Chapter C: A. F (3)

All order was at an end: Madame Bertollon had sunk fainting amidst the congratulations of those around. The vice-governor of the province, a relation of the Mareschale Montreval, whom chance or curiosity brought to the court, descended from his seat and embraced me. M. Menard followed his example, amidst the shouts of the enthusiastic multitude.

I was led to Madame Bertollon, my knees failed me, I sank down and pressed her hand, which I bedewed with tears.

“Can you forgive me?” I faltered.

With a look full of excessive love and a heavenly smile, she looked down on me. “Alamontade!” she sighed softly, but tears checked her words.

The court broke up and the judges embraced me. In vain I endeavoured to find Madame Bertollon; the crowd was too great. I was led down the steps of the court-house, through the dense mass which headed me, with marks of honour.

In the act of getting into my sedan, I was stopped by a well-dressed young man saying, “Sir, you cannot possibly return with pleasant feelings to a house which still contains the corpse of a suicide, and which must remind you of the most horrible circumstances. Do me the honour of allowing me to entertain you in the meanwhile in my own house.”

This invitation, urged with cordiality, was quite unexpected. Tears still sparkled in the young man’s eyes, and he entreated me so earnestly that I could not refuse. He pressed my hand with joyful gratitude, gave orders to the bearers and disappeared.

Followed by the acclamations of the multitude through the streets, I proceeded but slowly, but at length arrived at the house of my unknown friend. I only noticed that it was in the neighbourhood of Bertollon’s house and in the street where Clementine lived, which could not be an unpleasant discovery to me, though I was still confused and overcome.

At the foot of the steps in the inner court, the sedan-chair was opened. The friendly stranger awaited me; I saw myself in a large splendid building, and was assisted up the marble stairs by two servants.

All that is terrible and pleasing in human life was compressed for me into the narrow space of this one day.

The folding-doors were opened, and some ladies advanced to receive me. The eldest among them addressed me, saying, “I am much indebted to my nephew for procuring me the honour of seeing the noble-minded deliverer of innocence in my dwelling.”

Who can describe my astonishment when I discovered this lady to be Madame de Sonnes, and that Clementine was following her. I was about to stammer something in reply to her kind reception, but was too much exhausted. The loss of blood in the morning, after a night spent in wakeful melancholy, and the various and extraordinary sensations to which I had been exposed, had quite exhausted me. Clementine’s appearance made me lose sight of all around me. I only saw her, only spoke to her, until forms and colours were blended before my fading sight in a confused chaos.

For several weeks I kept my bed and room, a fever having been produced by the sufferings from my wound. Young M. de Sonnes never left me; he had all my property removed from Bertollon’s house; including the harp, but not the wreath. They did not know of what value it was to me.

In the meanwhile Madame Bertollon had been acquitted; and M. de Sonnes told me that the fair sufferer had immediately left Montpellier, and had gone into a distant convent. He likewise gave me a letter which had been sent for me, under cover, to Madame de Sonnes, saying, “Madame Bertollon probably wished us to thank her deliverer.”

I took it with a trembling hand; as soon as I was alone I perused it, and ever since it has accompanied me in weal and woe. Its contents are as follows:--

“Abbey St. G., at V----,
“May 11, 1762.

“Farewell, Alamontade, these lines, the first I ever wrote to a man, will be the last. I have left the stormy life of the great world; the solemn stillness of sacred walls encloses me; I have been able to disengage myself, without regret, from all that once was dear and indispensable; I take nothing out of the world except the wounds which it inflicted.

“Ah! that I could have left these wounds, and the remembrance of the past behind me. They cling to me to make my last friend, Death, the more desirable.

“In the bloom of life the black veil of widowhood encircles me; by it I show to men a mourning which I feel not, and conceal that which consumes me.

“Yes, Alamontade, I do not blush even now, in this sacred spot, to confess what I never wished to conceal from you, that I loved you. You knew it. Alas! you still know it; and it was you who could point the dagger to a heart which beat for you alone in this world.

“Oh! Alamontade, you have deceived me. You never loved me. I was not grieved at my unfortunate husband accusing me of the blackest crime. No. But that you could believe me guilty, could become my accuser; you, for whom I would cheerfully have died,--that has withered the very root of my life.

