Chapter XVI

When the conduct of Paulina became insupportable to Angelo, which it frequently did, he would rush from the house, and, a solitary being in the midst of society, seek out some temporary amusement to drown the uneasiness and dissatisfaction of his mind. Often, rather than return home, he would wander for hours about the streets, dreading to encounter the fierceness of Paulina’s resentment, on some frivolous pretext, or for some alledged fault, of which he would be unconscious.

One night, that her procedure had been more than ordinarily violent and disgusting, he had left her abruptly, and, quitting the house, determined to remain out to a late hour, preferring any discomfort attendant on that plan, to the misery of enduring her society, in such a temperament of mind. When at length he gathered resolution to return, Paulina, to his infinite joy, was not to be seen; concluding she had retired to her apartment, he hastily sought his own, too happy to have escaped a scene which he had anticipated with pain and apprehension. As he entered his room, a letter on his dressing table attracted his attention; he took it up carelessly, and with astonishment read thus:

“COUNT,

“I never loved you, and why I pretended to do so, you may at one
time or another learn;--at the time you read this I shall be far
from you, and all pursuit will be vain: among your friends I have
found one I prefer to you--at least I think so--he is richer and
more agreeable; with him I quit England, which, but for reasons
stronger than my regard for you, I had never entered. You will, no
doubt, accuse me of having deceived you; but what then, you loved
the deception, which, till now, I suffered you to fancy real: and,
in the midst of your invectives against me, remember, that for once
at least I have dealt with you sincerely.

“PAULINA MEZZOTETTO.”

This rude and illiterate scrawl overwhelmed Angelo with the deepest indignation; and, true to his nature, no sooner did he find that the worthless Paulina was lost to him, than she appeared before him decked in her thousand charms. In the first heat of passionate regret, he determined to pursue her; but suddenly he remembered, with a thrill of real delight that superseded every other consideration, that he was now wholly at liberty, disencumbered of one whom he had long learned to view with other eyes than those of admiration, more humbly, more earnestly than ever, to sue the forgiveness of the injured Gabrielle. On this idea he dwelt with delight, that he should once more behold her, and that she would look on him with pity and tender pardon.

Ever sudden, variable, and precipitate, he penned in the enthusiasm of the moment, ere he retired to bed, a letter to Gabrielle, which he resolved it should be the first act of the morning to dispatch, and with sentiments less of regret for Paulina, than fear lest Gabrielle should still remain inflexible, he sought repose--in tender superstition placing the letter beneath his pillow, to anticipate in dreams its wished reception. The following was its purport:

“The meteor that allured me from you has vanished in eternal
night--the fetters which bound me in the most disgraceful slavery
are burst asunder---- I am free for ever from a vile enchantment!
but sink to the earth, oppressed with the remembrance of my guilt.
I can regain no portion of self-esteem till Gabrielle pronounces,
‘Angelo, I forgive you!’ Oh! my heart beats with delight, with
sacred rapture (of which conscience tells me I am unworthy) at the
thought of seeing again--of embracing my smiling boy--of embracing
his injured, though adored mother.---- Yes, yes, dearest Gabrielle,
adored, let me say, for now can I never believe that my _heart_
wandered truly from you;--yet even, if so--for how short a time
did its delusion last--how transient its wanderings!--Oh, be not
then still inflexibly severe, drive me not eternally to despair for
the folly of a moment, but, like the heaven of which you partake,
be rather merciful than sternly just. In most torturing anxiety
shall I wait your answer to appear before you.--Till then I dare
not.--Ah! let me hope that your revenge is _now_ satisfied and,
that since my last, which you treated with such bitter, yet merited
disdain, that excellent heart has relented in favor of the once
loved

“ANGELO D’ALBINI.”

This letter on the following morning he eagerly dispatched;--a week, a fortnight, a month elapsed, and no reply. Steady for once beyond the impulse of the moment to the object he had in view, and persevering beyond his nature, because he could not avoid perceiving there was that which merited perseverance, he wrote again a letter more pressing, more imploring than before; yet still no answer arrived; and, with the deepest grief, though not wholly unmixed with an indignant feeling at the insensibility of Gabrielle, and the immoveable contempt she evinced towards him, he in the mortified pride of his despised humility, resolved that he would address her no more, nor recal again to her remembrance one whom she appeared so desirous to forget.

