‘I Would die, said I, rather than displease you; and I will die if you have no pity on me. What can I do? It is easier for me to take away my own life, than to forget Adelaida. Shall I be perjured, and violate the vows I have made to her? vows which have engaged her early affections. Shall I abandon her when I know I have gained her heart? Oh! my dear mother, do not wish your son to become the basest of men.’
I then related to her all that had passed between us. ‘She loves you, said I, and you, I am sure, will not be able to help loving her. She has your sweetness, your candour, your generosity. How is it possible for me to cease loving her?’
‘But what do you propose by indulging this passion, said my mother? Your father is resolved to have you marry another, and commands you to retire into the country till everything is settled. It is absolutely necessary that you should appear willing to obey him, unless you mean to be my death. He expects you will depart to-morrow under the conduct of a person in whom he has great confidence. Absence will do more for you than you can yet imagine; but be that as it will, do not irritate Monsieur de Comminge still more by your refusal: ask for time, and I will do every thing in my power to accomplish your wishes. Your father’s anger cannot last always: he will relent, and you may be yet happy; but you have been greatly to blame in burning the writings. He is persuaded that you sacrificed them to madame de Lussan, who ordered her daughter to require that proof of your love.’
‘Oh heavens! cried I, is it possible that my father can be so unjust? Both madame de Lussan and Adelaida are ignorant of what I have done; and I am very sure, had they suspected my intention, they would have used all their power over me to have prevented it.’
My mother and I afterwards took measures to convey letters to each other, and, encouraged by her indulgence, I durst presume to intreat she would transmit to me those of Adelaida, who was soon to be at Bourdeaux. My mother had the goodness to promise she would gratify me; but at the same time; insisted, that if I found Adelaida had altered her sentiments, I should submit to what my father required of me. We spent great part of the night in this conversation; and as soon as day appeared my conductor came to inform me that it was time to set on horseback.
The estate where I was to pass the time of my banishment lay in the mountains, some leagues from Bagniers; so that we took the same road I had so lately passed through. The second day of our journey we came early in the evening to the village where we were to lie. While supper was preparing I went to take a walk along the great road, and at a distance saw a coach which drove very fast, and when it came within a few paces of me overturned. My heart, by its throbbing, acquainted me with the part I had in this accident. I eagerly flew towards the coach; two men on horseback, who attended it, alighted and joined me, to assist the persons who were within. It will be easily guessed that those persons were Adelaida and her mother; in effect it was they. Adelaida was very much hurt in one of her feet; but the joy at seeing me seemed to leave her no sense of her pain.
What pleasure did I taste that happy moment! After so many afflictions, and at the distance of so many years, it is still present to my remembrance. Adelaida not being able to walk, I took her in my arms to carry her to the inn; her charming arms were thrown round my neck, and one of her hands touched my mouth. I was in a transport that scarce suffered me to breathe.
Adelaida observed it, her delicacy was alarmed, she made a motion to disingage herself from my arms. Alas! how little did she know the excess of my love: I was too much transported with my present happiness to think there was any beyond it.
‘Set me down, said she to me, in a low and trembling voice; I believe I am able to walk.’
‘What, replied I, are you so cruel as to envy me the only good fortune I shall perhaps ever enjoy.’ I prest her hand tenderly to my bosom as I pronounced these words. Adelaida was silent, and a false step which I made on purpose, obliged her to resume her first attitude.
The inn was at so little distance, that I was soon forced to part with my beauteous burden. I carried her into a room, and laid her on a bed; while their attendants did the same with her mother, who was much more hurt than Adelaida. Every one being busy about madame de Lussan, I had time to acquaint Adelaida with part of what had passed between my father and me. I supprest the article of the burnt writings. I knew not whether I most wished that me should be ignorant of it, or know it from another person; it was in some degree imposing upon her the necessity of loving me, and I was desirous of owing all to her own heart. I durst not describe my father to her such as he really was. Adelaida was strictly virtuous; and I was sensible, that to resign herself to the inclinations she felt for me, it was necessary that she should hope we might be one day united. I seemed to have great dependance upon my mother’s tenderness for me, and the favourable disposition she was in towards us. I intreated Adelaida to see her.
‘Speak to my mother, said she; she knows your sentiments, I have acknowledged mine to her. I found that her authority was necessary to give me strength to combat them if I should be obliged to it, or to justify me for resigning myself up to them without scruple. She will use her utmost endeavours to prevail upon my father to propose an accommodation, and to engage the interposition of our common relations for that purpose.’
The tranquillity with which Adelaida rested upon these hopes made me feel my misfortune more sensibly. ‘What if our fathers should be inexorable, said I to her, pressing her hand, will not you have compassion on a miserable wretch who adores you?’
