agitated Gabrielle, who, gazing after him while he remained in sight, with eyes that in another garb would have betrayed her, slowly, as he disappeared, entered the house.

Behold her now in the habitation of her lover, near his person, and empowered to watch his every action; this point gained, she had leisure to re-consider, or improve her plans, and decided that she would not discover herself to him, now that she possessed the means of doing so when she chose, till time had developed to her his present pursuits, and how far, if possible, his sentiments had changed towards herself.

In the capacity of a page, she was almost a constant attendant upon his person; this circumstance of itself produced frequent conversation between them, but, independently of that, there seemed to Angelo so interesting and peculiar a charm in the manners and deportment of the young Eugene, (for so Gabrielle had designated herself) that often he unnecessarily summoned him into his presence, and contrived pretexts for detaining him, in order to indulge, without committing his dignity, in the pleasure he took in his society. In the reply that Gabrielle had made to his enquries, respecting her history, she had added little of embellishment; she had represented herself as an orphan, and most truly she was such; that she was of French extraction, and having been fondly educated and cherished by a tender father, her only surviving parent, was, on his death, which had recently occurred, thrown without support upon the world; that unwilling to struggle for bread in her native country, France, it had been more consonant to her feelings and inclinations, to seek it in another land; for this purpose she had travelled into Italy, and, fortunately, as she would observe, with an animated look which powerfully affected Angelo, she had obtained her object far sooner than she could have presumed to hope. But though Angelo had heard all this often and often, he was still unsatisfied, and could not reconcile to himself, that a youth of such extraordinary mind, seeming so superior to present circumstances, should have nothing more peculiar attached to his history. Sometimes he would make him repeat his little narative, to discover if possible some variation; but no, Gabrielle, ever on her guard, related still the same, and with a look of interest Angelo would occassionally suggest his doubts, and seem to solicit further confidence. Eugene, however, as we must call Gabrielle, would then only bow, and reply, with an air of indifference, that such was his history.

But a short time elapsed, and the supposed page became so endeared to his master, that he could no longer suffer him to associate at any period with his other dependants, which painful degradation the mortified, yet determined Gabrielle, had been sometimes obliged to submit to, and had endured with that forbearing patience that ever attends the consciousness of an exalted motive. Now, however, this temporary humiliation was at an end; she was more properly the companion than servant of Angelo, and was seldom from his presence. When he rose she attended his breakfast table, and partook with him the morning’s repast; the hours of noon she whiled away, by reading to him the newest productions of the day, or often, sighing with the tender Tasso, or lovelorn Petrarch, or smiling with the romantic Ariosto. Sometimes the philosophical works of her countryman, Voltaire, engaged her, or history, or metaphysics, and sometimes even the best English authors; each had its turn, and at these periods the surprise and admiration of Angelo would increase. “Your father must have given you, indeed, a superior education,” would he involuntarily exclaim, fixing his eyes upon her.

“He did his utmost,” Gabrielle would answer, with a sigh, and without raising her eyes from the book she might be reading.

Angelo usually dined abroad, or otherwise had large companies at his house; yet even then he felt uneasy, dissatisfied and anxious to escape again to his youthful companion, in whose society he felt almost exclusively happy, and who, distant from these scenes of revelry, adding in his solitary chamber to the treasures of his well-stored mind, he fancied superior to all present. To excuse his frequent unlooked for appearance, and to prevent Eugene from surmising the true reason of his visits, he would say that he felt not well, that conversation was fatiguing to him, or that he had drank too much wine, and had escaped to avoid drinking more; then, in his presence, enjoying his society, the lassitude or melancholy of Angelo would speedily vanish, and books, music, or conversation beguile agreeably the night, till the hour of repose. Often on his pillow would he enquire of himself, and endeavour to trace the cause of the excessive interest he felt for a comparative stranger, but he could discover only the absoluteness of the sentiment, without being able to ascertain its source, and, half uneasy at the inexplicable feelings he experienced, he determined to see less of the youth, and to treat him if possible with greater coolness. These resolutions however, vanished always with the night, and the next day, and the next, found him still the same, still irresistibly associating with the attractive Eugene, and becoming more and more attached to him.

Meantime Gabrielle, blessing the Providence which had thus early conducted her beneath the roof of him, on whom her best hopes were fixed, began to experience some melioration of that deep-seated sorrow which for long had corroded her heart; yet hoping nought, nor presuming to expect aught, her thoughts and feelings were resolutely suppressed, or concentered to a single point—the future interests of her child. Her genuine and unsophisticated ideas of duty taught her that to ensure protection for the unconscious being she had been the means of ushering into life, her whole efforts should be directed, and no sacrifices of self be esteemed too great to achieve an end so momentous, and so simply due to the object for whom they were made. Such was the pure morality of a nature uncontaminated by association with the world, unbiassed by its contracted estimates of right and wrong.

In various ways had Angelo evinced extraordinary friendship towards Eugene; it now remained to demonstrate still higher his regard for him, by giving him his confidence. On those days when he dined abroad, it sometimes happened that he did not return till a late hour of the night, or towards morning; and sometimes not till the following day. Gabrielle, who never accompanied him from home, knew not whither he went at these times; but naturally concluded that convivial or agreeable society occasionally detained him thus long. It remained, however, for her to become more accurately informed.

The departed Montmorency had taught her to play on various instruments, among others on the lute; with that was she occupied when, one evening, Angelo entering her apartment, caused her to cease, and she arose.

“Resume your seat, Eugene,” cried Angelo, “why all this ceremony? will you never forget the idle distinction fortune has placed between us?—Come, I have something to say to you.”

“I am attentive,” replied Gabrielle, immediately seating herself.

“Your secrecy, first,” cried Angelo, with a smile, and taking her hand.

“On what subject, my Lord,” asked Gabrielle, faintly smiling in return.

“I am going to give you my confidence, Eugene,”—he paused—“I have a mistress!”

Gabrielle involuntarily started; the lute fell from her nerveless hand, and she was on the point of sinking, when suddenly recollecting herself, and rallying her perturbed spirits, she said, laying her hand upon her heart, “Excuse me, my Lord,—I felt a pain here!”

“Poor boy!” said Angelo, looking anxiously in her face, “are you often thus?”

“Sometimes, my Lord; but this is the severest pang I have had for some time past,” answered Gabrielle, with a quivering lip—“I feel better now.” Angelo still held her hand, and his eyes were rivetted upon her countenance; at that moment how did Gabrielle bless the artificial colouring which veiled from his eager glance the strong and momentary changes of her natural complexion.