“Ah! too surely,” thought he, while stinging jealousy and the most grievous regret still tore his heart at the idea--too surely Gabrielle has bestowed her affections upon another.--“She loves without remorse, for she considers that I have forfeited, by my conduct, all claim to her, and even the right to molest her by a vain repentance; yet, with some portion of her native goodness, unwilling to wound me by an avowal of her sentiments or conduct, she preserves an entire silence, hoping it may prove sufficient explanation to me.”

Sometimes disgusted by the inanity and unprofitableness of the amusements in which he plunged, to banish, or at least temporarily to dissipate the melancholy which possessed him, he would pause on the idea of quitting England, returning to Naples, and of presenting himself, unlooked for and unannounced, before the eyes of Gabrielle. “But wherefore, wherefore,” he would suddenly exclaim--“perhaps unwished, perhaps to behold her no longer willing to be mine, but bestowing on another that love, those tender assiduities, those soothing cares which once she bestowed undeservedly on me. No, no, never; unless her cruel sternness first relax, guilty and infamous as I acknowledge myself to have been, I cannot so humble myself at the feet of her who despises me.”

Suffering thus, in some degree, the merited punishment of his conduct, for the present we leave him, and revert to the situation of Gabrielle.

The purpose of the infamous Oriana would have been but half answered, if Angelo, deluded but for a moment only by the arts and beauty of Paulina, whom she well knew, beyond a certain period would be incapable of detaining him, had then followed the impulse naturally attendant on his restoration to reason, and returned humbled, repentant, and imploring, to the feet of the forsaken Gabrielle. Therefore, to obviate the possibility of such a result, it was requisite for her to gain constant intelligence of the movements of Paulina from her own hand, that she might be thereby prepared for those of Angelo. Thus, when Paulina informed her, that, not only weary to disgust of Angelo, she desired to make him weary of her, and, subsequently, of their mutual dislike for each other, and of her determination to quit him for one more suited to her taste, Oriana justly anticipated that he would immediately endeavour to effect a re-union with Gabrielle, and prevail on her to forgive the past; thus these two persons, so abhorrent to her, and at the idea of whose happiness she sickened, might, and would be, ultimately restored to each other, and her machinations would have no other effect than that of cementing them in bonds still closer than before. Her mind became racked with jealous malice and corroding fear; she put in requisition every power of mischievous invention she possessed, determined, if possible, to prolong for ever the period of their mutual misery.

Gabrielle had for an attendant about her person, a female who was far more fitted to have been the attendant of an Oriana. With this female the plotting Genoese contrived to procure acquaintance, and by gifts, promises, and the offer of taking her into her service, if dismissed by Gabrielle, prevailed on her to undertake, without hesitation, whatever she required of her.

Through the means of this woman she was duly and accurately informed of whatever concerned her mistress, even to the merest trifle; and, when she learned from Paulina, her informant on the other side, of the effect which her altered conduct appeared to have produced upon him, she gave strict charge to this perfidious menial to keep vigilant watch for any letters that might arrive, directed for Gabrielle, and bring them instantly to her. This part of her infamous requisition was but too well fulfilled; every letter which arrived from Angelo was readily yielded to her by the inferior domestics, for the purpose of conveying them to Gabrielle, which she as regularly carried to Oriana, who thus became possessed with the knowledge of those tender and remorseful sentiments with which Angelo was inspired, and that he cherished for the injured Gabrielle a love stronger than ever.

Her rage and hatred increased at this discovery; bitter envy, and burning desire of redoubled vengeance, shook her breast, and her wild and ferocious sensations could only be temporarily allayed by the horrible exultation which she experienced at receiving one of those invaluable epistles which would have restored the unconscious Gabrielle from the brink of the grave, and destroying it with an infuriate violence and malice truly infernal.

