Chapter XXV

The nature of Angelo was such that his first sensations were ever the most violent. The paroxysms of despair ceasing, he shed torrents of tears over the breathless form of Gabrielle, he was no longer frantic, a deep woe oppressed and rendered him incapable of worldly cares, he shut himself up in her chamber, and would suffer no one to draw him thence. For hours would he gaze on that pale countenance, calm, beautiful and expressive, even in death. Sometimes involuntarily would he persuade himself she breathed, and touch her cold hand, which breaking instantly the delusion, he would start back with a shudder, and burst into tears.

Now sitting beside her, exhausted, worn out with incessant grief, he would recline back and pursue a train of melancholy reflection, till he lost himself; then suddenly springing up in alarm, imagine she called him, as often during her illness she had been wont, and, looking within the curtains, behold only the harrowing image of immoveable death. “Ah, my God!” would he then exclaim, in a voice of anguish, “and can it indeed be that my beloved is no more? the best, the loveliest, the most angelic of women. Oh! wretch and fool that I must have been to have so little understood her worth, to have neglected, outraged and forsaken her as I did.”--Then, stung by remorse, the force of imagination would cause him to utter, “Ah, her countenance assumes a stern look! she accuses me. Is it not so? do I dream? Oh! no, no, she accuses me not; sweet seraphic, uncomplaining as when living is that beauteous face; sure she even smiles upon me!” Now gazing on her features from various points of view, reason would resume her empire. He saw neither reproach, nor smile, but the freezing fixedness of death alone, participating no longer in mortal agitations. “Yet, oh! yet,” would he cry, “did I not break her heart? did not her last breath tell me so?--Horror!--no, she said not me; her heart, she said, was broken; but did not say by me--no, no; yet, who then? Madness! madness, endless remorse must be mine! yes, it was I who destroyed her, withered like the lightning’s blast her fair blooming prospects, I blighted her innocent youth, I made a wretch of her I should have worshipped,--who for me sacrificed all--yet she never reproached me;--no--and in return, I persevered--I broke her heart!” Then falling on his knees by her silent corpse, he would fling his arms around it, hiding his face upon the covering which overspread her.

At length it became necessary to rouse the wretched Angelo from the profound indulgence of a grief unmixed with other thoughts, by harrowing intimations respecting the funeral of her he mourned. At first, on this dreadful subject he could not listen, and such was the effect it produced on him, it was thought imprudent at that juncture to pursue it; but it was requisite that it should be again revived, and, in anguish of heart inexpressible, was he compelled to give such directions as he could, that the body of Gabrielle should be conveyed to London, there to be interred in the family vault, and laid by the side of his mother.

Sad and mournful is the office to the survivor, with his heart still bleeding at the fond and vivid retrospection of hours past in the society of one beloved, in the animation of life and health--sad and mournful for him is the office to superintend and direct the last cold functions for those who are never to return, to perform with shuddering soul those melancholy obsequies to their manes which usage requires, and to know that it is indeed the _last_ tribute he can pay to the memory of one, for whom his heart vainly pants to do more--oh, how much more!--but who, cold, indifferent, sad, is unconscious even of that.

From that spot where, without a hope for herself, but in patient acquiescence to the desires of others, the gentle Gabrielle had gone for the renewal of health, was she removed a corpse, conveyed again to that which she had quitted, and interred with funeral pomp in the same vault where long had peacefully slept the parents of Angelo, and now received a daughter to their bosoms, who honoured them even in death. Her funeral was attended by all those friends of Angelo, but few in number indeed, who had had an opportunity of knowing her--by these was she consequently lamented, as she had been admired; for it was not in nature to know Gabrielle, and be insensible to her singular perfections. Thus, though it could not be said that a weeping multitude followed her to the grave, the few who did, shed over it the tear of heartfelt sorrow, the tear which most her hovering spirit prized.