“I am indeed recovered, my Lord,” she said, withdrawing her trembling hand, and stooping for her lute to divert his attention.

“Well, then hear me, Eugene,—I have, as I have said, a mistress!”—Gabrielle could now bear the word, though it grated on her ear.—“This evening I am going to visit her;—certain reasons, which I may in time explain to you, render it necessary that I should do so secretly. I seldom visit her during the day, and am never accompanied by any one to her house; it would, however, be highly agreeable to me, Eugene, that you should accompany me, first for the pleasure of your society, and secondly because I frequently require one whom who I could trust to convey to her my letters, bring me her answers, and occasionally reconnoitre the space before her house;—indeed it is far from impossible, Eugene, but I may introduce you to her; she will not, I am certain, disdain one whom I regard, and thus I could often enjoy, at the same time, your society and the society of her I love.”

“Her I love!” repeated Gabrielle to herself with horror, and a half-stifled groan escaped her.

“Are you ill again, Eugene?” cried Angelo, with alarm.

“No—no, my Lord,—a slight oppression only at my breast.”

“I will not say any more to you, my dear Eugene,—you shall not accompany me this evening; retire to your bed, and I will go alone.” He gazed affectionately in her agitated countenance, and again took her hand to bid her farewell.—A tear dropped upon his hand as he held her’s, and his eyes following the pellucid gem, he exclaimed, “Does your pain cause you to shed tears, my dear boy?”

“Yes, yes; or it would kill me;” replied Gabrielle, unable to controul her emotion;—“but let me not distress you, my Lord, I shall recover when alone.”

“Indeed I will not leave you, Eugene,—lean on me, I entreat you, and give free vent to your tears, if they relieve you.”—So saying, he supported the trembling Gabrielle on one arm, and gently laid her head upon his shoulder, while with the disengaged hand he tenderly pressed her forehead, as though he sought to allay the throbbing of her burning temples. “Ah!” thought Gabrielle, “these kind offices, performed in friendship,—would he thus, if he really knew the object on whom he bestowed his pity?” This thought, while it conveyed an additional pang, yet helped to arouse her spirits, for she felt the necessity of checking this excessive emotion, lest it should indeed excite some ideas detrimental to the prosecution of her purpose; she therefore made an effort, and raising her head from the shoulder of Angelo, she said, brushing off her tears, “My Lord, I am grateful to you for the interest you are pleased to manifest; my heart thanks you;—I am well.”

“I am most happy, Eugene; but you shall remain at home this night; retire to bed, and I will leave you.”

“Ah, whither to go!” thought Gabrielle, as Angelo, rising, drew near the door, and gazing after him, a sigh escaped her; Angelo turned, but perceiving a faint smile, which with a heavy heart she had forced upon her features, he concluded that the sigh was merely accidental, and waving his hand towards her, left the room.

Now alone, Gabrielle had leisure to ponder over the imprudence of which she had been guilty; she justly feared another such scene, if it led not to discovery, must inevitably to suspicion, and might ultimately defeat her every view; she therefore, after severely arraigning herself, determined to keep in future a strict guard over her feelings, and never, upon any occasion, permit them to overcome her. True, Angelo had imparted to her a most painful secret; but even so, was it not far better that a secret so material for her to know, should not have been withheld, she might otherwise have acted erroneously, her plan of conduct wholly undirected by the knowledge of important circumstances; the chief advantage to be obtained under her disguise, was in the discovery of events, in which he could not thus suppose her interested, and of which she must otherwise have remained in ignorance.

Perhaps the attempt in her own person to have banished from his breast a later passion, might have been vain; her claims might have been slighted, her remonstrances disregarded; as a youth, however, the task appeared less difficult; she would see this favourite, yes, painful as would be the effort, she would see her; perhaps she might discover much respecting her; she might be unworthy of the love of Angelo; she might be even infamous; as a female any conviction of this nature must be useless, for whatever she might reveal, whatever she might urge upon the subject, would in all probability be attributed to envy, jealousy, or disappointed love. As a youth, the confidant and friend of Angelo, no motive, no interest could be supposed to influence such representation. Suspicion must at all events be excited, and thus some steps would be advanced; Angelo would be weaned from an improper attachment, and then would be the favourable moment to appear before him.

What grief and anguish filled her breast to discover that he had not only forsaken and forgotten her, but that her image in his heart, or rather, as she believed, in his fancy, had been displaced by another. She had thought him cruel and insensible, she now beheld that he was faithless; but must this deter her from her purpose? no, his infidelty to her could not exonerate her from prosecuting, with undiminished energy, the interests of her child; why, because self-love was wounded, her tenderness outraged, or weakness despised, turn traitor to an innocent cause, or neglect the claims of one who called imperiously for the most persevering efforts? Well she argued, that to remain unshaken she must be divested of self, she must require no tokens of a former love, no tenderness, no homage, no consideration; her aim must be higher, nobler, more honorable; she had the welfare of another to contend for, one whom her own errors had rendered dependent on her exertions. “Let me then acquit myself of my high duties towards that other,” she cried, “and then let me die.”

By the mere force of reason and virtuous principle, Gabrielle became enabled to conquer, or at least repress every personal feeling, sufficiently to hear without apparent emotion the enraptured praises which Angelo bestowed upon his mistress, and even frequently to accompany him to her house. In proportion as his confidence grew less restrained, he informed Gabrielle, “that his fair Oriana was a female of birth and reputation, an orphan, and a native of Genoa; that her parents had left considerable property to herself and a brother, with whom she resided, and that inclination alone had prompted them to fix their residence at Naples: consequently,” added Angelo, “as the fair girl has a severe guardian in her brother, I am under the necessity of timing my visits, chiefly in his absence, although it was with him that my acquaintance first, by accident, commenced, and through his means that I became introduced to his lovely sister. I own, from the first moment I beheld her, I felt a sensation which, however philosophers may define it, I know was love; I repeated my visits again and again; her brother was frequently absent; at length I declared to her the passion with which she had inspired me; she did not turn from me with disdain, and I became speedily convinced that I was far from being indifferent to her. A most tender intercourse ensued, and the secrecy with which it was, and is still conducted, detracts nothing from its charms; it is most strictly enforced by Oriana, who has informed me, that independently of her brother’s vigilance, he has it in firm contemplation to unite her to a friend of his own, for whom, having been the associate of his youth, he entertains a decided preference, and who is daily expected from Genoa.”