The effects of a fine constitution, strengthened by a long residence among the health-breathing mountains of Switzerland, triumphed, though slowly, over the ravages of a most desperate malady; for some months even she continued in a state fluctuating, as it were, between life and death, an alternate increase and diminution of fever, delirium, and of moping melancholy. At length she was pronounced to be free from danger, though her weakness continued such, notwithstanding this declaration, as to threaten, momentarily, that the trembling spark of life must become extinguished. Gradually these symptoms yielded to returning strength, and, with returning bodily strength, became renewed the strength of her superior mind.

A short time further elapsed, and the wretched Gabrielle aroused herself in horror from the state of calm despair into which she was sinking. She beheld, that if some means were not speedily adopted, herself and child must perish, literally of want; for, though she could now bear to review the letter of Angelo, (the only one which, having arrived prematurely, had not been intercepted by the base minion of Oriana) and consequently knew that her drafts to any amount would be honored by his banker’s agent, she disdained, with the noble spirit of a Montmorency, to avail herself of the compassionate liberality of a man who, at the same time, could so cruelly outrage her feelings;--she scorned to owe _that_ to the dictates of his honor or humanity, which she could owe no longer to his love.

Thus she was determined to perish, rather than be indebted to him for the means of existence, and, when she regarded her child, and burst into a flood of tears, her resolution did not alter, and she exclaimed, “Yes, my boy, we will perish together; thou shalt lie on my bosom, and die with me, for surely the crime of permitting thee to die, would be less than that of prolonging, by unworthy means, thy existence, deprived as thou now art of every hope and prospect of a father’s protection--we will die together then, and thus wilt thou escape the protracted miseries, the want, and the misfortunes, that are in store for thee.”

By degrees, however, her fine reason began to assert itself, and to prevail over these gloomy and despairing thoughts. Her rational and sublime piety, too, taught her, that, feeble mortal as she was, she should not dare to take the sceptre from the hands of fate, and mark out the fortunes of another. It taught her, too, to rely upon the supreme wisdom, which is all competent to the protection and direction of its creatures, and not presumptuously, because of the wanderings or errors of a mere mortal, doubt the mercy of God, or limit his power to save, in conjunction only with man. The child, forsaken by its natural father, would find a superior one in heaven, and, yielding to the holy influence of divine religion, which ever inspires hope, and soothes the soul, she now resolved to exert her energies anew, and call into action those powers of mind with which she was so superlatively gifted.

It was but for the finely organized mind of Gabrielle to make a successful effort over the weakness of nature, it was but for her to acquire fortitude enough to take a review of circumstances, to oppose the better line of action to the worse, and to decide then, with a spirit and judgement equalled only by the promptness of execution.

Having then acquired the firmness to pause with unshrinking eye upon her situation, she beheld immediately all that was requisite to be performed,--she saw that want, absolute want, must shortly approach, yet proudly resolving to adhere to her first principle of owing nothing to the _charity_ of Angelo, she, as a first means of retarding the advances of the gaunt fiend, gave up her sumptuous residence, and discharged her attendants; this was not only a plan of wisdom and necessity, but a plan likewise to her of great though unsuspected advantage, for it proved the ostensible means of ridding her of the perfidious snake whose treachery had caused her to drink so deeply of the cup of misery. She then, unaccompanied but by her child, whose tender age exceeded scarce three years, quitted Naples so secretly, and so disguised, as to elude even the indefatigable vigilance of Oriana.

The small sum which remained to her, after having defrayed every demand, she flattered herself would be sufficient to bear them to England, whither she had decided to go; and far from weakly shuddering at the venturous attempt, “Did I not,” said she mentally, “when still younger, and far more a stranger to the world than now I am, quit my once happy mountains, to seek out the destroyer of my peace and innocence?--to seek him for the sake of his child, that he might protect and cherish it, when I, worn out with calamity and ceaseless remorse, should be no more? And shall I now, when the dangers and the difficulties are comparatively slight, shrink at doing less than I have already done? No; to his children I will implore Angelo to be just; let their mother be covered with obloquy, despised, and unpitied by the world; but let them be saved, and she will die content.”

Amid the gloomy reflections of the unhappy Gabrielle, it was no small consolation to her, that the young Agnes, unconscious of her mother’s sorrows, was still happy, and protected by a tender friend. How did she now in silent, though profound gratitude, bless the wise counsels of the excellent Bertrand, that had said to her, “Wait, wait till experience and the test of years shall have confirmed to you the truth, and unvarying constancy of Angelo: wait, wait till at the foot of the altar, unhesitating, and for ever, he shall make you his, and give himself to you. Then, and not till then, can he become eligible as the firm guardian and eternal protector of his daughter.”