Angelo, forlorn, despairing, heartsick, considering himself a bankrupt in every happiness that life could now afford, refused, when the cold remains of her he had at length truly loved and appreciated far as his nature was capable, were laid in the earth, refused for many days to be seen of any one; and when at length the intrusive officiousness of friendship (so termed, but which is in reality only the impatience of the vain and weak at sorrows, which, incapable of alleviating, they consider it a tax to behold) compelled him from his cherished solitude, he appeared for a short time again among them, but with a melancholy and reluctance that soon rendered his society unsought by the many, and unprized even by the few; for the world can grieve only for personal misfortune, and fly from miseries not their own.

Solitude for a time was the only balm which the heart of Angelo did not reject; there he could bring before him the fair image of Gabrielle, when first in the bloom of youth and innocence he had beheld her; next, as in Italy, when in the habit of a youth, she had hovered near him unknown, his guardian angel.--Now forsaken, dying, he beheld her a desolate wanderer, perishing in the streets of another land; then raising for a while her languid head, but drooping it soon, never more to revive; now her wasted form glided before him, with accusing air, and now stretched on the bed of death no more to arise, he beheld the meek devoted victim of his perfidy and crime. Thus the remorseful Angelo passed his hours, till, as his grief became less powerful, his mind of itself looked out for consolation; he yet sought it not in society, he sought it not in a renewal of his former habits, he sought it not in gaiety or amusement; and when again he opened his lattice on the world, the remembrance of past scenes rushed so forcibly on his mind, that he fled it in a paroxysm of renewed grief.

The house where Gabrielle had resided, it distracted him to enter; the country where she died, had inspired him with unceasing horror; the streets through which her sad remains had passed, wore the air of depopulation; he felt an oppressive gloom over his soul, if by chance he approached them; without her who was departed, all England appeared in his eyes but a frightful wilderness, or the sad mausoleum of her whom it entombed. Unable to rest, he determined on quitting it altogether, and, the last injunctions of Gabrielle being ever present to his mind, to bend his course towards Italy, in the faint hope that chance perhaps might furnish him with some tidings of the fate of one, if not both his children; or, at all events, in his present absolute uncertainty, it was a spot as justly calculated as any other to authorise such a hope, and might claim the preference of being first explored.

In pursuance of this idea, and deriving a melancholy pleasure from the reflection that he was now on the point of obeying the dearest wishes of his departed wife, and of performing to her sacred memory the promise he had made, he hastily arranged every requisite previous to his departure, and taking leave of Fitzarden, and a few only whom he esteemed his friends, he embarked for Calais, having so far varied the commencement of his route as to resolve on passing through Paris, previous to visiting Italy; conceiving that by so doing, instead of crossing a barren space of the Mediterranean, he multiplied his chances of information upon a subject now the nearest to his heart.

He soon arrived at this hot-bed of frivolity, vice, and unmeaning profligacy, where, as he had been before, and made a host of acquaintances, he was presently surrounded, and forcibly dragged into a vortex of dissipation. At first, as heretofore, every thing in the shape of mirth or gaiety was hateful to him, but by degrees his mind yielded to the attraction, and he further reconciled himself to something like participation in the universal rage for idle amusement, in a country where folly and fashion give the law, in the reflection that by so doing could he alone hope for the remotest intelligence respecting those he sought. Thus he roamed from theatre to theatre, from one party to another, from town to country, in the environs among the gardens; yet of those who were ever uppermost in his thoughts he discerned not the smallest trace; and began to resolve on speedily quitting a place which since it had ceased to inspire him with hope, inspired him only with disgust.

It happened that a gay young nobleman, named St. Evremond, one with whom he had formerly been in the habits of associating, called on him one morning (while solitary in his chamber he was ruminating whether from Paris he should go as he first intended to Italy, or otherwise to Switzerland, in the vain hope that Madame Bertrand might be enabled to give him some intelligence respecting his lost daughter), and perceiving his extreme dejection, proposed to him an engagement for the evening to accompany him to a fair Englishwoman, whom he had lately formed acquaintance with, and whom Angelo, as he considered him more than half an Englishman, might probably be pleased to converse with.

