I know his unwillingness to write, and decorum prevents (is it vanity to think so?) his daughter; therefore I addressed my last letter to Madame de Roubign; but even when I shall receive her answer, it will not say enough. You know what my heart requires; do not disappoint it. [Page] LETTER XXXII. JULIA DE MONTAUBAN, TO MARIA DE RONCILLES. YOU must not expect to hear from me so often as formerly; we have, here, an even tenor of days, that admits not of much description. Comedies and romances, you know, always end with a marriage, because after that, there is nothing to be said. But I have reason to be angry with you for finding so little to say at Paris, though I believe, the fault is in myself, or rather in your idea of me. You think I am not formed to relish those articles of intelligence, which are called news in your great town; the truth is, I have often heard them with very little relish; but I know you have wit enough to make them pleasant if you would; and even if you had not, do but write any thing, and I shall read it with an interest. You flatter me by your praises of the naivet, in the picture I drew of our party of pleasure. GOD knows, I have no talent that way; yet the groupe was fantastic enough, and, though I felt quite otherwise than merry next morning, when [Page] I wrote to you, yet I found a sort of pleasure in describing it. There is a certain kind of trifling, in which a mind not much at ease can sometimes indulge itself. One feels an escape, as it were, from the heart, and is fain to take up with lighter company. It is like the theft of a truant boy, who goes to play for a few minutes while his master is asleep, and throws the chiding for his task upon futurity. We have very different company at present. Madame de Sancerre has been here these three days. Her husband was an acquaintance of Mons. de Montauban in Spain, and, you will remember, we used to be of her parties in town; so she is a guest of both sides of the house, though I believe no great favourite of either. She is a wit, you know, and says abundance of good things; and will say any thing, provided it be witty. Here, indeed, we give her so little opportunity, that her genius is almost famished for want of subject. At Paris, I remember her surrounded with men of letters; they praised her learning, and to us she seemed wonderful both as a scholar and a critic; but here when I turn the discourse on books, she chuses to talk of nothing but the beau monde. Her descriptions, however, are diverting enough, and I believe she is not the worse pleased with me, that I can only hear them without being [Page] able to answer; for I think, if there is a member of our society she dislikes, it is that relation of the Count, whom I mentioned to you in my last, Mons. de Rouill, who is come to spend some weeks here. From the account of his vivacity which I received from his kinsman, I thought Madame de Sancerre would have thought it a piece of high good fortune to have met him here; but, I see, I mistook the thing; and that she would relish his company better, if he were as stupid as the rest of us. I am of a different opinion, and begin to like him much; the better, that I was prepared to be somewhat afraid of him; but I find in him nothing to be feared; on the contrary, he is my very safest barrier against the sometimes too powerful brilliancy of the lady. Rouill is constitutionally happy; but his vivacity, though it seems to be constant, does not appear to be unfeeling. It is not the cheerfulness of an unthinking man, who is ready to laugh, on all occasions, without leave of his reason, or what is worse, of his humanity; some such people I have seen, whose mirth, was like the pranks of a madman, and, if not of consequence enough to excite anger or fear, was entitled to our compassion. Rouill has the happy talent of hitting that point where sentiment mingles with good humour. His wit, except when forced into [Page] to opposition by the petulance of others, is ever of that gentle kind from which we have nothing to dread; that sports itself in the level of ordinary understandings, and pleases, because it makes no one displeased with himself. Even the natural gravity of Montauban yields to the winning liveliness of Rouill, and though the first seems to feel a little aukwardness in the attempt, yet he often comes down from the loftiness of his own character, to meet the pleasantry of the other's. Do not rally me on the favour of matrimony in the observation, if I venture to say, that Montauban seems to have resumed somewhat of his former dignity. Think not that I suspect the smallest diminution of his affection; but now, when the ease of the husband has restored him to his native characterI know not what I would sayBelieve me, I mean nothing at allI have the greatest reason to be satisfied and happy. At present, I believe, he is now and then out of humour with