Mean time, the deceived and ill-fated Gabrielle (who was following, from a rare and refined principle of duty, the man whom she believed hated and shunned her, who in more than six long months had never even written to her a line of condolence, dictated by some little humanity, or slight remaining interest in the fate of one he had once loved), pursued without much danger or molestation her journey; but found, with horror, that by the time she reached England, owing to her little acquaintance with the usages and extortions of society, she had scarcely the means of defraying her further procedure to London. “And when I arrive there,” thought she, with agony, “if I do not immediately discover Angelo, how shall I be enabled to support my child? Oh! heaven--heaven assist me;” she fervently ejaculated, raising, almost in despair, her hands and eyes to that heaven she supplicated, “let me but live to place in the arms of his father, this forlorn, unprotected child, and I require no more.”

She reached London at length; but from inevitable expences, and the chicanery practised by those whose harvest is the spoils of the inexperienced stranger, in a state utterly destitute of the means of procuring for her innocent Felix a morsel of food, to pacify those wants which every moment she expected would break forth in impatient demand. On her arm she held a small basket, in which she carried some fruit and a little bread, a fond precaution she had all along taken for him, which now she became desirous of reserving as long as possible, dreading lest ultimately he should experience, at his tender age, the pangs of hunger.

From the animated description which Angelo had frequently given her of London, of the number and variety of its streets, and of the situation of his own particular residence there, she felt not so infinitely appalled at the alarming prospect before her as otherwise she might have been, for she flattered herself that she should soon be enabled to trace him by inquiry, and then her cares would end. Hope for a time sustained her; nor was it till she found every inquiry vain, and her foreign accent treated with derision by some, and contempt by others, that the full horror of her situation stood with terrifying aspect before her.

It was the depth of winter, rainy and cold, when she entered London; it was growing dusk, night rapidly advanced, and, a forlorn stranger, she continued to wander about the streets, an object of vulgar curiosity to some, of insult to others, but of pity to none.

At length the idea of attempting to procure a lodging for the night suggested itself to her mind. Desperately bold at the horrible prospect of passing the night in the streets, she made several attempts at houses where her knowledge of the English language sufficiently informed her that lodging might be procured, but in vain; she could gain no admittance, for her apparel, though plain to the last degree, was foreign, and though singular, too humble and too uncostly for the well-fed, purse-proud, and mercenary wretches to whom she applied to grant her entrance. She appeared too, a miserable, unfriended, and desolate being, consequently an object of suspicion, and unfit to be sheltered by the outrageously good, or coldly prudent.

Some, after a rude unfeeling examination, observed, “They never admitted foreigners;” others objected to the equivoque of her unprotected appearance; while others, still more inhuman, after hearing the nature of her application, closed the door instantly, without reply. Now, galled and agonized, even to an excess of stupor, for the height of anguish precludes acute sensation, she seated herself, with a calm despair, on the step of a door, and taking her child in her arms, laid his little head upon her bosom, hoping that in sleep he might forget the calls of hunger.

Her basket, now most dearly cherished, she placed beside her, as desirous of not calling his attention towards it; but the watchful Felix was not to be thus eluded; he had fasted several hours, and unusual fatigue had sharpened his appetite; he cast his eyes upon the well-known basket, in which Gabrielle, during their journey, had constantly carried fruit, and things to please his childish taste, and stretching his innocent hands towards it, plainly informed his mother that he would have it opened.

How did the heart-wrung Gabrielle yield to his request? Not with the tender and natural feelings of delight, with which she usually supplied his wants, but with a tearful eye, and a tremulous hand, that with parsimonious accuracy divided the slender portion, intended but for one intermediate repast. As with unconscious glee the little Felix eagerly devoured the scanty allowance, the firmness of Gabrielle nearly failed her, for she dreaded that he would ask for more;--and if so, unless Providence befriended her, when next he asked he could not have any thing. Her fears, however, were happily disappointed; his appetite for the moment satisfied, or rather allayed, he had leisure to indulge the softer call of nature, sleep; and, laying his head upon the bosom of his mother, he fell into the profound slumber of innocence.