“But no; no reproaches. Noble, and still beloved, you were blameless. Dazzled by appearances, you sacrificed feeling to friendship and your sense of justice. You wished, at most, to be unhappy, not ungrateful. I feel it fully; the wife of another dared not love you; and I, in my sinful affection, was never worthy of your pure heart. I always felt this, and my weakness was always at war with my inclination. No being was more wretched than I; and each look from you, each kiss perpetuated a flame which it ought to have extinguished. In a moment of despair I wished for a voluntary death rather than the danger of losing my virtue. Then I procured the poison which I had destined for myself, because I loved you much too passionately. This is the secret which shame would have prevented me from confessing upon the rack. Alas! You, the source of my misfortune--it was you that interrogated me before the judges.

“You have never loved me, and my separation will never grieve you. I had deceived myself, and must suffer for the devotion of my unsuspecting heart. The world pities me, but its pity leaves me without consolation; and even your compassion, my friend, aggravates my pain instead of mitigating it.

“Within these cloistered walls I see the end of my short pilgrimage; the lime-tree before the grated window of my cell throws its shade upon the little spot that will become my tomb. This is my consolation.

“Ah! how melancholy to stand thus alone in the world! and I am alone, for no one living loves me. My friends have forgotten me already in their joyous circles, and my tears do not disturb their merriment. I fade like the solitary flower of the mountain, unknown and unseen; it gives and receives no joy; its disappearance leaves no trace behind.

“And you, the only one I loved, receive these lines as a farewell. A breaking heart breathed these words; a dying hand traced them. I do my last duty. Do not disturb my peace by answering this. I shall not receive any letter, and will never see you. I will pray to God for your happiness; and my last sigh shall be for you; and, with the remembrance of you, death shall lead me to a better life.

“AMELIA BERTOLLON.”

I never saw the noble creature again. Perfectly virtuous, she sank. But I never forgot her, and often shed tears to her memory.

Madame de Sonnes and Clementine frequently visited me during my illness, and treated me not like a stranger, but like a brother, or near relative.

Madame de Sonnes was a noble lady of lively temperament and superior education. She never seemed to live for herself, but only for others; being constantly anxious to afford pleasure and render some service, she knew how to give to those, who were not above profiting by her benevolence, the appearance of being her benefactors. Her kindness always wore the stamp of gratitude.

Clementine, the pride of the family, was quite worthy of her mother. Perfect innocence and constant serenity formed her character, and no one could approach her without loving her. I had never seen, never fancied her so beautiful as now. Her smile was inspiring, her look penetrated to the soul, her deportment was the _beau ideal_ of grace, and she was distinguished above her friends by so much amiability that she alone was unusually admired. Yet she was the most unassuming of all; she knew nothing of all her excellence, and was delighted when she discovered excellence in others. You could imagine that she had never seen her own image reflected.

I had never touched my harp since I had been with them; she also was more reserved than when at a distance as formerly; she came less frequently than any one else, spoke less to me than to others, and yet was most solicitous about me, watching anxiously my minutest wish. Only her eyes expressed her friendly feeling towards me.

While my love for her increased to an unconquerable passion, a thousand obstacles became more evident, which deprived me of all hope of ever being made happy by her hand. I was poor, as I possessed nothing but a good reputation and the confidence of all honest people. But how little is that in the great world! I had, indeed, gained such general reputation by Bertollon’s lawsuit, that the number of my clients increased daily. Still how long had I to work before I could acquire a fortune sufficient even to approach Clementine. I saw the lovely creature every day, both at home and in the garden, sometimes alone and sometimes in company. Oh! she might easily perceive how much I loved her, for my silence and my converse, my approach and departure, were so many betrayers of my heart.

I became daily more embarrassed and uneasy. Absence from her was the only remedy against inexpressible unhappiness. I came to the resolution of taking a house for myself, and discovered my intention to M. de Sonnes. Both he and his aunt opposed me in vain; I remained immoveable to their wishes and entreaties. Clementine alone neither appeared nor entreated, but she became more serious, and, as I thought, more sad.

“You are very cruel,” said Madame de Sonnes one day to me; “what have we done to offend you, that you wish to punish us so severely? You will take with you the peace of our house, until now so happy. We all love you, leave us not, I beseech you.”

All the reasons that I could state to justify my departure were insufficient to satisfy her. The most important, indeed the only one, I could not reveal, and she saw nothing but unconquerable caprice in my refusal.

“Well then,” she said at length, “we must, I suppose, resign ourselves to your will; we are more indifferent to you than I thought. Why is it not given to all to allow friendship to strike root in the heart just deep enough to be plucked up without pain at any time?--Clementine will some day be unhappy for this. I fear she will be quite ill.”

These words pained me. I turned pale and trembled, faltering, “Clementine suffer?”

Without the least suspicion of what was passing in my mind, Madame de Sonnes said, “Come with me to my room.” I followed; and on opening the door, she said to her daughter: “He will not stay, you perhaps can persuade him.” Finding myself alone with her, I approached her.