“But why,” asked Gabrielle, having betrayed no symptom of her keen emotions during this recital, “why have you not proposed to her brother to marry her yourself, since, as you say, the Signora is more attached to you than to him designed for her?”

Angelo burst into a laugh; “My dear young friend,” he cried, “how very innocent you are; what! marry the kind creature who gave herself to me without exacting that serious ceremony!—but, supposing I were even now to do so—what security could I have for her honor?”

Bitter was the pang conveyed by this observation to the heart of the humbled Gabrielle “Oh, Heaven!” thought she, “these are then his sentiments;” and self for a moment intervening, “what then must be his thoughts of me?—what have I to expect?” Gabrielle little knew, as she made this reflection, that such are the sentiments of men in general upon these subjects.

When Angelo visited his mistress, Gabrielle now almost invariably accompanied him; he had introduced her as a youth for whom he had a singular regard, and the condescending Oriana treated him in consequence with the most flattering attention. Gabrielle, whom circumstances had in some points altered materially from the unsuspicious Gabrielle she once was, now watchful, reserved, and cautious, suffered nothing to escape her; she availed herself of the kindness shewn to her by Oriana, to be frequently at her house when Angelo himself was not there; and in so doing she besides acted consonantly to the wishes of Angelo, who considered that while his Eugene was there, he was not himself entirely separated from his mistress, in as much as one on whom he could rely was a faithful witness of her actions and conduct, which, by relating to him afterwards, considerably diminished the pains of absence.

From the circumstance of her having become an admitted and unrestrained visitor at the house of Oriana, she made certain observations which convinced her, that the statement of the fair Genoese to her lover was not strictly correct. The man she represented as her brother, she soon ascertained to be no other than a favoured and most imperious lover, who reigned over her with a sway almost despotic. This discovery of a most gross imposture, while it dismayed Gabrielle at the novel view it presented of human depravity, yet certainly gave her more pleasure than if she had discovered a proportionable degree of virtue, for it pointed out the possibility of disuniting her with Angelo, by unmasking the deception she was guilty of towards him. Yes, Gabrielle almost exulted, and with alarm asked of her heart, how it could rejoice at the turpitude of any human being.

She resolved for the present, however, to keep her knowledge secret; “For,” thought she, “if the love of Angelo for this female be not of a nature such as I consider true love to be, that prizes as much the honor and fidelity of a mistress as her personal charms or attractive manners, then may he, perhaps, not attach to this conviction of her infamy all the consequence that I may think it merits. It is evident, however he may appear to love, that he does not esteem her, and I may gain nothing by the unwelcome disclosure of what I know but his secret dislike for having attempted to interrupt him in a pursuit that yielded him pleasure, and flattered his vanity. No, I will as yet be silent; time may develope still more, and perhaps some circumstances that may be less liable to doubt of the effect they may produce.”

The fair Oriana, whose character events will sufficiently delineate, though affecting to bestow all the love of which her heart was capable upon Conte D’Albini, yet preferred to him Fiorenza de Vinci, the man by him supposed her brother, and whom once she had passionately loved. Yet, although she still cherished for him some sentiments of latent regard, she liked the society of the young Eugene, and infinitely admired his person; so far, therefore, from deeming his frequent visits intrusive, she always welcomed him with the most lively pleasure, and gave him to understand, she was never more happy than when in his company. Sometimes she would say to him, with a smile, “Eugene, how handsome you appear; in spite of the darkness of your complexion, you have the softest and most beautiful countenance I ever beheld. If D’Albini really loves me,” she would add laughing, and placing her hand upon his arm, “he should not send to me so charming a youth as you are.”

Gabrielle speedily perceived, by similar observations and appropriate conduct, that in her male character the fair Genoese viewed her with no slight partiality; but although she saw, she would not appear to see it; and yet did not wholly discourage it, lest she should become obnoxious to Oriana, and thereby be removed from the field of action.

Some months passed on thus, and nothing material occurred; Gabrielle kept up with her first and only friend, Madame Bertrand, a regular correspondence; she informed her of every circumstance that took place, and confided to her those anguished feelings that otherwise were never breathed but to her pillow. She confided to her her alternate hopes and fears, but expressed, along with them, her determination to persevere in the path she had marked out, uninfluenced by any selfish consideration of severe trial, or deep humiliation. “A wretch like me,” she would add, “no circumstances can humiliate to a level with the degradation in which her own guilt has plunged her; nor can any sufferings expiate the crime of which she stands convicted. Oh, spirit of my murdered father! could’st thou look down upon me, perhaps thou would’st be appeased by the unceasing torments I endure.”

From Madame Bertrand she heard, in return, of the welfare of her child, of its increasing beauty, and undiminished health; and that the persevering Boffuet still continued his attentions towards her. Her letters were usually concluded by entreaties to Gabrielle to return to her peaceful mountains, and leave for ever the perfidious Angelo to his worthless and ignoble pursuits. “God,” she wrote, “is all sufficient; he would look down upon your innocent child, he would be to it father and protector, and render of no import the neglect of its earthly parent.” To these suggestions, Gabrielle constantly opposed her duty, the sacrifices that it ordained her to make for the welfare and security of the being she had brought into life defenceless and forlorn, and of the necessity therefore that there existed of remaining firm, undiscouraged by the present errors or misconduct of Angelo.

Still spell-bound in Naples, the careless Angelo thought not of taking his departure; the bewitching Genoese continued to engage him; nor as yet did his love or admiration appear to suffer diminution. Nay it appeared on the contrary to increase, and to the dismay and anguish of Gabrielle, had he more than once hinted, that while Oriana continued attached to him, he would never think of marriage with another, that he might be at liberty to will her at his death the bulk of his personal property.

One morning, having indispensibly engaged himself for the day with a party of friends, and deeming it probable he might not return till the following morning, he bade Eugene visit his mistress, and present to her, in his name, a superb bouquet and a basket of the finest fruit that could be procured; to inform her of his intended absence, and to express to her, in the strongest terms, his unhappiness at being compelled to remain away from her so long; adding, that unaccompanied by her, the charms of convivial society would be lost upon him. Painful and severe task for the unhappy Gabrielle, but frequent wounds of the same description had considerably blunted the keenness of her feelings on these points, and she consoled herself with the reflection that her humiliation was unknown by any but herself.