Having lost the best and loveliest of her sex, Angelo had not at this juncture a thought to throw away on woman; but the name Englishwoman caused in him an involuntary emotion, for it was in England that Gabrielle had become his bride, and in England where now her cold remains were laid; he could not avoid asking of the Marquis de St. Evremond, what he knew concerning the female, and how long she had been in Paris.

“She has been among us some time,” St. Evremond replied, “but I have not known her long. I was introduced to her by de Vainville, my friend and yours; all I know of her, is, that she supports a splendid appearance, and is visited by most of our savoir vivre, both old and young, and by many of our ladies, whose rank and situations are such as to give them a license for doing what they please, and who can venture to set formal rules at defiance. All are pleased with the society she contrives to draw to her house, and with the choice entertainment, mirth, and gaiety, that are always to be met with there; yet I believe I may confidently assert, that no one knows, any more than myself, from _whence_ she derives her sources, or even cares more than I do; pleasure being the object of life, what matter how it is obtained?”

“True,” thought Angelo to himself, “Frenchmen do not care,” forgetting at the moment that the observation was not applicable to Frenchmen only, and not long since had been most decidedly so to himself. “Well,” cried he aloud, “I will attend you then, for I have a curiosity to see this fair one.”--“Ah! fort bien, au révoir,” cried the gay Marquis running out of the room, “I have a thousand important things to perform, and above all must hasten to the rehearsal at the opera, for I am every thing there; so adieu.”

The evening found Angelo prepared for his destined visit; the Marquis was true to his appointment, and they departed together. They soon arrived at the elegant residence of this vaunted fair one, and were ushered into an apartment richly furnished, gaily illuminated, highly perfumed, and filled with a multitude of those gaudy butterflies, who wander about in search of pleasure, indifferent, as St. Evremond had aptly said, where or how it might be obtained.

“There,” cried he to Angelo as he entered, “there is the goddess of this terrestrial heaven: do you not observe how she is surrounded, absolutely encompassed by a crowd, yet towers above them all; do but regard, Count--a majestic height!” Angelo looked forward, and beheld the tall figure of a woman, fancifully but not tastefully attired, and who, whatever might be the attractions of her form, could rank neither delicacy, nor elegance among them. Her face was not towards them, and St. Evremond promised his companion that he would presently make his way and introduce him. But now the female turned, and was moving towards them; St. Evremond called the attention of Angelo; he had already caught a glimpse of a countenance not unfamiliar to him, and was turning faint. She drew nearer; Angelo looked with all his powers of vision. Bedaubed with rouge, covered with frippery, bloated and disfigured, but not completely disguised, he beheld before him--the gorgon head of Milborough! and, staggering with horror, would have fallen to the ground, but that the Marquis caught his arm, and prevented him.

The abandoned Milborough had beheld him too, and as immediately recognized him; for the moment she was petrified with alarm, but promptly recovering herself, with her native effrontery and cunning, she drew near, seeming wholly unconcerned.

“Count D’Albini,” exclaimed the Marquis, “you are not ill I hope--Allow me to introduce you to our lovely hostess.”

“Your friend seems overcome, Marquis,” cried Milborough with an assumed accent, half French half English, and determined to affect total ignorance of Angelo, “Had you not better retire with him a few moments into the next chamber?--there you will find refreshments and--”

At this daring insolence, rage took place of every other sensation in the bosom of Angelo. “Wretch!” he exclaimed, seizing her by the arm, indifferent to all around--“dare you affect not to know me?”

“Good Heaven, Marquis,” exclaimed Milborough, disengaging herself from the wild grasp of Angelo, “for what do you bring a madman to my house?”

The Marquis slightly bowed, glanced towards Angelo, and shrugged his shoulders with an embarrassed air.