this visitant of ours, Madame de Sancerre; and, it may be, thrown into somewhat of a severity in his manner, from the observation of an opposite one in her. When she utters, as she does pretty often, any joke at which she [Page] laughs heartily herself, I laugh, sometimes with good will, but oftener (out of complaisance) without; Rouill laughs, and is ready with his jest in return; but Montauban looks graver than ever. Indeed, there is no resource for one who cannot laugh at a jest, but to look grave at it. I wish my MARIA could have accepted of the invitation he communicated by me some time ago. I think I should have shewn him, in my friend, a liveliness that would not have displeased him. Could you still contrive to come, while Rouill is here, you must be charmed with one another. It would give me an opportunity of making up to you, for the many dull letters I have obliged you to read; but you taxed yourself early with my correspondence; it was then, perhaps, tolerable; it has, of late, been a mere collection of egotisms, the egotisms too of a mind ill at easebut I have given up making apologies or acknowledgements to you; they are only for common obligations mine is a debt beyond their quittance. [Page] LETTER XXXIII. MONTAUBAN TO SEGARVA. I AM now three letters in your debt; yet the account of correspondence used formerly to be in my favour. The truth is, that of facts I have nothing to write, and of sentiments almost as little. Of the first, my situation here in the country deprives me; and of the last, that quiet sort of state I have got into is little productive. When I was unhappy as the lover of JULIA, or first happy as her husband, I had theme enough, and to spare. I can tell you, that I am happy still; but it is a sort of happiness that would not figure in narration. I believe my JULIA is every thing that a good wife should be I hope I am a good husband. I am neither young nor old enough for a doating one. You will smile and look back to certain letters and notes of mine, written some four or five months ago. I do not know why I should be ashamed of them. Were Segarva to marry, he would write such letters for a while, and there never was a man who could write such letters [Page] long. If there were, I am not sure if I should wish to be that man. When we cannot be quite so happy as others, our pride naturally balances the account It shews us that we are wiser. Rouill, who has been here for a week or two, is of a different opinion He holds the happiest man to be ever the wisest. You know Rouill's disposition, which was always too much in the sun for us; but the goodness of his heart, and the purity of his honour, are above the rest of his character. With this prepossession in his favour, I hear him laugh at me, without resentment; and by and by he steals upon me, till I forget myself, and laugh with him. I am sometimes gay; but I feel a sort of trouble in gaiety. It is exactly the reverse with Rouill He can be serious, when he means to be so; but, if we mean nothing, he is gay, and I am serious. My wife is neither one nor t'other There is something about her too gentle for either; but I think, her pensive softness deserts more readily to Rouill's side than to mine, though one should imagine his manner the more distant from hers of the two. Rouill jokes me on this He calls her the middle stage between us; but says, it is uphill [Page] towards my side. "A solitary castle, and a still evening (said he) would make a JULIA of me; but to be Montauban, I must have a fog and a prison." Perhaps if we consider matters impartially, these men have the advantage of us The little cordialities of life are more frequently in use than its greater and more important duties. Somebody, I think, has compared them to small pieces of coin, which, though of less value than the large, are more current amongst men; but the parallel fails in one respect A thousand of these livres do not constitute a louis; and I have known many characters possessed of all that the first could give, whose minds were incapable of the last. In this number, however, I mean not to include Rouill. We have another guest, who illustrates my meaning better, the widow of Sancerre, whom you introduced to my acquaintance, a long time ago, in Spain. She was then nothing; for Sancerre considered all women nothing, and took care that, during his life, she should be no exception to the rule. He died; she regained her freedom; and she uses it as one to whom it had long been denied. She is just fool enough to be a wit, and carries on a perpetual crusade against [Page] sense and seriousness. I bear with her very impatiently She plagues me, I believe, the more. My wife smiles, Rouill laughs at me; I am unable to laugh, and ashamed to be angry; so I remain silent and stupid. Sometimes I cease to think of her, and blame myself. Why should I allow this spleen of sense to