She obeyed therefore, in silent sorrow, the injunction of Angelo, to depart the moment he was gone, and with a heavy heart bent her steps towards the residence of her rival, loaded, for her, with the delicate offering of fond affection, selected by him who had once loved her with equal tenderness. Oh, triumph of powerful Virtue over the weakness of the heart, if such are the sacrifices thou exactest, few must be the votaries at thy hallowed shrine! Who, banishing all thought of self, could unshrinkingly lead a life of penance and affliction, in pursuing thy rigid laws? But, says the philosophic analist of the human heart, self predominates throughout nature; it is not banished even here, it was love which gave to Gabrielle the imagined fortitude of virtue; moving in the orbit of him she loved, she saw him, she heard him, and had strength to persevere. Such with ignobler minds might be the actuating principle, but thus it did not operate with Gabrielle; her delicate love received daily and hourly the bitterest wounds; had love alone instigated her, it must thus have become lessened, and her perseverance enfeebled; it was her love which, so far from diminishing, increased the virtue of her conduct, which had she hated, had been less difficult to preserve; love such as her’s threw perpetual torments in her way, sufficient to have annihilated the most patient affection; but she shielded herself against herself, and bore resolutely her own pangs for the sake of another.

She arrived at the house of Oriana with her basket, which weighed far heavier to her than its contents rendered it, and entered without ceremony the apartment where she usually sat; it was empty, and knowing that it communicated with a little chamber where sometimes Oriana retired to enjoy the delightful breezes from the bay on which it looked, she was approaching the door to open it, when voices from within caused her to arrest her steps. She listened for a moment, and heard the authoritative voice of Fiorenza pronounce the name of Angelo; this was sufficient for Gabrielle, she thought herself fully justified in attending to what that man could possibly have to observe respecting Angelo, and she drew closer to the door in order to ascertain, when distinctly she heard him say, though in an under voice, “If such be the case, why not consent at once? I repeat, the fool D’Albini must be loved by you, or you would not hesitate.”

“But, dearest Fiorenza,” replied Oriana, in remonstrating voice, “listen to reason; though the fool, as you say, did tell me that at his death all he possessed should be mine, and that he had already taken every necessary legal step to secure to me, as he expressed himself, all he possessed; still it may not be exactly so, and he may perhaps have only prematurely disclosed his intentions; in such case, we should gain nothing by hastening his death; but, on the contrary, lose all by our precipitancy.”

“But, woman!” cried the despotic Fiorenza, in a stern accent, “though he is himself but a half-born Italian, he has reason to believe that my blood is unmixed; he regards me as your brother, he thinks me noble; he would not presume, therefore, to speak falsely even to you; besides, did you not long since inform me of his intentions? Did you not progressively inform me, as he spoke more decisively? and ultimately, did you not state to me, when he told you that he had completed his intentions, and that let death overtake him when it might, you would find yourself mistress of his fortune, as you had been of his heart during life?”

“It is true, indeed.”

“Well then?”

“Suppose our plan should fail? suppose some discovery—”

“Weak, unsteady woman! your idle objections move my scorn; yet beware how you offend my pride, by shewing me too clearly that I am loved no longer.”

“Be not so irritable, Fiorenza, I love you indeed.”

“Love me!” scornfully answered Fiorenza, “you are incapable of love; it is enough if you prefer me, and that I demand; for remember my claims are prior to those of any one. Did I not raise you from obscurity? when you lived in a little hut by the side of the Bonzevere, did I not give you riches? for I was the means of your obtaining them. Your folly has disgusted every one but me, and even this half Italian, if you do not turn him speedily to account, will find his English blood beginning to cool the half which is Italian, and soberly divesting himself of the mere atmospheric heat which influences him in this country, return to his own frigid clime, as indifferent as he left it.”

“Well, Fiorenza, whatever benefits you have been instrumental in procuring me, you have shared,” observed Oriana, without attending to the latter part of his speech.

“It is clear to me, you love D’Albini,” cried Fiorenza, in his turn not chusing to notice the remark of Oriana, though secretly commenting on it with the deepest rage; “nay so wandering and fickle are you, that I do verily believe you would prefer to me, even the boy Eugene.”

Oriana burst into a loud laugh, exclaiming, “Oh, now indeed, Fiorenza, you have exactly guessed; how is it you never thought of this before?”

“Come, come, no foolery; do you not love D’Albini?” asked the rude and jealous Fiorenza.

“I do not love him!” answered the Genoese.

“Then why hesitate?”

“I dislike the mode,—poison,” lowering her voice, “is not the safest expedient.”

Gabrielle scarcely breathed as she listened to the increasing infamy which the conversation of these two persons developed.

Fiorenza answered with mingled contempt and indignation, “You are endeavouring to find objections,—you were not thus backward, methinks, Signora, in the case of il Conte Vincenza, the Venetian.”

“Nor you thus precipitate, Signore; our measures were more deliberately taken.”

“But deliberation in the present case would lose all; Vincenza was a true Italian, steady, faithful, to be depended upon; D’Albini partakes of the hot-headed, but cold-hearted, fickle and deceitful Englishman. Come, Oriana,” he continued, stretching forth his hand, with a haughty air; “be reasonable, and let us not waste the time in reflecting on each other; I love you more than you are loved by any one, spite of your folly, and bereft of me, you would lose your compass; let us then remain true to one another, nor suffer aught to intervene between us and our mutual interests—say then at once—to-morrow night D’Albini dies!”

Gabrielle started, and almost fell backwards; her head grew giddy, and her heart became sick; scarcely had she strength to pay the requisite attention to what was to follow.—

“Well,—if you absolutely insist,” said Oriana, slowly,——“you will be present—”

“I will.”

“Will you administer it yourself?”

“The boy, Eugene, will be with us at supper; I shall fill out the wine, having previously introduced the poison into the glass; I shall present it to you through the medium of Eugene, who must sit opposite to me, and between you and D’Albini; he, as usual, with his fond foolery will desire you to change glasses with him, and Eugene, as he will be situated, must unconsciously make the transfer; thus, you perceive, allowing the utmost latitude to your fears, neither of us could possibly become implicated, because I shall appear to have intended the wine for you; you will not even present it to D’Albini, consequently suspicion, if any, must fall on him who will sit between you.”