“Woman!” resumed the half frantic Angelo, “beware how you tempt me too far. I command you, instantly inform me, what have you done with my son?”

The bronzed cheek of Milborough knew no blush, her unabashed eye wandered round as seeming to ask indignant participation in the countenances of those present, for the insult offered her; she read only curiosity, indifference or a desire to remain neuter; and fearful then, lest Angelo, as well she knew he could, should unmask her before those with whom she desired to remain unsuspected, she assumed an air of anger, blended however with some confusion, and turning towards him demanded--“Pray, Count, for so I think the Marquis styled you, what do you require of me?”

“My son, wretch!” returned Angelo, “and unless you would be instantly exposed for what you are, give me immediate information of him.”

“Well,” cried Milborough, glancing round with a smile of affected indifference, but which however was not reflected back by any of her guests, “well, Count, if you have really any thing of importance to say to me, as you appear so desirous; I will attend you in another apartment--though really I think such conduct somewhat strange.” Then waving her hand to invite Angelo forward, who indignantly followed her from the crowded apartment, she led the way to a small antichamber at a distance from the company.

Angelo, instantly shutting the door with violence, in a voice quivering with rage repeated the question of “Where is my son?”

“How should I know?” returned Milborough; “do you think I hold him still in leading strings?”

“Who but you, wretch, can know aught respecting him? Was it not you who stole him from beneath my roof, when you basely robbed me beside of all I possessed?”

“Bitter language, my Lord; I would advise you to be more sparing of it.--Your son left your house with me indeed, but by his own consent, nay by his wish.--As for the robbery you speak of, if such it pleases you to call it, he had his share in that too;--but supposing he had not, what then?--I thought you knew the world better than to suppose a woman of discretion could think of remaining with you after you were ruined; or when she quitted you, she would like a fool leave--.”

“Cease your diabolical jargon, shock not my ears with the promulgation of your infamous principles; be their baseness your curse; the crimes they lead you to, your punishment; I ask you of my _son_; tell me his present destination--let all else rest.”

“That is more than I can undertake to do,” returned Milborough; “the destination of your son is unknown to me, and has been for some time.”

“Abominable woman! this prevarication shall not avail you; if you do not instantly say where you have secreted the youth, I will publicly expose you, and bring you to punishment.”

Milborough burst into a loud laugh. “Why, what would you gain by that?” exclaimed she; “no one here would believe you, and if they did, still what would you gain? Besides, how can you directly prove any thing against me? But make the attempt if you will, for the jest’s sake,--do, and perhaps you will easily get over the small trifle of my proving that your son was not merely an accomplice with me, but my chief agent in all I did.”

“Monster! dare you speak of a boy! a child trepanned by your base arts, as an accomplice? That shall avail you nought, nor shall any thing, but a prompt and sincere acknowledgment respecting him.”

“Though I despise your threats, Count, from being aware of their absurdity, in compassion to your seeming anxiety, I will condescend thus far to inform you. The boy left England with me, I grant; he hated his mother, you know.” Angelo’s heart swelled with rage and anguish, but his desire to hear this female demon to an end kept him silent. “He came with me to this place, and remained with me, even for some time; but being a spirited youth, and much like his father in point of character, that is, fond of novelty, he soon deserted from my banners to those of a French Marchioness, whom, I presume, he preferred to me, because she paid him more compliments, and, as he conceived, would be more indulgent to him than myself, whom he considered, and ever had indeed, more as mother than his natural parent.”

She paused, but finding Angelo remained silent, she resumed: “I would spare you a recital of the rest, as you appear agitated; but a waiting-maid belonging to this said Marchioness, who had paid your son great attention, suddenly disappeared with all the jewels and most valuable property of her mistress, and with her disappeared your son likewise.--Whither they directed their course no one could imagine, but they are certainly together, and the discovery of the one must throw a light upon the other. Time, no doubt,” she added, with a malicious smile, “will reveal your son to you, but I would advise you not to be scrupulous as to the situation in which you may find him.”