What a beautiful picture of grief! It will never be effaced from my memory. The terrors of endless misery which I have suffered in foreign climes have not been able to deprive it of its charm and life. There she sat in her plain attire, charming as a child of Eden; a fading blossom of lilac hung from her head, peering forth by her simple veil, as though it were a symbol of that which she most needed, repose.

When I approached her, she looked up, and her kindly beaming eyes, filled with tears, smiled upon me. I took her hand, and kneeling before her, sighed, “Clementine!”

She made no answer, nor did she smile.

“Do you also wish me to stay? Only command me and I will joyfully obey, even if I should become more unhappy.”

“More unhappy?” she replied, with an anxious look; “Are you then unhappy with us!”

“You do not know that! You only wish to diffuse happiness around you; but, Clementine, you accustomed me to a heaven too soon. If sooner or later I should have to lose all, to lose your society (and such a time might arrive, Clementine), how would it then be with me?” I asked, while I pressed her hand against my throbbing heart.

“If you never separate yourself from us we shall not lose you,” she replied.

“Would to heaven I might not leave you but in death,” I exclaimed.

She looked towards heaven, sighed, and leaning forward, a burning tear rolled on my hand.

“Do you doubt the constancy of my friendship,” she said.

“Have I a right to your friendship, Clementine, and this noble heart? Alas! will it not some day beat more warmly for another? and then, Clementine, then----”

“Never! Alamontade,” she said, rising quickly, and turning away her face, which was suffused with a gentle glow. I rose with ineffable rapture, clasped her in my arms, her bosom heaving with strong emotion, her cheeks glowing, and her looks expressing the words which her lips refused to utter.

Our souls were united, and made the everlasting compact. A trembling sigh was our vow, the world vanished like a shadow, and in a kiss we exchanged life for life.

Oh! what bliss has the hand of the Almighty infused even in the dust, and how much has it sweetened the lot of the spirit to be united with the earthly.

When we awoke from our pure rapture, and I could lisp Clementine’s name, and she mine, all nature around was changed, and nothing was left of the former world. Every thing shone more gloriously and beautifully; the dull apartment resembled a temple, and a sweet spirit spoke from every object--from the pictures and from the carpet. Even the whispering of the trees was significant, and in the waving shadows of the leaves there was a secret expression of delight.

“I will remain,” I exclaimed.

“And for ever,” she added.

A few hours afterwards, when I saw Madame de Sonnes, I felt a slight timidity; but she came to me with a smile, and said, “What changes have you worked on Clementine? She is inspired. She speaks in verses. She steps as light as a fairy. But what do I see, Alamontade? Why do you blush? I am indebted to you. How shall I show my gratitude?”

Saying this, she embraced me with great affection, adding, “You are a noble man. I know well the dearest reasons you had for leaving us.”

I was so confused that I could not reply.

“Singular enough, that I, after all, was not to guess your secret. You always wished to be the wiser, and so you are, Alamontade, but not this time! Do you think that I did not perceive your love for Clementine? Why did you make a secret of it to me, the mother of your beloved?”

“Madame,----” I faltered, more confused.

“I think you would, even now, deny it if you could,” she said, in a pleasant tone. “I stood near you both when in the height of your happiness, you neither saw me nor the world around; and then I felt that I was not at all required to witness your betrothal. My daughter lives for you, make her happy, and then I shall be so too.”

What kindness! I sank at her feet, and kissed her hand without being able to utter a word.

“Not so,” she said, “a son must not kneel before his mother.”

“Madame,” I exclaimed, “you give more than the most daring hopes could----”

“Not I,” she replied, “it is you, dear friend, who bring peace to our house. I am indeed a mother, but I have no command over my daughter’s heart. Clementine has known you longer than I. On your account she has refused many offers; her hopes were centred in you. To complete her happiness is my duty. Now I know you, I bless Clementine’s choice.”

“This is too great kindness,” I said; “it was indeed my resolution, some day, when my fortune should be adequate--but I am poor, Madame----”

“What has fortune to do with this affair?” answered the noble lady, “you have a respectable competency, and Clementine, beside having property of her own, is my heiress. The cares of life cannot trouble you; and should you ever, by any misfortune, lose all, you must retrench; you possess knowledge, activity, and honesty: with these you will always succeed.”

In vain I stated several obstacles; she was above considering them important.