“Great God! then,” thought the trembling Gabrielle, “it is intended to make me the murderer of Angelo—of him I adore—of the father of my child,—oh, be praised Heaven, that directed me hither in such an hour as this!”

Oriana observed, after a pause, “Well, all that is well enough arranged; but afterwards—”

“Leave the rest to me; I undertake every thing;—if he hath spoken truly, his possessions must be your’s;—if not, though by his death we gain nothing, it is the merited consequence of his presumptuous falsehood.”

So saying, Fiorenza arose and kissed the forehead of Oriana, who taking his hand to detain him, said, “Well, but if it be finally determined for to-morrow night, how shall I be informed which of my glasses to exchange with D’Albini? I may give him one of pure wine, and drink that which is destruction myself.”

“To avoid the possibility of so fatal an occurrence,” answered Fiorenza, “or lest you should not fully interpret my looks, it shall be the first glass when supper is finished; and,” lowering his voice, “the fifth round which shall be drank;—therefore take heed, and remember the fifth.”

“The fifth?—very well.”

“Yes, for the Count’s gallantry is never sufficiently roused to make the tender proposal of exchanging glasses, till after several rounds have been drank.”

Oriana laughed, and the base Fiorenza who had been formerly one of the most desperate Bravoes in all Italy, and consequently could plan and execute the murder of a fellow creature with as much coolness as he would destroy an insect, stalked deliberately from the room through a door which opened on a terrace. On hearing this, Gabrielle hurried from her situation to the further end of the apartment, and seated herself upon an Ottoman near the window; a large Venetian mirror opposite reflected to her, her face and figure, and as she felt the blood curdling round her heart, which had receded from her cheek, she had new reason to rejoice in the artificial veil that overspread it, and suffered no trace of paleness to be visible.

In the course of a few moments Oriana entered the room; on beholding her she slightly started, and exclaimed, “Eugene, have you been here long?”

“Not long, Signora.”

“How long?”

“A few minutes.”

“And sitting so melancholy,” in a re-assured voice,—“why did you not come into the other room?”

“This basket of fine fruit, Signora,” observed Gabrielle, desirous to change the conversation, “which il Conte D’Albini has sent you, is not very light, let me inform you, and I sat down with it, because I literally felt myself overpowered!”

“Poor boy,” observed Oriana, “you are so delicate—too delicate almost,” she added, seating herself beside him, and putting back the ringlets from his forehead.

“Look at these flowers, Signora; are they not beautiful?—and this fruit, how fine.”

“Indeed, Eugene, I had rather look at you, you appear so handsome to-day.”

“Signora,” embarrassed, “you flatter me; the Conte desired me to inform you he cannot have the happiness of seeing you for the whole of this day.”

“But you are going to remain, Eugene; are you not?”

“I will rest a little longer, Signora, if you will permit!”—Gabrielle had in effect proposed to remain for the day; but the present unreserved deportment of Oriana staggered her in her intention.

“You are always so reserved, Eugene, I protest I think you hate me.”

Gabrielle averted her countenance, on which a blush almost pierced through the covering of art.

“Why do you not answer me, Eugene?” asked Oriana, taking her hand.

“What answer can I make to such an observation, Signora?” asked Gabrielle in return.

“Do you love me then, Eugene? will you reply to that?”

“As much as I possibly can, Signora;” answered Gabrielle, with truth; but little aware of the effect these words were calculated to produce on Oriana, she felt surprise mingled with alarm, when throwing her arms round her neck, she exclaimed, “And I love you, Eugene, more than I can express! I love you better than D’Albini, better than Fiorenza,—my brother,” she added, with slight embarrassment,—“in short, so much that I would sacrifice them both for you.”

Gabrielle shuddered at such a mixture of depravity and deception; but the inconstant Oriana did indeed, at this moment, prefer Eugene to either of her lovers, and the deception was towards them alone. “Come, Eugene,” she added, fondly, “say something to me; say again that you love me.”

The embarrassment of Gabrielle was momentarily increasing; she was at a loss how to reply, while Oriana, attributing her confusion to the timidity of youthful innocence, still gazed with tenderness upon her downcast countenance. Suddenly the door opened, and Fiorenza entered the room; he cast a suspicious look upon his mistress, and one of scorn on the supposed Eugene, who felt overwhelmed with horror at being in the presence of so dark an assassin, and scarcely considered safe the trembling life that she held while near him. Availing herself, however, of the seasonable interruption his entrance had occasioned to the unequivocal language of Oriana, she arose to depart, when Oriana, seizing her by the hand, exclaimed, “You must not go indeed, Eugene, you must remain with me to-day, I know D’Albini wishes that you should.”

“Let the youth depart, Signora,” cried the fierce Fiorenza, in a voice that shewed he would be obeyed, though he spoke without passion; “do you not perceive that he has not an inclination to remain?”

“Indeed, Signore, it is impossible for me to remain,” said Gabrielle, “but I shall accompany the Conte here to-morrow night,” he added, turning to Oriana.

“You are certain the Conte intends to honor us with his company to supper to-morrow night then?” observed Fiorenza.

“Such I know to be his intention, Signore, and I shall take care to be of the party.”

“I shall be most happy,” replied Fiorenza; “inform him I have been long anxious to see him, and hope he will not fail.”

“I will, Signore;—Signora, farewell!”

“You are very unkind to-day, Eugene,” cried Oriana, reproachfully.

“Fool!” muttered Fiorenza, looking on her with an eye of jealous rage, as the object of her regard closed the door.

Gabrielle returned home in a state of agitation and alarm; the commixture of events too, in so short a space of time, the conversation she had overheard, and the subsequent conduct of the Genoese, distracted and confused her to such a degree, that, for a certain space, she was unable sufficiently to arrange her ideas to resolve upon the line most proper to be pursued. She easily perceived, from the observations she had heard, how much the unguarded Angelo had committed himself with the base Oriana, in having taught her to anticipate the period of his death with pleasure and impatience; from this too she saw the extent of his infatuation, since it could lead him thus far. When one moment, therefore, she resolved to expose to him the infamous character of the Genoese, and reveal to him the plot meditated against him, she discarded that resolution in the next; first, lest her mere assertions should not obtain unlimited credit; and secondly, from knowing the warmth and precipitancy of Angelo, lest he should instantly fly to his mistress, tax her with what he had heard, and thus leave himself open to her blandishments, by which she might convince him that the whole was an infamous fabrication; she, in such result, as the supposed incendiary, might be driven with rage from the presence of Angelo, and these machinating fiends would ultimately achieve their dreadful purposes.