disqualify me for society?Once or twice I almost muttered things against my present situation.JULIA loves me; I know she does She has that tenderness and gratitude, which will secure her affection to a husband, who loves her as I do; but she must often feel the difference of disposition between us. Had such a man as Rouill been her husbandnot Rouill neither, though she seems often delighted with his good humour, when I cannot be pleased with it. We are neither of us such a man as the writer of a romance would have made a husband for JULIA.There, is indeed, a pliability in the minds of women in this article, which frequently gains over opinion to the side of duty.Duty is a cold word.No matter, we will canvas it no farther. I know the purity of her bosom, and I think, I am not unworthy of its affection. Her father I see much seldomer than I could wish; but he is greatly altered of late, Since the [Page] time of his wife's death, I have observed him droop apace; but JULIA says, that the distress of their circumstances kept up in him a sort of false spirit, which, when they were disembarrassed, left him to sink under reflection. His faculties, I can easily perceive, are not in that vigour they were wont to be; yet his bodily strength does not much decline, and he seems more contented with himself, than he was when in full possession of his abilities. We wish him to live with us; but he has constantly refused our request, and it is a matter of delicacy to press him on that point. We go to see him sometimes He receives us with satisfaction, not ardour Violent emotions of every kind appear to be quenched in him. It creates, methinks, a feeling of mingled complacency and sadness, to look on the evening of a life and of a character like Roubign's. Shall I not see you here some time this autumn? You gave me a sort of promise, and I need you more than ever. I want the society of some one, in whose company I can be pleased, without the tax of thinking that I am filly for being so. [Page] LETTER XXXIV. JULIA TO MARIA. I HAVE just now received a piece of intelligence, which I must beg my MARIA instantly to satisfy me about. Le Blanc, my father's servant, was here a few hours ago, and among other news, informed Lisette, that a nephew of his, who is just come with his master from Paris, met Savillon there, whom he perfectly remembered, from having seen him in his visits to his uncle at Belville. The lad had no time for enquiry, as his master's carriage was just setting off, when he observed a chaise drive up to the door of the hotel, with a gentleman in it, whom he knew to be Savillon, accompanied by a valet de chambre, and two black servants on horseback. Think, MARIA, what I feel at this intelligence!Yet why should it alarm me?Alas! you know this poor, weak, throbbing heart of mine! I cannot, if I would, hide it from you.Find him out, for Heaven's sake, MARIA; tell meyet what now is Savillon to your JULIA?No matterdo any thing your prudence may suggest; only satisfy me about the fate of [Page] this once dearAgain! I dare not trust myself on the subjectMons. de Montauban! Farewell! Delay not a moment to answer this. Yet do not write, till you have learned something satisfactory. At any rate, write me speedily. I have forgotten the name of the hotel, where the lad met him; it was situated in the Rue St. Anne. LETTER XXXV. MONTAUBAN TO SEGARVA. MY wife (that word must often come across the narration of a married man) has been a good deal indisposed of late. You will not joke me on this intelligence, as such of my neighbours whom I have seen have done; it is not however what they say, or you may think; her spirits droop more than her body; she is thoughtful and melancholy when she thinks she is not observed, and, what pleases me worse, affects to appear otherwise, when she is. I like not this sadness which is conscious of itself. Yet, perhaps, I [Page] have seen her thus before our marriage, and have rather admired this turn of mind than disapproved of it; but now I would not have her pensivenor very gay neitherI would have nothing about her, methinks, to stir a question in me whence it arose. She should be contented with the affection she knows I bear for her. I do not expect her to be romantically happy, and she has no cause for uneasinessI am not uneasy neitheryet I wish her to conquer this melancholy. I was last night abroad at supper JULIA was abed before my return. I found her lute lying on the table, and a musicbook open by it. I could perceive the marks of tears shed on the paper, and the air was such as might encourage their falling Sleep however had overcome her sadness, and she did not awake when I opened the curtains to look on her. When I had stood some moments, I heard her sigh strongly through her sleep, and presently she muttered some words, I know not of what import. I had sometimes heard her do so before, without regarding it