“No, sir,” she said, “that you loved Clementine without regard to wealth I was well aware. And indeed the girl has sufficient worth of her own to be loved for herself only. Your delicacy, dear friend, is therefore not compromised; if you could aspire to her heart and conquer it, truly you need not blush at her bringing you a rich dowry. The heart which you possess is worth more than the paltry money to which you fear to aspire, as if it were too much. My daughter cannot be happier, if she marries with a man she does not love, though he has a million. She will only be rendered happy by the mind, nobleness, true love, and solicitude of her beloved.”

“And--” said Clementine, bounding in with her charming simplicity, taking my hand, and looking affectionately in the eyes of her kind mother.

“You have chosen well,” said Madame de Sonnes, embracing us both; “you always are more solicitous for your mother’s happiness than for your own.”

Clementine was now my betrothed; the whole family treated me with the greatest affection; I was looked upon as the beloved son, and possessed the esteem of the whole town. I had attained my supreme object, and it would be wearisome to describe the variety of my enjoyments.

Letters had arrived from London to the Mareschale de Montreval, as governor of the province, for my late father, together with the deeds of a large inheritance left him by a brother who had died in the West Indies. I hastened for a few days to Nismes to the mareschale by his order. He only showed me the letter from the London banker and a copy of the will, without being able to give me any further particulars.

The property had been already remitted to the government of Languedoc by draughts on the bank in Paris. This made me the possessor of an annual income of 4000 livres.

Although aware that one of my uncles, in his early days, had gone to America, from whence no news had ever arrived, I could scarcely believe that he had saved so large a fortune. Moreover the obscurity which enveloped several points requisite to be known in the account from London, inspired me with some suspicion as to this unexpected wealth, considered as an inheritance, though it appeared to me too large for a present. I wrote both to the London banker and the magistrate of the province in America, where my uncle was reported to have died; but never discovered more than I knew already. Hence I could not help thinking that Madame Bertollon had more to do with the inheritance than my uncle.

The mareschale appeared almost angry at my scruples. “Enjoy your undisputed property and have a dozen masses for uncle,” he said; “and that you may not live altogether idle on your property, come to me and accept the first situation in my office. One condition, however, I must make, viz: that you live in my palace. I must see you daily, my affairs are numerous, and your advice will be valuable to me.”

I thanked the mareschale for this honourable distinction, and only asked time for consideration before accepting a situation to which my attainments were not adequate. He overwhelmed me with civilities, and dismissed me with kindly menaces in case I did not soon resolve to comply with his wishes.

M. Etienne, my good old uncle, was elated with joy when he heard of the mareschale’s offer to me.

“When you, Colas, came to me as a boy, in your smock-frock and wooden shoes, and so stood before me in your poverty, I was then touched in my heart, and heard, as it were, the voice of the spirit within me, commanding me to adopt you, because you would one day be the guardian angel of the oppressed believers. Behold, Colas, the Lord has done great things for you; you now stand again on the same spot of the poor miller’s house, and are a highly honoured, learned, and rich man. Hesitate no longer to accept the offer of the mareschale. It is not his will, no, it is the will of God; it is not his calling, but it is the call of Heaven, which comes to you to afford comfort to the gospel Christians.”

My uncle and his amiable family (in whose circle one daughter was missing, having been married), as well as his friends, who were all secret Protestants, did not desist in their most urgent remonstrances with me to accept the situation. I was obliged partly to promise that I would accept it; but it was still important to consult Clementine and her mother on the subject.

I had no sooner made the mareschale’s proposal known to them, than both were at once agreed that I must not let slip an opportunity which promised me a larger sphere of activity.

“We will both accompany you to Nismes,” said Clementine; “you will no doubt remember the amphitheatre and the house of Albertas?--but to live with the mareschale--no, that will not do, you must refuse that politely.”

And so it happened; we went together to Nismes, I entered on my situation, and I was permitted to find recreation in Clementine’s society.

Wealth, authority, and influence over the affairs of the province, prepared for me the happiest lot man could imagine. Friendship and love completed my felicity; but in the picture of my life, at that period, there was almost too much light, too little shade, and all became a bright, rosy monotony.

The death of Clementine’s grandfather occasioned a family mourning, and our union was postponed, out of respect, for six months. But this could not darken our happiness; we saw each other daily, and nothing in the world could separate us.