‘I will do all that I can, answered she, to regulate my inclinations by my duty; but I feel that I shall be wretched, if that duty is against you.’
The persons who had been employed about Madame de Lussan then approaching her daughter, our discourse was interrupted. I went to the bed-side of the mother; she received me kindly, and assured me she would use every method in her power to reconcile our families. I then went out of their chamber to leave them at liberty to take some repose. My conductor, who waited for me in my own apartment, had made no enquiry about these new guests; so that I had an opportunity of being a few moments with Adelaida before I proceeded on my journey.
I entered her chamber in a condition easier to be imagined than described. I dreaded that this was the last time I should see her. I approached the mother first, my grief pleaded for me, and she was so moved with it, that she expressed herself in still kinder terms than she had done the evening before. Adelaida was at another end of the room; I went to her trembling: “I leave you my dear Adelaida,” said I. Two or three times I repeated the same words: my tears, which I could not restrain, spoke the rest. She wept likewise.
‘I shew you my whole heart, said she—I do not wish to disguise it from you; you deserve my tenderness. I know not what will be our fate; but I am resolved that my parents shall dispose of mine.’
‘And why, replied I, should we subject ourselves to the tyranny of our parents? let us leave them to hate each other, if they will do it; and let us fly to some distant corner of the world, and be happy in our mutual tenderness, which we may make a superior duty to what we owe them.’
‘Never let me hear such a proposal from you again, said she: give me not cause to repent of the sentiments I have entertained for you; my love may make me unhappy, but it shall never make me criminal. Adieu, added she, giving me her hand, it is by our constancy and virtue that we ought to endeavour to triumph over our misfortunes, but whatever happens, let us resolve to do nothing which may lessen our esteem for each other.’
While she spoke, I killed the dear hand she had given me: I bathed it with my tears. ‘I must always love you, replied I; death, if I cannot be yours, will free me from my misery.’
My heart was so oppress’d with anguish, that I could with difficulty utter these few words. I hastily quitted the room, and mounting my horse, arrived at the place where we were to dine, without having one moment ceased to weep. I gave free course to my tears. I found a kind of sweetness in thus indulging my grief. When the heart is truly affected, it takes pleasure in every thing that discovers to itself its own sensibility.
The remainder of our journey passed as the beginning: I had scarce uttered a word during the whole time. On the third day we arrived at a castle built near the Pyrenees; nothing was to be seen about it but pines and Cyprus trees, steep rocks, and horrid precipices; and nothing heard but the noise of torrents rushing with violence down those frightful declivities.
This savage dwelling pleased me, because it soothed my melancholy. I passed whole days in the woods; and when I returned, unloaded my sad heart in letters to my beloved Adelaida. This was my only employment, and my only pleasure. I will give them to her one day, thought I: she shall see by them how I have passed the time in her absence. I sometimes received letters from my mother, in one of which she gave me hopes. Alas! that was the only happy moment I ever enjoyed: she informed me that all our relations were labouring to reconcile our families, and that there was room to believe they would succeed.
After this I received no more letters for six weeks; how tedious were those days of doubt and anxiety! every morning I went into the road through which the messengers passed, and never returned till it was late in the evening: lingering till hope and expectation had nothing left to feed upon, and always returned more wretched than when I first set out. At length I saw a man at a distance, riding towards the castle. I did not doubt but he was a messenger to me, and, instead of that eager impatience I had felt a moment before, I was now seized with apprehension and dread. I durst not advance to meet him; something which I could not account for, restrained me. Uncertainty, which had hitherto appeared so tormenting, seemed now a good which I feared to lose.
My heart did not deceive me. This man brought me letters from my mother, in which she informed me, that my father would listen to no proposals for an accommodation; and, to compleat my miseries, had resolved upon a marriage between me and a daughter of the house of Foix: that the nuptials were to be celebrated in the castle where I then was; and that my father would in a few days come himself to prepare me for what he desired of me.
You will easily judge I did not balance a moment about the resolution I was to take. I waited for my father’s arrival with tranquility enough. My grief was soothed with the reflection, that I was able to make another sacrifice to Adelaida: I was convinced she loved me: I loved her too much to doubt it. True love is always full of confidence.
My mother, who had so many reasons for wishing to see me disengaged from Adelaida, had never in any of her letters given me the least cause to suspect she was changed; this compleated my security. How greatly did the constancy of my Adelaida heighten the ardor of my passion! During the three days which elapsed before the arrival of my father, my imagination was wholly employed on the new proof I was shortly to give Adelaida of my passion. This idea, notwithstanding my miserable situation, gave me sensations little different from joy.
[To be continued.]