much; but there was something that roused my attention now. I listened; she sighed again, and again spoke a few broken words; at last I heard her plainly pronounce the name Savillon, two or three times over, and each time it was accompanied with sighs so deep, that her heart seemed [Page] bursting as it heaved them. I confess the thing struck me, and, after musing on it some time, I resolved to try a little experiment this day at dinner, to discover whether chance had made her pronounce this name, or if some previous cause had impressed it on her imagination. I knew a man of that name at Paris, when I first went thither, who had an office under the intendant of the marine. I introduced some conversation on the subject of the fleet, and said, in an indifferent manner, that I had heard so and so from my old acquaintance Savillon. She spilt some soup she was helping me to at the instant; and, stealing a glance at her, I saw her cheeks flushed into crimson. I have been ever since going the round of conjecture on this incident. I think I can recollect once, and but once, her father speak of a person called Savillon residing abroad, from whom he had received a letter; but I never heard JULIA mention him at all. I know not why I should have forborn asking her the reason of her being so affected at the sound; yet at the moment I perceived it, the question stuck in my throat. I felt something like guilt hang over this incident altogetherit is none of mine thennor of JULIA'S neither, I trustand yet, Segarva, it [Page] has touched me nearermuch nearer than I should own to any one but you. Nine at night. Upon looking over what I had written in the afternoon, I had almost resolved to burn this letter, and write another; but it strikes me as insincerity to a friend like Segarva, not to trust him with the very thought of the moment, weak as it may be. I begin now to be ashamed of the effect that trifle, I mentioned above, had upon me. JULIA is better and has been singing to me the old Spanish ballad, which you sent us lately. I am delighted with those antient national songs, because there is a simplicity, and an expression in them, which I can understand. Adepts in music are pleased with more intricate compositions; and they talk more of the pleasure than they feel; and others talk after them, without feeling at all. [Page] LETTER XXXVI. SAVILLON TO HERBERT. I AM here in Paris, and fulfil the promise, which your friendship required of me, to write to you immediately on my arrival. Alas! my reception is not such as I looked for. He, whom alone my arrival should have interested my ever faithful Beauvaris!he meets me notwe shall never meethe died, while I was imagining fond things of our meeting! Gracious GOD! what have I done, that I should be always thus an outcast from society? When France was dear to me as life itself, my destiny tore me from her coast; now, when I anticipated the pleasures of my return, is this the welcome she affords me? Forlorn and friendless as my early days were, I complained not while Beauvaris was mine He was wholly mine, for his heart was not made for the world. Naturally reserved, he shrunk early from its notice; and, when he had lived to judge of its sentiments, he wished not to be in the list of its friends. [Page] His extreme modesty, indeed, was an evil in his fate; because it deprived him of that protection and assistance, which his situation required. Those who might have been patrons of his merit, had not time to search for talents his bashfulness obscured. His virtues even suffered imputation from it Shy, not only of intimacy, but even of opinion and sentiment, persons whose situation seemed to entitle them to his confidence, complained of his coldness and indifference, and he was accused of want of feeling, from what, in truth, was an excess of sensibility. This jewel, undiscovered by others, was mine. From infancy, each had accustomed himself to consider his friend but a better part of himself; and, when the heart of either was full, talking to the other was but unloading it in soliloquy. Forgive me, my dear Herbert, for thus dwelling on the subject. The only sad comfort I have now left me, is to think of his worth It is a privilege I would not waste, on common minds, to hear me on this theme; yours can understand it. Why was I absent from Paris? Too much did the latter days of Beauvaris require me! They saw him struggling with poverty as well as sickness; yet the last letter he wrote me confessed neither; and some little presents, the produce of [Page] Martinique, which I sent him, he would not convert into money, because they came from me. I am now sitting in the room, in which he died!On that paltry bed lay the head of Beauvarison this desk, whereon I write, he wrote!Pardon me a while, I am unable to go on. It is from the indulgence of sorrow, that we first know a respite from affliction. I have