During the first few months the Mareschale de Montreval treated me with marked favour. Still I could not prevail upon myself to approach him with confidence, or to return his kind sentiments with equal cordiality. His affable demeanour had something terrible in it, and in his smile there was always something threatening. He was a man of genius and judgment, but yet beclouded by prejudices which were sacred to him, and which were probably owing to his monkish education in his early life. Enervated by former excesses, he was sickly, fearful of death, tormented by dark imaginations and suspicions. He never scrupled to commit the most arbitrary acts, to be severe even to cruelty, and to sacrifice the welfare of many to his caprice; but at the same time he professed to be very religious. The monks were his favourite associates, and ruled him without his suspecting it. He never neglected a mass, and passed for a most devout man. He seldom smiled, was generally grave and cold; and there was something commanding in his calm demeanour. The more I knew him, the more I privately disliked him. A man like Bertollon, without religion, without God, without eternity, and without moral principles, who, acting only on the suggestions of prudence, could see with an egotist smile a whole despairing world sink for his gain, is not more atrocious, not more dangerous, than a man of the world, filled with bigotry, like Montreval. The atheist and bigot, who do not acknowledge moral principles and eternal right, weigh equally in the scale of morals, and are equally poisonous to society. Both without feeling for the true dignity of man, without regard for humanity, spin their subtle web between the relations of society, and rob and kill with honour. Neither fear God, for the one does not believe in him, the other tries to appease his wrath with prayers and masses, and in the temple cleanses himself of the sins which he has committed without.

Even during the first days of my residence in Nismes, I was surrounded by a holy troop of monks, who feared my influence on the mareschale as being hostile to their views. But they perceived how little I cared for this influence, and gradually left me to myself. They, however, continued very friendly, praised my character to the mareschale, and ended by expressing their pity I was a man without religion.

The Protestants of Nismes looked upon me as their leader and protector. They showed me extravagant honours, which could not fail to excite the suspicion of the mareschale, even if he had been less suspicious than he was. They became bolder in their words and deeds. More than once I succeeded in obtaining his pardon for their inconsiderate acts; but instead of being warned by such occurrences, their fanaticism, in frequent combat with their persecutors, and a secret confidence in my protection, only rose higher, and it was in vain for me to represent to them the danger which they wantonly prepared for themselves.

“No!” cried M. Etienne, my uncle; “no, where God is, there is no danger. Oh! Colas, be not afraid of men, for the Lord is with you. ‘He who confesses me before men, him will I also confess before my Father,’ says the Saviour of the world. In France, the gospel grain of mustard-seed will spring up, as on the mountains of Switzerland and in the forests of Germany; but we want men like Zuinglius, Calvin, and Luther, who do not tremble before the princes of this world. And you, Alamontade, be like them, and God will be your strong fortress.”

Once, when I was again obliged to intercede for the Protestants, the mareschale asked me, with a penetrating glance, “You are not a heretic, I hope?” He refused my solicitations, and from that time became more reserved towards me.

I perceived how little good I could do under existing circumstances, but, on the contrary, how injurious my presence in Nismes, my office, and the false notion of my influence must be to the followers of Calvin, who relied upon me with too much confidence. This brought me to the resolution of requesting my discharge; but Madame de Sonnes and Clementine prevented me from doing so by their entreaties until the winter had passed. The mareschale was in Montpellier, and his absence rendered me happier, but the Protestants still more daring.

On the Palm Sunday of the year 1703, the mareschale, who had recently returned from Montpellier, invited me to a banquet in his castle, and though not feeling quite well I determined on going.

In the morning I said smiling to Clementine, “To-morrow I shall ask for my discharge, and whatever your mother may say, it must be done to-morrow, and then, Clementine!----”

“And then?”---- she asked.

“We will no longer delay our union. We may now rejoice with propriety since you have this day left off your black dress. Therefore in a week you will be my wife. And then,” I continued, “we will leave this melancholy Nismes, and go to our new estate near Montpellier. Spring is coming with its beauty; we must live amid rural nature.”

And this was resolved on, and sealed by a kiss.

At this moment I was called out. I quitted the room; I found that my uncle had come, and requested a private interview in my own apartment.

“Colas,” said he, “this is Palm Sunday, and you must come with me.”

“I cannot,” was my reply, “for I am invited to dine with the mareschale.”

“And I,” said he, with solemn voice. “I invite you to the holy supper. No grandee of this earth will there sit at table with us, but we shall be assembled in Jesus’ name, and he will be in the midst of us. All of us, some hundreds in number, with our wives and children, celebrate this morning the holy sacrament in my mill near the Carmelite gate.”

I was terrified, and exclaimed: “What presumption! Do you not know that the mareschale is in Nismes?”

“We know it, and the Almighty God is there also.”

“Will you then designedly plunge yourselves into misery and a dungeon? The law forbids most strictly all meetings of this kind, and threatens death.”

“What law? The law of the mortal king? Thou shalt obey God rather than man.”