At this happy result, for happiness is always comparative, the grateful Gabrielle burst into a flood of tears, and pressed him with rapture in her arms.

Now, at the suggestion of reviving hope, strengthened by the moment of pleasure she had experienced, she determined to make a last attempt to procure shelter for the night. She arose accordingly, and walking a few paces, stopped at the first house which denoted lodgings to the passenger. With trembling hand she applied to the door, from the humble appearance of the house auguring that she might gain admittance; she was deceived, however, for treatment similar to that she had already met with, again awaited her. Hopeless she turned away, and was retiring hastily from the spot, when a female, of vulgar and unprepossessing form, standing at the adjoining door, enquired of her, in a voice though far from soothing, still more gentle than any she had yet heard, if she sought a lodging?

“I do,” Gabrielle, in a broken voice, replied.

“But can you pay for one?” asked the woman.

“I cannot immediately,” faltered Gabrielle, “but trust I shall be soon enabled.”

“Well, but have you nothing,” enquired the woman again; “have you nothing about you that would pay for a night’s lodging?”

“Alas! no--” answered Gabrielle, putting her hand mechanically in her pocket, and drawing it forth again with an empty purse.

“Yes you have,” observed the woman; whose keen eye, directed by a dim light in her passage, glanced upon the fair hand of Gabrielle; “you have got a gold ring upon your finger. If you want a night’s lodging, and chuse to give me that ring, I will admit you into my house, and to a share of my room.”

The eyes of Gabrielle gazed upon the ring to which the woman alluded; it was of plain gold, of little comparative value, but given her by Angelo as a marriage ring. But Angelo was perfidious, and her child was in danger of remaining unsheltered for the night--the struggle was momentary, she sighed, drew the ring from her finger, and said, “Admit me.”

The woman took the ring; her door, invulnerable to intreaty, opened to the power of gold--opened even wide, and admitted the houseless stranger. Up a narrow winding stair-case slowly she followed her hospitable guide, who from poverty had taken its last mite, ere she would yield it sufferance: she was conducted into a small and meanly-furnished room, where stood a miserable single bed.

“Here,” observed the woman, scrutinising her forlorn guest, with a suspicious eye, “here you may remain till the morning, if you chuse; you can lay down on that bed, I shall not disturb you.”

Gabrielle, thankful to have obtained upon any terms, and in any way, shelter for the night, expressed her gratitude to her hostess, and laid her sleeping Felix upon the bed. The eyes of the woman, with vulgar curiosity, not compassionate interest, were rivetted upon her, and her tongue involuntarily yielding to the influence of the former, she sought, by various questions and inuendos, to induce Gabrielle in some degree to gratify it. But Gabrielle was not so disposed, she desired to place no confidence, nor wished for vulgar uninterested participation in griefs like her’s. To avoid, therefore, the necessity of replying, she approached the bed, and availing herself of the proposition that had been made, she threw herself, drest as she was, upon it, beside her child.

With the vulgar, poverty, accompanied by superior manners (considered pride) is ever sufficient to excite their dislike, suspicion, and presumption: there was a native elegance about Gabrielle, which contrasted with her humble appearance, made her an object of remark. The vulgar can never reconcile an union so extraordinary, nor ever fail of attaching to it the idea of some misconduct or depravity: true to the class of beings to which she appertained, this woman viewed Gabrielle with so much illiberal suspicion, that she resolved to remain awake for the night, in order to keep a strict watch upon so doubtful a guest, lest she should perpetrate some mischief, or in return for her imprudent hospitality, for which she now severely arraigned herself, plunder her, and endeavour to escape.

So determining, for the sake of security, she seated herself in a chair by the fire, starting every now and then from an uneasy doze, to assure herself that all as yet was safe. Thus passed the night; morning at length dawned; the woman roused herself from the forgetfulness of a few moments, into which she had irresistibly fallen, and perceiving that it was light, conceived that her unwelcome inmate had had sufficient benefit for the small consideration she had given, and likewise that, to the letter, she had fulfilled her promise in permitting her to remain for the night; night had now certainly elapsed; she therefore immediately rose, and approaching the bed to awaken the wearied Gabrielle, who for several hours having found it utterly impossible to obtain a moment’s oblivion of her cares, had just at this time fallen into a light slumber; a rough shake, intended gently to rouse her, caused her to start up in affright.