given a loose to my grief, and I feel the relief, which my tears have afforded me. I am now returned to my hotel, and am able to recollect myself. I have not yet seen any acquaintance of Mons. de Roubign; this blow, indeed, did not allow me leisure or spirits for enquiry; I feel as if I were in a foreign land, and am almost afraid of the noise and bustle I hear in the streets. I have sent, however, offering a visit to a particular young lady, of whom I shall be able to get intelligence of Roubign's family; but my messenger is not yet returned. He has found her, and she has appointed me to come to her tomorrow morning. You cannot [Page] imagine what a flutter the expectation of this visit has thrown me into; I am not apt to stand in awe of presages, but I could be very weak that way at this moment. My man who possesses a happy vivacity, brought me in, after dinner, a bottle of Burgundy, which, he said, the landlord assured him was excellent. I have drunk threefourths of it, by way of medicine; it has made my head somewhat dizzy, but my heart is as heavy as before. What a letter of egotism have I written! but you have taught me to give vent to my feelings, by the acquaintance you have allowed me with yours. To speak ones distresses to the unfeeling is terrible; even to ask the alms of pity is humiliating; but to pour our griefs into the bosom of a friend, is but committing to him a pledge above the trust of ordinary men. Do not, I beseech you, forget your design of travelling into France this season;yet why should I ask this? I know not where fortune may lead me! it cannot, however, place me in a situation, where the friendship of Herbert shall be forgotten. P. S. I direct this for you at London, as, I think, you must be there by this time. Your answer will find me here; let it be speedy. [Page] LETTER XXXVII. SAVILLON TO HERBERT. BEAR with me, Herbert, bear with me. The first use I make of that correspondence which you desired, is to pour out my miseries before you! but you can hear them.You have known what it is to love, and to despair as I do. When I told you, my Beauvaris was no more, I thought I had exhausted the sum of distress, which this visit to Paris was to give me. I knew not then what fate had prepared for methat JULIA, on whom my doating hear had rested all its hopes of happiness;that JULIA is the wife of another! All but this I could have borne; the loss of fortune, the decay of health, the coldness of friends, might have admitted of hope; here only was despair to be found, and here I have found it! Oh! Herbert! she was so interwoven with my thoughts of futurity, that life now fades into a blank, and is not worth the keeping;but I have a use for it; I will see her yet at least [Page] Wherefore should I wish to see her?Yet, methinks, it is now the only object that can prompt a wish in me. When I visited that lady, that MARIA DE RONCILLES, whom I knew to be the dearest of her friends, she seemed to receive me with confusion; her tongue could scarce articulate the words that told me of JULIA'S marriage She mentioned something too, of having heard of mine.I am tortured every way with conjecturemy brain scarce holds its recollection.JULIA DE ROUBIGN is married to another! I know not what I said to this friend of her's at first; I remember only that, when I had recovered a little, I begged her to convey a letter from me to JULIA; she seemed to hesitate in her consent; but she did at last consent. Twice have I written, and twice have I burnt what I had writtenI have no friend to guide, to direct menot even to weep to! At last I have finished that letter; it contains the last request which the miserable Savillon has to make. This one interview past, and my days have nothing to mark them with anxiety or hope. [Page] I am now more calmly wretched; the writing of that letter has releived for a while my swelling heart. I went with it myself to Madamoiselle de Roncilles's; she was abroad, so I left it without seeing her. You can judge of my feelings; I wondered at the indifference of the faces I met with in my way; they had no cares to cloud them, none at least like Savillon's.Why of all those thousands am I the most wretched? I am returned to my hotel. I hear the voices of my servants below They are telling, I suppose, the adventures of their voyage. I can distinguish the voice of my man, and his audience are merry around himWhy should he not jest! he knows not what his master suffers. Something like a stupid sleepiness oppresses me Last night, I could not sleep. Where are now those luxurious slumbers, those wandering dreams of future happiness?Never shall I know them again!Good night, my Herbert!It is something still to sleep and to forget them. [Page] LETTER XXXVIII. JULIA TO MARIA. WHAT do you tell me! Savillon in Paris! unmarried, unengaged, raving of JULIA! Hide me from myself, MARIA, hide me from myselfAm I not the