In this way my uncle knew how to surmount all my objections, by biblical quotations, and the more I urged the unlawfulness and danger of such meetings, and the more vividly I described the probable consequences, the more zealous he became.

“When Jesus was betrayed,” he exclaimed, “and when the traitor stood near him, and when he knew they were preparing to take him, then, oh! Colas, surrounded by the danger of certain death, he instituted the holy sacrament. And should we, who would be the disciples of Jesus, tremble? No, never; if all hell were in arms it should not terrify us.”

I could not bring my uncle to his senses; he called me an apostate, a hypocrite, a papist, and left me in a rage.

I returned to Clementine. She had seen my uncle, and the vexation expressed in all his gestures; she inquired the cause which I dared not disclose to her. Amidst her innocent caresses, my fear and uneasiness gradually left me. She told me that her mother agreed to all my wishes; this cheered me still more. On Clementine’s bosom I dreamed of the peaceful happiness of the future.

Withdrawn from the tumult of the world and its passions, I proposed to live alone with my young wife, surrounded by blooming nature, by love and friendship, and in the pursuit of science.

How happy we were both in these moments! “Oh! Clementine,” said I, “no throne is indeed required to make others happy, but only the will. We may be useful even in a small and insignificant sphere. We will visit the abodes of poverty. I shall again defend the cause of accused innocence, and a kiss shall be my reward when I have succeeded in accomplishing any good. Our library furnishes an inexhaustible store for the mind, and our harp shall sound in the evening, to record the unenvied felicity of two loving souls in the shade of our own grove. The poor shall eat at our table, and those consoled in their griefs shall be our companions. Surely, Clementine, we shall never yearn for the cold splendour of this palace. And some day, you, Clementine--the mere thought vibrates rapture through me--some day, Clementine, you will be a mother. Mother! oh, Clementine!”--Her kisses interrupted my words.

At this moment my servant entered pale as death and breathless.

“What is the matter with you?” I asked.

“Sir,” he faltered, “the Calvinists have met for their interdicted worship in the mill of M. Etienne near the Carmelite gate.”

I was much alarmed. Lo, then, it was betrayed. “And what else,” I cried.

“The mill is surrounded by dragoons, and all within are prisoners. Only think, the Mareschale de Montreval is there himself. The preacher and a few others of the secured heretics endeavoured to escape through the window, but the mareschale gave the signal, and the dragoons fired.”

“Fired?” I cried. “Was any one killed?”

“Four of them lie dead on the spot,” was the servant’s reply.

Without asking any further questions, I took my hat and stick. Clementine wept and trembled; she would not let me leave her, turned pale, and clung speechless and in great anguish round my neck.

Madame de Sonnes came in. I told her of this frightful occurrence, and that I was resolved to hasten there in order to move the mareschale to humanity. She praised my resolution, entreating me to fly thither without delay, and spoke consoling words to Clementine.

As I departed, I looked back, and saw Clementine pale and trembling in her mother’s arms. I returned, kissed her pale lips, and hastened away.

When I reached the gate, I had to force my way through a throng of people who stood crowded together, gaping with mingled curiosity, terror, joy, and expectation.

With cold shuddering I beheld above the crowd the glittering arms of the dragoons, who surrounded, three deep, my beloved uncle’s mill. High above all I saw the mareschale on horseback, surrounded by noblemen; he seemed grave and thoughtful.

“My lord!” I exclaimed, when I reached him.

He turned round on hearing me, looked at me, and pointing with his stick to the mill, said, without changing a feature, “The wretches! Now they are caught.”

“What do you intend doing, my lord?” I asked.

“I have been considering for the last quarter of an hour.”

“Oh! my lord,” I said; “it is true these infatuated men have broken the laws, but truly they are more the objects of your contempt than your wrath. Be magnanimous, my lord, and the transgressors will fall at your feet in repentance, and never again----”

“What!” interrupted the mareschale, “these men are incorrigible. They are rebels, furious, audacious rebels. Am I to let this accursed weed luxuriate until it can perpetrate a second Michelade?”[2]

“No, my lord,” I said, seizing his hand, which was hanging down; “you are too just to attribute to these unfortunate persons cruelties which happened nearly a century and a half ago.”

“It is time to set a severe example,” said the mareschale, who to this moment had been undecided. He withdrew his hand, rode a few paces forward without further noticing me, and cried, with a loud voice, “Fire the mill!”

Cold with terror, I staggered after him, seized the reins of his horse, and cried, “For God’s sake mercy, mercy.”

“Begone,” he cried, casting a furious look at me, and flourishing his stick as if he would strike me. I let go the horse and fell upon my knees before this cold-blooded demon, crying, “Mercy!”

