I passed the night in the utmost agitation, and after having formed a thousand different projects, all equally fruitless and impracticable, it came suddenly into my mind to burn the writings which were still in my possession, those now hated writings that proved our claim to the estates of the family of Lussan. I was astonished that I had not hit upon this expedient sooner, since it was the most effectual method I could take to put an end to a suit, the consequence of which I had so much dreaded.
It was not impossible but my father who had proceeded very far might be induced to terminate the affair amicably by my marriage with Adelaida; but although there should be no foundation for so pleasing a hope, yet I could not consent to furnish arms against what I loved. I reproached myself for having so long kept papers in my possession which ought to have been sooner sacrificed to my tenderness.
The reflection of the injury I did my father could not stop me a moment from the execution of this design. This estate was entailed upon me, and I inherited one left me by my mother’s brother, which I could resign to him to procure his pardon, and which was much more considerable than that I was the cause of his losing.
There needed no more arguments to convince a man in love, and already determined. I went instantly to my closet for the little box which contained these papers. Never had I in my whole life experienced so happy a moment, as that in which I committed them to the flames. I was transported into rapture at the thoughts of so effectually serving the object of my passion.
If she loves me, said I, she shall one day know the sacrifice I have made for her; but if I am not so happy as to touch her heart, she shall always remain in ignorance of it. Why should I make her sensible of an obligation she would be sorry to owe to me? I would have Adelaida love me, but I would not have her think herself indebted to me. I confess, however, that after this action, I found myself imboldened to declare my sentiments to her, and the freedom with which I visited at her mother’s, gave me an opportunity that very day.
‘I am going to leave you, charming Adelaida, said I, will you have the goodness to think sometimes of a man whose happiness, or whose misery you only can make?’ I had not power to go on: she seemed alarmed and confused, I thought also that I saw grief in her eyes.
‘You have heard me, resumed I trembling; give me some answer, I implore it of your compassion, speak one word to me.’
‘What would you have me say to you? replied she, with visible emotion; I ought not to have heard you, and still less ought I to answer you.’
Scarce did she give herself time to pronounce these words, she left me so suddenly. I stayed the rest of the day there, but I found it impossible again to speak to her alone. She avoided me carefully; she had an air of perplexity and confusion; how lovely did she appear to me with that perplexed air, and that sweet innocent confusion. My respect for her was equal to my love; I could not look on her without trembling, I dreaded lest my presumption had made her repent of her goodness towards me.
I should longer have observed a conduct so conformable to my respect for her, and to the delicacy of my own sentiments, if the necessity I was under of leaving her had not forced me to speak. I was willing to tell Adelaida my true name before I went away; but I dreaded this declaration even more than my former.
‘I perceive you avoid me, madam, said I to her. Alas! what will you do when you know all my crimes, or rather my misfortunes? I have imposed upon you by a false name, I am not the person you think me; I am, pursued I, trembling, with the violence of my apprehensions, the son of the count de Comminge.’
‘The son of the count de Comminge! cried Adelaida, with astonishment and grief in her face, our enemy, our persecutor! do not you and your father urge the ruin of mine?’
‘Oh do not wound me with so cruel a thought! interrupted I, tears in spite of myself, streaming from my eyes; in me, charming Adelaida, you behold a lover ready to sacrifice all for you; my father will never injure yours; my love secures him in your interest.’
‘But why, replied Adelaida, recovering from her surprize, why have you deceived me? why did you conceal your true name? Had I known it, pursued she, softly sighing, it would have warned me to fly from you.’
‘Oh, do not, madam, said I, taking her hand which I forcibly kissed, do not repent of your goodness towards me.’
‘Leave me, said she withdrawing her hand, the more I see you the more inevitable I render those misfortunes I too justly apprehend.’
The latent meaning of these words filled me with a transport that suffered nothing but hope to appear. I flattered myself that I should be able to render my father favourable to my passion. This belief so wholly possessed me, that I thought every one should think as I did. I spoke to Adelaida of my projects like one who is secure of success.
‘I know not, said she with a melancholy air, why my heart refuses to yield to the hopes you endeavour to inspire. I foresee nothing but misery in the course of this affair; yet I find a pleasure in feeling what I do for you: I have not hid my sentiments from you; I am willing you should know them, but remember that if there is a necessity for it, I am capable of sacrificing them to my duty.’