At length, after long consideration, alternately dwelling upon and rejecting every idea that presented itself, she determined on preserving silence towards Angelo, to guard him from the mischief intended, and let him form his own opinion upon what he should observe.

She passed the day in her chamber, ruminating and reflecting upon the procedure necessary to be adopted; night came on, and found her still there, and when the hour of repose arrived, she felt an irresistible desire to remain up, in case Angelo should arrive, as sometimes he did at a late hour, that at least she might have the happiness of ascertaining he was at present in safety. Accordingly, taking a volume of Lorenzo de Medici, she threw herself upon a sopha to be more at ease, unfastened her hair, and suffering it to flow loose over her shoulders, began to enjoy a moment of peace and relaxation from the consuming cares and agitations of the day; she soon became deeply engaged with the beauties of her author, and her mind in a degree diverted from the contemplation of more gloomy images.

A single curtain of silk separated the chamber of Angelo from the apartment where she was; several hours elapsed; she no longer entertained an idea of his return, and though she still held the book in her hand, she fell into a train of musing that completely abstracted all attention from external objects. It happened, however, that Angelo having unexpectedly been enabled to make his escape, returned home, and entered, unheard by Gabrielle, his own apartment, with intent to retire immediately to bed, little surmising that his companion still remained from her’s.

He placed his lamp at the further end of his room, when the tender light that shone through the curtain became visible, and convinced that his Eugene must be within, none other being permitted to sit in the apartment adjoining his; being in a sportive mood, he felt inclined to surprise him, and extinguishing his lamp, softly approached the curtain, to steal on him by degrees, and not to be heard till he was seen. For a few moments he remained looking on her in silence, irresistibly attracted by the sensation of mingled surprise and admiration which he experienced; carelessly and unconsciously reclining, her hair loosely flowing, and shading in part her pensive countenance, Gabrielle presented a figure at once beautiful and interesting.

“How lovely he is!” mentally ejaculated Angelo, as he gazed; “yet though he appears lovely, how little do those fine and tender features seem to assimilate with that dark complexion; what delicacy of shape too!—what elegance!”

As thus he viewed the supposed youth, again he felt the warmest sensations of affection for him rising in his bosom. “No wonder,” said he uneasily to himself, “he is formed to inspire friendship and interest in the coldest heart; whoever sees him must admire; whoever knows him must love.” He looked no longer however, but gently drawing aside the curtain, he advanced into the room, in an oblique direction, and gliding behind Gabrielle, when she did not dream of his being in the house, he placed his hands lightly over her eyes, and cried as he glanced on the book, “Always reading amatory verse, Eugene, you are certainly in love.”

Gabrielle at first uttered a slight exclamation, but at the soft voice of Angelo her fears vanished, and gently taking his hands from before her eyes, she involuntarily drew them to her lips and kissed them, utterly unable, from sudden thought of the danger that threatened him, to restrain this impulse of the joy she felt at beholding him in safety.

Angelo was sensibly affected; he gazed on her with tenderness, and while tears almost started to his eyes, he said, “You are glad to see me, my dearest Eugene—this is the happiest moment I have had to-day.”

Gabrielle sighed at this observation, but answered with energy, “I am indeed most happy to see you, my lord, and I even thank you for your remark.”

“What a formal speech, my dear Eugene, how unlike the tender freedom of your action; henceforth, I intreat you, call me no more my lord, call me only Angelo; for I consider you my friend, and regard you as my equal.”

“Ah! what happiness would be mine, if knowing me he spoke thus,” thought Gabrielle, “but, my lord,” she modestly observed, “it would not be proper for a poor, unconnected orphan, whom a happy chance alone introduced beneath your roof, to forget the distance that exists between us.”

“No more of this language, Eugene, if you love me—call me Angelo, and forget the imaginary distinction you speak of—the distinction of fortune merely, in all else you are my superior—ah, my dear young friend,” he added with animation, “would, if you can wish it, that your fortune more nearly resembled mine, and my mind your’s; you have a firm mind, Eugene, and mine is weak and wandering; you have virtue, and I am full of errors.”

“Ah! heaven bless and aid him,” silently ejaculated Gabrielle; “since he perceives that he has errors, he will conquer them; his heart is yet uncorrupted, and I may indulge the fond hope of his reformation.”

“But we are growing too serious,” cried Angelo in a gay tone, “tell me Eugene,” he added sportively, and twining a lock of her beautiful hair round his finger, “how is it that you have such luxuriant hair? one might almost imagine you were a woman; absolutely, you must consent to part with it.”

For the first moment, Gabrielle remembered the circumstance of her hair being loose; in the deepest confusion she twisted it round her hand, to fasten it up as usual, and in an unequal voice said, “it fell down by accident, I know not how.”

“Well, let it remain so,” cried Angelo, laughing at her confusion, and withdrawing the hand which confined it, when again it fell loose; “let it remain so, it looks picturesque and beautiful; but pray, Eugene, I had almost forgotten—how fares the charming Oriana?”

A pang of waking misery aroused Gabrielle from her fond delusions—she falteringly answered, “the Signora is well.”

“And as gay, and as fascinating as ever?”

“Quite so.”

“Did she not say aught?”

“She expects you will sup with her and il Signor Fiorenza, to-morrow night.”

“Most assuredly I will, and you likewise, Eugene; will you not?”

“I would not for worlds be excluded, my lord; will you permit me to retire?” she added rising.

“Certainly,” Angelo answered abstractedly, for his mind was now engaged with a new image, and new ideas; Gabrielle moved towards the door, and her heart swelled with grief. “Good night, my lord,” she said looking back.

“Good night, Eugene,” cooly returned Angelo.

Gabrielle hastened from the room; she perceived of whom he was thinking, and felt for the moment indignant. “But I would save him,” said she mentally, “even though he hated me.” She retired to bed, immersed in plans for his safety, and meditating on him with tender compassion, while he retired to his, absorbed in fond fancy of another—that other conceiving his destruction.