I heard the crackling and hissing of the flames, saw the thick clouds of smoke rolling over the roof of the mill, and then heard the horrible cries of those enclosed within. I sprang up again and clasped the mareschale’s knees, but God only knows what I cried to him in my anguish. He heard me not, he had no humanity; the pious tiger only looked upon the burning mill.

Soon my voice was drowned amidst the wild roar around, the cries of those consigned to death, and the thunder of the carabines. Those who endeavoured to escape the flames were shot down by the dragoons.

I started up and ran to the mill. At this moment a girl threw herself from the window. I caught her in my arms; it was Antonia my uncle’s youngest daughter.

“You are saved, Antonia,” said I, carrying away the poor creature through the smoke and fire, and came up, without knowing it, to the mareschale.

“The dog!” he cried, “I always said he was one of them!” I knew not he spoke of me.

“Down with them!” he shouted again. Two dragoons tore the fainting girl from my arms, and while she lay on the ground these ruffians shot the innocent creature at my feet.

“It serves the cursed heretics right!” said the mareschale calmly, close behind me.

“Oh! you atrocious monster! how will you answer for this deed before your and our king,--before your and our God?” I cried, foaming with rage.

He galloped up to me, gave me a blow on my head with his stick, and rode over me. Half stunned, I imagined he had given orders to kill me. I started up and snatched a carabine from the hands of a dragoon to defend my life. No one dared to lay hands on me, in spite of the mareschale’s exclaiming repeatedly, “Secure him! secure him!”

While looking around me with consternation, I beheld--oh! horrible sight--I beheld my uncle with blood streaming from his head, standing over the corpse of Antonia; I only recognised him by his figure and clothing. He uttered a frightful shriek towards heaven, and sank amidst musket shots over the body of his beloved child.

I was going to address the mareschale, but my tongue was paralysed. Raising my eyes and my arm with the musket to heaven, I received a blow, and sank down perfectly insensible.

Until then, I had still preserved my faith in humanity, and blindly devoted myself to this belief. Impressed with the best works of the greatest minds of our time, I had lulled myself into happy illusions. I had believed mankind much more humane and freer from the bonds of barbarism. Indeed, I was the subject of the most lauded monarch of the world, and France called the reign of Louis XIV. her Golden Age. Alas! Montreval was one of his governors, and the Palm Sunday of 1703, a day of that Golden Age. About 200 men were burnt alive and shot on that day, and even the infant on its mother’s breast was not spared. All the property of the murdered was confiscated, and Montreval’s cruelty was crowned with laurels by the royal hand.

When I had recovered my consciousness and could discover the objects around, I found myself among strangers, and my wounded head bandaged. Now and then, during my insensibility, I felt pain, and dimly perceived that people were employed about me; but this consciousness soon left me, and I relapsed again into stupor as into a heavy sleep.

“By my faith thou hast a tough life.” These were the first words I heard, as they were uttered by a dirty old fellow, who was standing by me offering medicine.

I did not see Clementine. I was in a narrow chamber, on a hard, coarse bed.

“Where am I then?” I asked.

“Thou art with me,” said the fellow. I now, for the first time, remembered the fatal event to which I owed my present situation.

“Am I then a prisoner?”

“To be sure, and quite right too!” answered my keeper.

“Does Madame de Sonnes know of this? Has she not sent here? May I not see her?”

“Dost thou know any one here? Where does she live?”

“In the Rue de Martin. The house Albertas.”

“Thou fool! there is no Rue de Martin in all Marseilles. Thou art still feverish, I think, or dost thou not know that thou art in Marseilles?”

“In Marseilles? What, in Marseilles am I? Am I not in Nismes? How long have I been here?”

“May be three weeks. I can easily believe that thou, poor devil, dost not know of it. Thou hast been raving in a burning fever till last night. Thou must have a strong constitution. We thought we should have to bury thee to-day.”

“What am I to do here?”

“When thou art recovered thou wilt put on that dress; dost thou know it?”

“That is a galley slave’s dress. What? pray tell me, am I then--I will--I cannot believe--have I been sentenced?”

“Perhaps so; only for twenty-nine years to the oars, as they say.”

The fellow spoke too truly. As soon as I recovered, my terrible sentence was announced to me. I was condemned to punishment in the galleys for twenty-nine years, for menaces, and murderous attempts on the life of the Mareschale de Montreval; also for the crime of being a secret Protestant, and for having committed sundry peculations, for the benefit of the heretics, in the office where I had influence, by virtue of my situation.