“Come,” cried her hostess, with a constrained smile; “it is now morning, you see--I have been as good as my word, I have given up my bed to you all night, and I would advise you to rise at once, and endeavor to find out some lodging that may suit you.”

Gabrielle arose, indignant but silent, for she felt the uselessness of expostulation with such a being, whose very look spoke the narrowness and insensibility of her soul:--forlorn too as she was, she could not degrade herself by the attempt: taking then her child, still sleeping in her arms, she quitted the abode of hard inhospitality, and once more beheld herself a desolate and unsheltered wanderer.

This day passed as the former had done, in vain research, and fruitless enquiries after Angelo;--towards evening a drizzling rain came on, and again she was appalled with the prospect of passing the night in the streets. Food had not entered her lips during the day, nor for almost the whole of the preceding one; famine and the most terrible of deaths stared her in the face:--already she saw herself perishing, exhausted by want, unnoticed and unknown, in a foreign land;--horrible ideas overcame her; and, heart-sick, fainting and on the point of sinking to the earth, she leaned against the wall of a house for support.

The last reserve of fruit, the last morsel of bread had been already yielded to the craving appetite of her child. He had wept, demanded, and intreated for more; alas! the wretched mother had it not to give. Weakened by exhaustion, wearied with crying, he had fallen into a slumber; scarce able to stand herself, she held him in her arms, and dreaded with indescribable horror the moment of his waking, when more loudly and more impetuously his innocent voice would cry to her for food, which again she must endure the racking agony of not having to bestow.

“But at length his cries will cease,” said she in despair, “and he will be at peace.---- Oh, Angelo--cruel Angelo, could’st thou but behold us!” The rain rapidly increasing, she wrapped him in her cloak; and now, in stern hopelessnes, awaited the climax of her fate.

While she stood, her fair arm uncovered to the inclement wind and rain, supporting to her bosom her unconscious child, a gentleman passing by, struck by her forlorn appearance, and the extreme delicacy of an arm, which though emaciated gave intimation of something superior to what that appearance conveyed, stopped for a moment, and in a gentle voice asked her if she stood in need of aid.

The accent of the stranger struck to the heart of Gabrielle with such powerful effect, that she was incapable of reply. He appeared to pity her confusion, and attributing it to the probability of her having been differently situated, he drew from his pocket a purse, and presenting it to her, said, “If you require present assistance, take this; should you desire further--here is my address--inform me.” So saying, he passed on; the purse, which he had dropped upon her arm, fell to the ground, but the card she grasped, and feeble, fainting as she was, she tottered a few paces beneath the light of a lamp, and holding it up to her wide-stretched eyes, decyphered the name of “Angelo D’Albini!”

Instantly a piercing shriek burst from her lips; her high-wrought feelings nerved her with sudden momentary strength, she rushed after him who had given her the card, she beheld him again; she essayed to get near him, and to seize his arm--passengers intervened--she broke through them--she gained his side--her strong emotions then overpowered her, her limbs became nerveless, and feebly groaning forth, “Oh, Angelo! Angelo!” she staggered, reeled, and fell to the earth.

On hearing his name uttered by the voice of distress, and one which even then seemed not unfamiliar to him, Angelo turned hastily round, and perceiving the female he had just spoken with lying apparently senseless on the ground, he raised her in his arms, whilst her child, hurt and awakened by her fall, in a low mournful cry, expressed its pain and terror. Always humane, Angelo conveyed the insensible Gabrielle into a house, while he dispatched some persons, whom curiosity, rather than compassion had drawn around her, for a carriage.

Now at leisure to satisfy the anxiety he felt, he approached Gabrielle, whose large bonnet and cloak having been thrown aside by those who were endeavouring to recover her, her face and figure were fully revealed--Yes, Angelo beheld, in the person of a houseless wanderer, of a forlorn wretch, to whom in charity he had rendered assistance to save her from perishing by want in the streets, the once happy, once innocent, once blooming daughter of Montmorency! her whom _he_ had destroyed--now happy, innocent, and blooming no longer! yes, Gabrielle de Montmorency, the mistress of his youth,--the forsaken friend of his bosom,--the mother of his children!