The wretched father was penetrated with anguish; there was an air of truth in the horrible relation of Milborough: yet if his son were indeed so early lost, if already his young mind had yielded to vice, who had been his betrayer? Before him stood the abominable wretch, the corrupter of youth, the destroyer of innocence! glorying in her base and iniquitous triumph.

“Monster and devil!” he passionately exclaimed,--“if what you say be even true--to you, to you may he attribute all.”

“Or rather to yourself, my lord,” interrupted Milborough, “and no doubt he will _repay_ you: but perhaps you wish for further information upon the subject, or suspect the truth even of what I have told you; if so, the injured Marchioness is in the other room, and will readily confirm all.”

This was a proposition from which Angelo shrunk; when Milborough perceiving that he hesitated, and desirous to plant the dagger deep as she could in the father’s heart, observed that he might make inquiries of the Marchioness as a person interested in the fate of the youth only, without acknowledging any relationship between them. To this the wretched Angelo, scarcely knowing what he did, gloomily assented; Milborough led him with an assumed air of interest and consideration towards the Marchioness, but at the same time with a triumph which she kept secret.

“I take the liberty, Madame la Marquise,” she said addressing her, “to request of you a favour--you will have no objection, I hope, to assure this gentleman of the event that took place lately in your family respecting the youth you so much admired, and received into your house; who repaid you by eloping with your maid, having first in conjunction with her, plundered you of every valuable you possessed: this gentleman has some knowledge of the youth Felix, and cannot believe him capable of an act so base and ungrateful.”

“Ah, Monsieur,” exclaimed the Marchioness, laying her hand upon his arm; “do you know any thing of him? I wish indeed, what Madame has told you were not true, as I in that case should be now in possession of my jewels, and a sum of money which I was almost ruined in losing.” She then proceeded, with the volubility peculiar to her nation, to detail the particulars of her loss; enlarged upon the affection she had conceived for the youth, “he was so beautiful, so animated;” then on his ingratitude towards her; and concluded by again inquiring of Angelo if he could give her any intelligence either of him or his companion.

What a situation for the proud indignant Angelo! what a situation for a heartsick father, to listen to the dreadful confirmation of his son having committed a robbery! to hear of his monstrous early depravity, of his total want of even the commonest social principle, and to be asked (was it in nature to support it?) if he could point him out, if he could be the means to bring his own son to justice? His senses almost failed him, a cold shudder ran through all his limbs. Nearly suffocated with agonising emotion, he turned his burning eyes on the infamous Milborough, who had been all this time enjoying with fiend-like malice the tortures in which she saw him writhe. “Monster and Devil!” exclaimed he, “this is thy work, this----”

Milborough with a significant smile placed her hand upon his mouth, and taking him by the arm, drew him a few paces back, and whispered in his ear, “’Tis I who _now_ say, beware how you tempt me too far. If you utter another sentence calculated to injure me, I will instantly declare you aloud for the _father_ of the young robber!”

Angelo started back, and gazed on Milborough as in wonder that such frightful depravity could exist in human nature. He beheld the countenance of the fiend, fierce, bold, exulting; he essayed to speak, but could not;--so tremblingly alive was he to disgrace or exposition. Milborough had touched a string which vibrated to madness; his strength seemed equally with his power of speech to be failing him; scarcely knowing what he did, he made a desperate effort to recal his waning faculties, and breaking through the surrounding throng he rushed like a maniac from the house.

Without the power of volition, without intention, or idea, mechanically he traced the way to the hotel where he lodged--his mind was anarchy, was despair. Incapable of remaining another night in a place where he had been blasted by such an assemblage of horrors, where, above all, he must breathe an atmosphere polluted by the breath of Milborough! he summoned his servant, and bidding him follow as soon as possible, late as it was, took his departure from Paris.