I sighed, yet conscious of my innocence, put on the dress without pain. My tears flowed only for the fate of Clementine. I endeavoured to send her a few lines, which I wrote as a farewell, on a scrap of paper, with a pencil I borrowed. But alas! I was too poor to bribe my keeper; he took the paper, read it, and laughing, tore it to pieces, saying, “There is no post for love letters here.”

I was now put in chains, and led, together with some companions in misfortune, to the galley appointed for us in the harbour. It was a beautiful evening, and the city displayed its splendour in the radiance of the setting sun. Amidst the dark green of the sloping mountains surrounding the harbour, which was crowded with the vessels of all nations, glistened innumerable snow-white villas, and between the almond and olive trees of the Bastides, waved a thousand silken pennons, displaying all the colours of the rainbow; while through the mouth of the harbour, the view was lost in the immeasurable expanse of the ocean.

The splendour of this spectacle dazzled me, and filled me with melancholy. The shores of my native land seemed to display all their glory, only to make me feel more vividly what I had lost. All around breathed joy, I only was for ever joyless, and I saw no limits to my misery, except on the brink of the distant grave.

I passed the night sleepless; with the early dawn our galley left the harbour and when the sun arose above the ruddy waves, I lost sight of Marseilles. I and five other slaves were chained to the oars.

What a fate! To be for ever separated from all the friends and playmates of my youth,--to be separated alas! from thee, Clementine, cast from the lap of wealth upon the hard bench, forgotten by all the happy, dishonoured, and among malefactors, to hear now, instead of Clementine’s delightful conversation, only the curses and ribaldry of low thieves, murderers, smugglers, and robbers;--to be without books, without information as to the progress of science, my mind left the prey of itself, without hope;--to hear the terrible clanking of my chains instead of the magic of music and Clementine’s harp! Surely, death itself is not so bitter as this dreadful change.

“But I will bear it,” said I to myself; “there is a God, and my spirit knows its divine origin. I have not lost myself. I shall remain faithful to virtue, and though mistaken by the world, I carry with me across the sea the esteem which innocent souls feel for themselves. I have only been compelled to forsake that which was not my own, and what I suffer is but the pain of a body which hitherto has not been accustomed to deny itself.”

Thus my mind, after one year had passed, obtained the victory; thus did I live the greater part of my life, joyless, and in solitude. I have grown old in misfortune, and have never again heard any thing of those who once loved me. The only cheerful feelings I have had were when, in my leisure hours, I could write down my thoughts, and look back with tears on the long passed paradise of my youth. Often during the monotonous sound of the oars, grief recalled to my mind the visions of the happy past. Then it seemed as if Clementine floated on the waves of the sea, and encouraged me with her smiles, like an angel of consolation. I gazed with moistened eyes at the beloved vision, and felt all the wounds of my heart again opened. Still I despaired not, but rowed cheerfully on.

I should sometimes have taken all the felicities of my youth as the effect of imagination, had not the melancholy farewell letter which Madame Bertollon had written from the convent, by some chance remained with me. I preserved it with veneration, as the last sacred remnant of what I formerly possessed. I often read it in distant seas, and on the burning coasts of Africa; and I always drew from it unspeakable consolation, and rowed cheerfully onwards, nearer and nearer to the end of my life.

Thus nine-and-twenty years have now elapsed. What are they?

Death, my ardently wished for friend comes to release me. Ah! sir, you have shown much compassion for me in making the last hours of my life so sweet. Our minds are congenial, and will, perhaps, meet again.

* * * * *

[The preceding narrative, according to the author, is related to some friends by the Abbé Dillon, who was with Alamontade the last days of his life, after his liberation from the galleys.

Shortly before his death, Alamontade learns that Clementine is still living, and is much delighted to hear that she has remained faithfully attached to him. His only wish and consolation now is, that his days may be prolonged till she arrives; but she does not come till the day after his death; aged and infirm herself, she soon follows him to the grave.

The whole of Alamontade is divided into two books in the original, the first containing Zschokhe’s[3] views on religion and moral philosophy. The following are the author’s prefatory remarks:

“The following narrative was composed during the winter of 1801-2, at Berne, where the author having retired from public affairs, wished to devote his leisure hours to some useful purpose, having, by frequent intercourse become acquainted with many of those diseased minds who, being entangled in doubts, have lost their God and the joys of life. He therefore was desirous of making an attempt to raise again in them a holy faith and courage for virtue. He was inspired by the affecting dream of one night; it was an angelic but transient vision, which he in vain endeavoured to hold fast. However imperfect the original narrative was, yet it went through four editions during the first ten years after its appearance. This circumstance makes the author believe that he has not altogether failed in his object.”]