Speak he could not, for horror struck him dumb; he groaned aloud, and throwing himself at her feet, franticly embraced her knees, pressed and kissed her cold hands, and giving way to the effusions of his despair, swore that if Gabrielle did not recover, he would die at her feet.

Prostrate he remained on the ground beside her, and no entreaties could move him thence.

Mean time the little Felix, whose alarm having been soothed, was happily discovered to have sustained no injury, came hastening, fast as his tender limbs would allow, towards his mother;--soon as Angelo beheld the boy, his anguish was for a moment directed into another channel. As the innocent, in surprise and fear, clung round the knees of its mother, and looked with fond enquiry in her pallid face, Angelo seized him in his arms, and with convulsive agony pressed him to his breast. Felix first cried aloud, and struggled to get loose; but finding he could not, gazed earnestly upon him, when it seemed even as if faint recollection glanced across his infant mind, for he submitted without reluctance to his caresses.

Whether awakened to life by the well-known voice of her child dimly striking on her ear, or whether by the unaided operations of nature, Gabrielle opened her languid eyes, and beheld before her the two beings dearest to her in existence. She endeavoured to raise herself in her chair, but her power was unequal to the effort, and again she sank back.

To behold that she lived, that Gabrielle lived, though it nearly distracted him with joy, recalled to Angelo his energies; he sprang instantly from the earth with hands clasped, and eyes overflowing with tears of wild delight; his heart, late oppressed with despair, now throbbed with almost agonising bliss; he took but one more kiss of her pale hand, and then was capable of hastening the movements for her departure. Supported by a couple of females, who had humanely admitted her into their house, Gabrielle was conveyed to the carriage which awaited her, and Angelo, trembling with eagerness, followed with his boy in his arms, first making a suitable compensation to those who had lent their necessary assistance.

Now, with his recovered Gabrielle, hastening to his own residence, he placed his beloved Felix on his knee, and laid the head of his still-fainting mother upon his bosom. Thus they proceeded in a silence uninterrupted but by his own eager exclamations, now of bitter self-reproach, now of tenderness towards the injured, long-lost object of his love, now to his child, who seemed to have forgotten his hunger in innocent grief for the situation in which he beheld his mother.

At the door of a sumptuous habitation the carriage stopped; Angelo bore into his house the fragile form of her who alone of all women he yet continued to love. There, safe from danger, tumult, and inconvenience, he trusted that she would speedily revive. She was conveyed immediately into a chamber, and placed in bed; and eager then again to behold her, he entered the room, which for a few moments he had quitted, and gazing upon her with streaming eyes, he seated himself in silence beside the bed, having closed the curtains that she might repose. When every one was withdrawn, Gabrielle, with feeble hand, drew aside the curtain: this movement was sufficient, and Angelo in an instant was on his knees by her side, covering her hand with kisses, while he deluged it in tears.

“Angelo,” she faintly murmured,--“where is my Felix?--if safe with you, I can die resigned.”

“Oh, my Gabrielle, talk not of death, unless you would drive me to madness;” cried Angelo wildly--“live, live for your Felix, and for me.”--

“Angelo, I am sick at heart--I am dying--I cannot say to you now all I desire, nor receive from you the explanation you might wish to give.--Say then, where is my beloved child?--I see him not.”

“He is safe, my beloved--compose yourself; he is under this roof with ourselves.”

“Alas! alas! poor child,” in broken accents faltered Gabrielle, “he is perishing from want---- he---- he has not tasted food for nearly too days.”--

“Heavenly God! what do I hear!” cried Angelo, starting up, and striking his forehead with his clenched hand.