wife of Montauban? Yes, and I know that character which as the wife of Montauban, I have to support Her husband's honour and her own are in the breast of JULIA. My heart swells, while I think of the station in which I am placed.Relentless Honour! thou triest me to the uttermost; thou enjoinest me to think no more of such a being as Savillon. But can I think of him no more?Cruel remembrances?Thou too, my friend, betrayest me; you dare not trust me with the whole scene; but you tell me enough.I see him, I see him now! He came, unconscious of what Fortune had made of me; he came, elate with the hopes of sharing with his JULIA that wealth, which propitious Heaven had bestowed on him.She is married to another!I see him start back in amazement and despair; his eye wild and [Page] haggard, his voice lost in the throb of astonishment! He thinks on the shadows which his fond hopes had rearedthe dreams of happiness!Say not that he wept at the thought.Had those tears fallen upon JULIA'S grave, Memory! thou couldst not thus have stung me. But, perhaps, gentle as his nature is, he was no weak enough to be overcome by the thought. Could he but think of me with indifferenceTell him, MARIA, what a wretch I am A wife, without a wife's affection, to whom life has lost its relish, and virtue its reward. Let him hate me, I deserve his scornyet, methinks, I may claim his pity. The daughter of Roubign, the wife of Montauban! I will not bear to be pitied. No; I will stifle the grief that would betray me, and be miserable without a witness. This heart shall break, this proud heart, without suffering a sigh to relieve it. Alas! my friend, it will not be.That picture, MARIA, that picture! Why did I not banish it from my sight? too amiable Savillon! Look there, look there! in that eye there is no scorn, no reproach to the unhappy JULIA Mildness and melancholy!We were born [Page] to be miserable!Think'st thou, MARIA, that at this momentit is possiblehe is gazing thus on the resemblance of one, whose ill fated rashness has undone herself and him!Will he thus weep over it as I do? Will he pardon my offences, and thus press it?I dare not! This bosom is the property of Montauban.Tears are all I have to bestow. Is there guilt in those tears? Heaven knows, I cannot help weeping. I was interrupted by the voice of my husband giving some orders to his servant at the door of my apartment. He entered with a look of gaiety; but I fear by the change of his countenance, that he observed my tears. I clapped on my hat to hide them, and told him, as well as I could, that I was going to walk. He suffered me to leave him, without any further question, I strolled I knew not whither, till I found myself by the side of a little brook, about a quarter of a mile's distance from the house. The stillness of noon, broken only by the gentle murmuring of the water, and the quiet hum of the bees, that hung on the wild flowers around it; these gave me back myself, and allowed me the languor of thought; my tears sell without controul, and almost without distress. I would have looked again on the [Page] picture of Savillon, for I could then have trusted myself with the sight of it; but I had left it behind in my chamber. The thoughts of its being seen by my husband gave wings to my return. I hope he missed it; for I found it lying, as I had left it, on my dressingtable, in the midst of some letters of compliment, which had been thrown carelessly there the day before; and, when I went down stairs, I discovered nothing in his behaviour that should have followed such a discovery. On the contrary, I think, he seemed more pleased than usual, and was particularly attentive to me. I felt his kindness a reproach, and my endeavours to return it sat aukwardly upon me. There was a treachery methought, in my attempts to please him, and, I fear, the greater ease I meant to assume in making those attempts, I gave them only more the appearance of constraint. What a situation is mine! to wear the appearance of serenity, while my heart is wretched, and the dissimulation of guilt, though my soul is unconscious of a crime!There is something predictive in my mind, that tells me I shall not long be thus; but I am sick of conjecture, as I am berest of hope, and only satisfy myself with concluding, that, in the most fateful lives, there is still a certain point, where the maze of destiny can bewilder no more! [Page] LETTER XXXIX. MONTAUBAN TO SEGARVA. SEGARVA!but it must be toldI blush even telling it to theehave I lived to this?that thou shouldst hear the name of Montauban coupled with dishonour! I came into my wife's room yesterday morning, somewhat unexpectedly. I observed she had been weeping, though she put on her hat to conceal [...] and spoke in a tone of voice affectedly indifferent. Presently she went out on pretence of walking; I staid behind, not without surprise at her tears, though, I