So dangerous and untrue are the blandishments of the wanton, and he who trusts to them hovers ever on the brink of perdition. On the following evening the misguided Angelo, accompanied by Eugene, attended punctually to his appointment at the house of Oriana. She received him with the false smiles of a Circe, and stretching out her hand, that hand which was intended to present him ere long with the draught of death, she softly reproved him for his absence the whole of the preceding day. Gabrielle shuddered, and shuddered still more when approaching her she whispered in her ear, “I am angry with you Eugene, nor will I be reconciled till, unaccompanied by your friend, you come and ask my forgiveness.” To this she added, unperceived, an emphatic pressure of the hand, and then exclaimed aloud, “Conte I have been taxing this young robber with having stolen the finest peach out of the basket yesterday, to present it to his own mistress; I missed it the moment he was gone.”

Angelo laughed; “Great Heaven, what a mixture of depravity and deception,” thought Gabrielle, as with horror she looked on Oriana. Fiorenza now made his appearance; he bowed respectfully to Angelo, and cordially addressed his pretended sister. Gabrielle glanced towards him, and trembled; such complicated guilt was new to her, beyond all that ever her fancy even could have suggested.

With mingled impatience and dread she anticipated the hour of supper, while almost continually her anxious eyes reverted from Angelo to his treacherous hosts, marking their every movement; for scarcely could she be persuaded that for the present moment he was safe. Supper was at length announced; Gabrielle involuntarily started, and a cold chill crept through her blood; she followed, however, with seeming composure to the supper room, and observed, that Fiorenza, seating himself opposite to Oriana and his unsuspecting guest, took good care to leave the seat between them vacant, waving his hand to Eugene, as intimating that he resigned it to him. Gabrielle took the seat, and the supper commenced.

Fiorenza introduced brisk conversation; Oriana joined, and they endeavoured, as much as possible, to amuse Angelo, and engage his attention. Mean time the vigilant eyes of Gabrielle watched with dreadful solicitude each successive glass of wine. Four rounds had now been drank,—the supper concluded,—fresh glasses were brought, with comfits and fruits, and the servants all retired.

Now came the fearful fifth round; Angelo was engaged in conversation with the treacherous Genoese, and Gabrielle appeared listening to them, as particularly intent upon the subject which occupied them, though she did not fail to observe every movement of Fiorenza and remarked that after placing his hand for a moment in his bosom he glided it under the table, where he suffered it to remain. Now his dark eyes glanced scowlingly around, no one seemed looking towards him—he drew his hand from underneath the table, and taking up the bottle, held it with three fingers only against the palm of his hand, while as he poured the wine into the glass, dexterously from between his fore finger and thumb, he suffered a subtle and almost impalpable powder to fall gradually, and mingle with the wine, with which it thus seemed to incorporate.

Gabrielle experienced a pang of horror; had she been ignorant of the plot, so artful had been the management of the villain Fiorenza, that not the most suspicious observation could have imagined aught; the other glasses he filled without moving the position of his hand, and pushing that containing the poison towards Oriana, he said, with a terrific smile, and slightly inclining his head, “Come, Oriana, since the Conte will not, your brother will pledge you.”

“No, no,” cried Angelo, “leave your sister to me, Signor,” and lifting his glass lightly to his lips, he handed it to his mistress, while fondly he looked in her countenance, and said, “My glass for your’s, fair Oriana.”

The fair Oriana, with a bewitching smile, held out her glass to exchange with Angelo, when, “Stop!” exclaimed Gabrielle, “my Lord; a slight ceremony must first be performed, which alone can render the exchange of value to you.”

“What is that, Eugene?” cried Angelo, laughing; while rage, forced into a smile, appeared on the dark visage of Fiorenza.—

“These glasses, my Lord,” pursued Gabrielle, “have been all brought since supper,—the rosy lips of the Signora have not yet pressed her’s, if therefore you would exchange with her, she must first touch it with that lovely mouth, to add honey to the wine, and to render it a valuable exchange for you.”

“Bravo! my dear Eugene, you know the laws of love and gallantry, I perceive;—fair Oriana, we must be taught by this youth; deign then to taste your wine, that my unworthy lips may press the spot where your’s have touched.”

At this unexpected turn, great was the consternation of the Genoese; she looked towards Fiorenza, with eyes that said, “Deliver me from this terrible embarrassment.” Dark red murder glowed on the bronzed cheek of Fiorenza! detected crime sat on his gloomy brow, his lips quivered with bitter rage, hate, and fierce disappointment; but he gave no vent to the tumultuous feelings of his breast.

“Why this timidity, Oriana?” he cried, with the look and smile of a deceiving Demon,—“you may oblige the Conte, surely; touch the glass with your lips.”

By the emphasis he laid on the word touch, and by the glance of his eye, Oriana understood that he wished her in effect to put the glass to her lips, without drinking any of the wine; but she was too dreadfully alarmed for herself to make this attempt, even though the keen glance of Eugene might not have discovered the feint; she therefore still hesitated, when Gabrielle exclaimed:

“Aye, indeed, Signora, why this timidity?—one should think you were afraid of being poisoned!” At the same time taking the glass from her hand, without Oriana’s daring to resist, she held it up towards the light, and pursued, “I do not so much wonder, indeed, Signora, at your hesitation,—this wine does not in truth appear most invitingly clear.”

At this moment the animated looks, and gestures of Fiorenza compelling Oriana into immediate compliance with what they urged, she exclaimed, with a laugh, “How absurd you are to-night, Eugene; I’ll not remain near you any longer;” and affecting to rise with heedless haste, she struck, as if by accident, the raised arm of Gabrielle with her shoulder, when the glass falling out of her hand, immediately broke, and the fatal draught intended for Angelo, flowed harmless upon the table.

Angelo had remained silent during this scene; there was something in it which he did not like, yet he knew not what to think; the words and manner of Gabrielle excited in his mind a vague suspicion that some mischief had been intended, yet scarcely could he reconcile this idea with reason; for so little inclined was he to think amiss of any human being, that he could not conceive a motive sufficiently black to induce the wish in any one to deprive him of life.

As the glass fell, his eyes were attracted to the table, it was strewed with its fragments, upon some of which appeared a roughness, while in the bottom of the glass, that remained almost entire, a dusky sediment was clearly discernible. Angelo took it in his hand, looked at it with a suspicious eye, yet did not speak, for he could not endure to believe that the whole might not be accidental, or that the tender mistress, who valued him sufficiently to sacrifice to him her honor, and endanger her reputation, could in any point of view be so false, or so inconsistent, as to desire his destruction.

The idea was not more abhorrent than it appeared heterogeneous to him, and therefore he would not allow himself to express a doubt, well knowing that if he did, he could never see her more.