“Yes, yes--it is too true,” murmured Gabrielle.----

“And you--and you, oh Gabrielle!--Monster! devil! that I am, can I--oh can I ever hide from myself, that, deserted by me, my wife and child were--were on the point of perishing from hunger in the streets!”--He burst into tears, and covering his face with his hands, now called maledictions on himself, and now gazing upon the almost expiring Gabrielle, beat in agony his breast. Gabrielle sought not to assuage the remorseful anguish of those sensations that were distracting Angelo; she wished him to feel the full enormity of his guilt, and of the miseries it had entailed upon them; but the thought of her beloved child was chief in her heart, and waving her hand towards him, she faintly cried--“Felix--think of Felix.”

Angelo recalled, rushed from the room, and in a few moments returned, accompanied by the child, whose long abstinence from food began to be severely felt by him, and the fervid glow of his cheek, was displaced by a languid paleness.

Quick as thought a table was covered with various refreshments, and Angelo, who knew that by attending first to the wants of her child, he acted most conformably to the wishes of Gabrielle, placed before him such things as he conceived most appropriate to his tender appetite; and while eagerly and anxiously he was intent upon satisfying it, he prevailed upon the enfeebled Gabrielle to take a little wine, which with trembling hand, and cheek crimsoned by compunctious reflection he held to her lips. By degrees, as she became somewhat re-animated by the restoratives which Angelo, in anguished entreaty pressed her to accept, she felt enabled to sustain a little conversation; and still more capable did she feel of compassing the effort, when in the explanation of Angelo, even in the midst of his self-reproaches, she discovered how comparatively short a period to what she had imagined, he had remained in his unhappy delusion.

Rejoiced at this soothing conviction, her long oppressed heart beat with increased emotion; her weakened spirits rose to the degree of pleasure, and she could bear to listen to, and even touch upon the terrible events that had intervened since their separation. Oriana, the fiend Oriana, was mutually and justly recognised as the author of the delusions of the one, and consequent misfortunes of the other; and though no decided proof of her infamy existed, yet, by re-tracing a long line of incident, and combining circumstances apparently trifling at the time, no doubt remained in the minds of either; further too was the idea confirmed by the treatment which Gabrielle described herself to have experienced from the Genoese, when a distracted wretch she had flown to her, as her last hope of acquiring some information of him who had abandoned her, and by the sudden change of conduct and manners in the worthless Paulina.

Thus then, mutual and perfect explanation ensued; Angelo had written repeatedly to Gabrielle, and received no answer; and these dear letters, a single sentence of which would have breathed new life into her soul, she had never even beheld. “Oh, Angelo, Angelo!” cried Gabrielle, in a voice that for the first moment conveyed aught like reproach, “why, why, were ever those letters, or the present explanation, rendered necessary?”

“Ah, Gabrielle,” exclaimed Angelo, precipitating himself on his knees, and snatching her hand to his lips, “be merciful as you are fair!”

Gabrielle shed a tear upon the burning cheek of the repentant Angelo.--She gently pressed his hand, which wildly held her’s, and in that moment, so dear to both, the happiness of him who was forgiven, was equalled only by the happiness of her who forgave.

Gabrielle forgot, or at least forgave the errors of the past, and once more the sunbeams of hope pierced through the gloomy shadows of despair. But far, far more for her children than for herself, did Gabrielle rejoice that she had found again her lover, and found him still unchanged. She could not disguise from her proud and superior mind, (and with a pang at her heart she admitted it) that Angelo had sadly wandered from his allegiance to her; “and too surely,” thought she, “when the imagination is suborned, the heart, for a time, wanders with it, and partakes of its illusion--the senses cannot stray entirely alone.” These painful ideas she would endeavour to check and to repress, least pride, gaining the ascendancy over duty, should lead her in selfish disgust or resentment at the bitter conviction, to leave unfinished the glorious and noble resolution she had so far pursued. To quit in angry, mortified self-love, the father of her children,--to deprive them, perhaps, of a protector,--alienating from them, by such conduct, the love which through her he bore them; “No--perish, perish for ever,” she cried, “such miserable refinement of selfish feeling--for my children’s sake, tenfold grief and humiliation could I bear! disgrace, ignominy, and contempt, the pangs of despised and insulted love. By such chastisement inflicted on my spirit, on the spirit of a Montmorency, who infamously has singly descended from the path of high honor, traced by her ancestors, can she alone hope, in the eye of heaven, to retrieve her manifold offences.”