think, without suspicion; when turning over (in the careless way one does in musing) some loose papers on her dressingtable, I sound a picture of a young man in miniature, the glass of which was still wet with the tears she had shed on it. I have but a confused remembrance of my feelings at the time; there was a bewildered pause of thought, as if I had waked in another world. My faithful Lonquillez happened to enter the room at that moment; look there! said I, holding out the picture without knowing what I did; he held it in his hand, and turning it, read on [Page] the back Savillon. I started at that sound, and snatched the picture from him; I believe he spoke somewhat, expressing his surprise at my emotion; I know not what it was, nor what my answer He was retiring from the chamberI called him back."I think, (said I) thou lovest thy master, and wouldst serve him if thou couldst?""With my life! answered LonquillezThe warmth of his manner touched me I think I laid my hand on my sword. Savillon! I repeated the name; "I have heard of him," said Lonquillez."Heard of him!""I heard Le Blanc talk of him a few days ago.""And what did he say of him?""And said he had heard of this gentleman's arrival from the WestIndies, from his own nephew, who had just come from Paris, that he remembered him formerly when he lived with his master at Belville, the sweetest young gentleman, and the handsomest in the province."My situation struck me at that instant.I was unable to enquire further.After some little time, Lonquillez left the room; I knew not that he was gone, till I heard him going down stairs. I called him back a second time; he came I could not speak.My dear master!" (said Lonquillez) It was the accent of a friend, and it overcame me. "Lonquillez (said I) your master is most unhappy! [Page] Canst thou think my wife is false to me?"Heaven forbid! said he, and started back in amazement."It may be I wrong her; but to dream of Savillon, to keep his picture, to weep over it,""What shall I do, Sir?" said Lonquillez."You see I am calm, I returned, and will do nothing rashly;try to learn from Le Blanc every thing he knows about this Savillon. Lisette too is silly, and talks much. I know your faith, and will trust your capacity; get me what intelligence you can, but beware of shewing the most distant suspicion.We heard my wife below; I threw down the picture where I had found it, and hastened to meet her. As I approached her, my heart throbbed so violently that I durst not venture the meeting.


My dressingroom door stood ajar; I slunk in there, I believe, unperceived, and heard her pass on to her chamber. I would have called Lonquillez to have spoken to him again; but I durst not then, and have not found an opportunity since. I saw my wise soon after; I counterfeited as well as I could, and, I think, she was the most embarrassed of the two; she attempted once or twice to bring in some apology for her former appearance; complained of having been ill in [Page] the morning, that her head had ached, and her eyes been hot and uneasy. She came herself to call me to dinner. We dined alone, and I marked her closely; I saw, (by Heaven! I did) a fawning solicitude to please me, an attempt at the goodhumour of innocence, to cover the embarrassment of guilt. I should have observed it, I am sure I should, even without a key; as it was, I could read her soul to the bottom.JULIA DE ROUBIGN! the wife of Montauban!Is it not so? I have had time to think.You will recollect the circumstances of our marriageher long unwillingness, her almost unconquerable reluctance.Why did I marry her? Let me rememberI durst not trust the honest decision of my friend, but stole into this engagement without his knowledge; I purchased her consent, I bribed, I bought her; bought her, the leavings of another!I will trace this line of infamy no further There is madness in it! [Page] Segarva, I am afraid to hear from you; yet write to me, write to me freely. If you hold me justly punishedyet spare me when you think on the severity of my punishment. LETTER XL. MONTAUBAN TO SEGARVA. LONQUILLEZ has not slept on his post and chance has assisted his vigilance. Le Blanc came hither the morning after our conversation Lonquillez managed his enquiry with equal acuteness and caution The other told every thing as the story of an old manhe smiled and told it. He knew not that he was delivering the testimony of a witnessthat the fate of his former mistress hung on it! This Savillon lived at Belville from his earliest youth, the companion of JULIA, though a dependant on her father. When they were forced to remove thence, he accompanied their retreat, the only companion of Roubign, whom adversity had left him to comfort itbut he had his [Page] reward The company of the daughter often supplied the place of her father's. He was her master in literature, her fellowscholar in music and painting, and they