Chapter VII

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.