I had several conversations with Adelaida before my departure, and always found new cause to congratulate myself on my good fortune; the pleasure of loving and knowing that I was beloved, filled my whole heart; no suspicion, no fear for the future could disturb the tender softness of our interviews. We were secure of each other’s affection, because esteem was the basis of it; and this certainty far from diminishing the ardour of our passion, added to it all the sweets of hope, and all the charms of confidence.
‘I should die with grief, said she to me, if I bring upon you the displeasure of your father; I would have you love me, but oh, I would rather have you happy!’
I parted from her at length, full of the most tender and most ardent passion that ever man felt, and my whole soul intent upon the design of rendering my father favourable to it.
In the mean time he was informed of every thing that had passed at the baths. The servant whom he had put about me had secret orders to observe my conduct; this man had left him ignorant of nothing, neither of my love, nor my quarrel with the chevalier de Saint Oden. Unfortunately the chevalier was the only son of one of my father’s most intimate friends; this circumstance, and the danger to which he was reduced by his wound, turned every thing against me. The servant who had given him such exact informations, represented me to be much happier than I was. He described madam and mademoiselle de Lussan as full of artifice and design, as having always known me for the count de Comminge, and had spared no pains to seduce me.
Thus prejudiced, my father, naturally severe and passionate, treated me at my return with great harshness: he reproached me with my passion as with a crime of the blackest dye.
‘You have been base enough, said he to me, to love my enemies, and without reflecting what you owed either to me or to yourself, you have entered into engagements with those I hate, and I know not, added he, whether you have not done something still more worthy of my resentment!’
‘Yes, Sir, answered I, throwing myself at his feet, I am guilty, I confess, but I am so in spite of myself. At this very moment when I implore your pardon, I feel that no power on earth can tear from my heart that passion which offends you. Have pity on me, and oh! suffer me to say it, have pity on yourself, put an end to that hatred which disturbs the tranquillity of your life. The tenderness which the daughter of monsieur de Lussan and I felt for each other at first sight, seems a warning from heaven to you. Alas! my dear father, you have no other child but me! would you make me miserable and load me with misfortunes so much the more unsupportable as they will come from a hand I must ever love and revere? Suffer yourself, my dear father to be softened into forgiveness of a son, who has offended you only by a fatality for which he could not be answerable.’
My father, who had suffered me to continue kneeling during the whole time I was speaking to him, looked on me for a moment with mingled scorn and indignation.
‘I have, said he, heard you with a patience I am myself astonished at: I will still preserve composure enough to tell you what is the only favour you are to expect from me; you must renounce your ill-placed passion, or the quality of my son. Take your choice, and this instant deliver me the writings you have in your custody; you are no longer worthy of my confidence.’
If my father had suffered himself to be moved by my supplications, the demand he made of the papers would have greatly distressed me: but his harshness gave me courage.
‘Those writings, said I, rising, are no longer in my possession, I have burned them: but the estate I inherit of my uncle’s shall be yours, instead of those they would have given you.’
I had scarce time to pronounce these few words. My father, mad with rage, drew his sword, and would doubtless have run me through, for I made not the least effort to avoid him, if my mother had not entered the room that instant, and threw herself, half dead with terror, between us.
‘Ah! what would you do, said she, gasping with the violence of her fears, is he not your son? Then forcing me out of the room, she ordered me to expect her in her own apartment.’
I waited there a long time before she appeared: she came at length. I had no longer rage, exclamation, and menaces to combat; but a tender mother, who entered into all my griefs, and intreated me with tears, to have companion on the condition to which I had reduced her.
‘What, my son, said she to me, shall a mistress, and a mistress whom you have known so short a time, be preferred to your mother? Alas! if your happiness depended upon me, I would sacrifice every thing to secure it; but you have a father who will be obeyed. He is upon the point of taking the most violent resolutions against you. Oh, my son! if you would not make me miserable, suppress a passion that will render us all unhappy.’
I remained some moments silent: how difficult was it to resist such a plea, so tenderly urged by a mother for whom I had the highest filial affection? but love was still more powerful.
[To be continued.]