Oriana, somewhat recovered, now that she had conquered the terror of being compelled to touch the poison, took up with seeming indifference one of the fragments of glass, and looking slightly over it, handed it to the enraged and defeated Fiorenza, exclaiming with an air of innocence, “See brother, this glass does look strangely, and observe,” raising his glass to the light, “your wine appears turbid as mind did; does it not Eugene? let us not have any more from this bottle, there is some fault in it.”

Gabrielle made no other reply to her observation, that by an expressive look, which Fiorenza observing, vowed in the deepest recesses of his guilty heart, that he would take vengeance on the audacious stripling. Oriana summoning an attendant, ordered more wine and different glasses, then filling some for herself, and some for Angelo, she carelessly observed, “this wine appears excellent; come, my lord, I will with pleasure pledge you in this,” so saying, she tasted the wine, and with a seducing smile presented her glass to Angelo, that part towards him which her lips had touched.

Though Angelo was far from being perfectly at ease, he could not resist the tender blandishment of his mistress; he took the wine from her hand, and as he did so, said, fixing his eyes upon her countenance, which bore the air of the most perfect innocence, “Oriana—I drink to you in all sincerity.”

“Conte D’Albini!” exclaimed the wily Fiorenza, starting up and placing his hand in his bosom, from which the hilt of his stilletto became visible, “you lay strange emphases on your words—why that meaning in your looks? if you suspect there is more than mere accident in what has occurred, speak openly your doubts, and I will at once satisfy you of my honor, as you must me for your suspicions.”

“I have not said any thing, Signor Fiorenza, to render this conduct necessary on your part,” observed Angelo, “your warmth indeed appears totally uncalled for.”

From the fierce looks of Fiorenza, panting to give some vent to his dreadful rage, Gabrielle entertained a fear, that foiled in his first aim, he now desired to provoke Angelo to resent his words, that he might have an opportunity, in an unguarded moment, of achieving his purpose by his stilletto. She therefore exclaimed, “Oh, certainly, Signor Fiorenza you are too precipitate; il Conte D’Albini never gives hints, he always expresses what he thinks. Why not therefore reserve the vindication of your honour, till he avows his doubts of it?”

“I perceive, young gentleman,” cried Fiorenza, biting his lips, with a distorted smile, “you are as prone to teach the laws of honour, as those of gallantry.”

“Nonsense!” cried Oriana, and with that innocent sportiveness she knew so well how to assume, she added; “my brother was ever passionate and hasty from a youth, come, sit down good Fiorenza, no one chuses to quarrel with you.”

“What, do you condemn me too, Oriana?” cried he, permitting his stern features to relax; and taking his hand from his bosom, he presented it to Angelo, saying, “Excuse me Conte if I have been intemperate, but when an Italian conceives a friendship, he cannot brook the idea that trifles or accidental circumstances should cause it to be suspected.”

Angelo, impressed for the moment by his words, took his proffered hand, and Fiorenza re-seating himself, harmony appeared again to be restored.

Oriana exerted every effort to please and entertain Angelo, desirous of obliterating from his mind the awkward accident that had occurred; in these attempts the gloomy Fiorenza essayed to join, but their united endeavours could not prevent him from now and then reverting to what had passed, nor could he compel himself to the usual cheerfulness and gaiety he evinced, when in the presence of his fair mistress. He therefore earlier than common took his departure, and, accompanied by Eugene, returned home.

In any other place than Italy, a circumstance like the one here detailed might have been sufficient ground for the deepest scrutiny of the law, for the disgrace or punishment of the persons convicted, and of course for a total and eternal breach between the party: but in this country the case is different; such occurrences are common, and a lover even ascertaining the intent of his mistress to poison him, not only would not feel himself induced to break with her, but would even continue his visits to so dangerous an object.—Pique, anger, jealousy, will sometimes excite to this violent degree the resentment of the Italian fair, and if the venturous lover has reason to believe that either of these momentary sensations is the actuating impulse of his mistress’s attempt, he can forgive her, and entertain no fears of future mischief: besides, the mode of thinking on this point is somewhat reciprocal; the lover indeed will not poison his fair one, if he suspects her fidelity, but he takes a shorter method; he plunges his stiletto in her breast, and often gives her no opportunity of vindication. Thus the country stamps the degree of crime, marks the criterion by which it is to be estimated, and gives the law to the opinions of the people. In Sparta, it was ordained to expose to perish in the forests, those tender infants who gave no early indications of strength and beauty, while in more civilized ages, the practice became punishable with death.

There was a mixed sensation in the mind of Angelo, which rendered him averse to conversing with Eugene on the events of the night; he feared, perhaps, that his unbiassed mind appreciated them more truly than he would permit his own to do; and that he might advance such observations and opinions, as, from their justness and propriety, might render it next to impossible for him to continue his visits to Oriana. So weak was he, and so extravagantly infatuated with this worthless woman, who, from her pretended innocence and engaging vivacity, had obtained such an ascendancy over him, that he could not endure, upon any terms, the thought of resigning her society; he endeavoured to persuade himself, that nothing hostile was in reality intended against him, that all was accidental; yet, when memory involuntarily recurred to the embarrassment manifested by Oriana when pressed to taste the wine, the pretended accident of its spilling, in which there appeared so much of artifice, he was staggered. To this, however, he opposed in his mind the warmth of tenacious honour, and offended friendship in Fiorenza, who surely, he erroneously conceived, if aught of evil had been designed against him, would have acted in a way so widely different.

Yet spite of his wish to think and believe the best, such was his opinion of the depth and penetration of Eugene, that he, at times, almost felt a conviction there must be strong meaning in the conduct he had pursued. At all events he could not resolve otherwise than to speak of it lightly, to appear to estimate it as a trifle merely, and thus treating it, continue without interruption his visits to Oriana, though keeping continually on his guard, and narrowly observing her future conduct.

Such, too often, the infatuation of the Libertine, and such his unworthy folly; his all of feeling directed towards objects, base or contemptible, as unwilling as he is unable to shake off the ignoble trammels by which he is enslaved. Vice has for him more attractions than virtue; the superficial endowments of the body, more value than those of the mind. Thus the meretricious fair one, who, by empty frivolity, or unmeaning mirth, can wing his vapid hours with irrational delight, will ever be in his eyes a greater object of allurement than the faithful friend, honourable wife, or intellectual companion.

END OF VOL. I.

G. Sidney, Printer, Northumberland-street, Strand.

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