frequently planned walks in concert which they afterwards trod together.Le Blanc has seen them there, listening to the song of the nightingale. I am to draw the conclusion.All this might be innocent, the effects of early intimacy and friendship; and on this supposition might rest the quiet of an indifferent husband. But why was this intimacy, this friendship, so industriously concealed from me? The name of Savillon never mentioned, except in guilty dreams; while his picture was kept in her chamber for the adultery of the imagination!Do I triumph while I push this evidence?Segarva whither will it lead me The truth rises upon me, and every succeeding circumstance points to one conclusion. Lisette was today of a junketing party, which Lonquillez contrived for the entertainment of his friend Le Blanc. Mention was again made of old stories, and Savillon was a person of the drama. The wench is naturally talkative, and she was then in spirits from company and good cheer. Le Blanc and she recollected interviews of their young [Page] mistress and this handsome elve of her father. They were, it seems, nursed by the same woman, that old Lasune, for whom JULIA procured a little dwelling, and a pension of four hundred livres, from her unsuspecting husband. "She loved them (said Le Blanc) like her own children, and they were like brother and sister to each other""Brother and sister, indeed!" (said Lisette.) She was more sagacious, and had observed things better."I know what I know, (said she) but to be sure, those things are all over now, and, I am persuaded, my mistress loves no man so well as her own husband. What signifies what happened so long ago, especially while Mons. de Montauban knows nothing about the matter?" These were her words Lonquillez repeated them thrice to me.were I a fool, a driveller, I might be satisfied to doubt and be uneasy; it is Montauban's to see his disgrace, and, seeing, to revenge it. Lonquillez has been with me His diligence is indefatigable; but he feels for the honour of his master, and, being a Spaniard, is entitled to share it. [Page] He went with Le Blanc to see Lasune, whom that old man, it seems, never fails to visit when he is here. Lonquillez told her, that Le Blanc had news for her about her fosterson. "Of my dear Savillion?" cried she. "Yes (said Le Blanc) You will have heard, that he arrived from abroad some weeks ago; and I am told, that he is worth a power of money, which his uncle left him in the WestIndies""Bless him! Heaven's bless him! (cried Lasune.) Then I may see him once more before I die. You never saw him, (turning to Lonquillez) but Le Blanc remembers him well The handsomest, sweetest, best conditionedyour mistress and he have often sat on that bench thereLord pity my forgetfulness!it was far from this place; but it was just such a benchand they would prefer poor Lazune's little treat to all the fine things at my master'sand how he would look on my sweet child! Well, well, destiny rules every thing; but there was a time, when I thought I should have called her by another name than Montauban,"Lonquillez was too much struck with her words to appear unaffected by them She observed his surprise."You think no harm, I hope," said she. He assured her he did not. "Nay, I need not care, for that part, who hears me, yet some folks might think it odd; but we are all friends [Page] here, as we may say, and neither of you, I know, are talebearers, otherwise I should not prattle as I do; especially as the last time I saw my lady, when I asked after her fosterbrother, she told me, I must not speak of him now, nor talk of the meetings they used to have at my house." Such were her words; the memory of Lonquillez is faithful, and he was interested to remember.I drew my breath short, and muttered vengeance The good fellow saw my warmth, and tried to moderate it. "It is a matter, Sir, (said he) of such importance, that, if I may presume to a vise, nothing should be believed rashly. If my mistress loves Savillon, if he still answers her fondness, they will surely write to each other. I commonly take charge of the letters for the post If you can find any proof that way, it cannot lie nor deceive you." I have agreed to his proposal.How am I fallen, Segarva, when such artifices are easy to me!But I will not pause on trivial objectionsthe fate of Montauban is set upon this cast, and the lesser moralities must speak unheeded. [Page] LETTER XLI. MONTAUBAN TO SEGARVA. IT is something to be satisfied of the worst. I have now such proof, Segarva!Enquiry is at an end, and vengeance the only business I have left. Before you can answer thisthe infamy of your friend cannot be erased, but it shall be washed in blood! Lonquillez has just brought me a letter from my wife to a Mademoiselle de Roncilles, a bosomfriend of hers at Paris. He opened it, by a very simple operation, without hurting its appearance. It consisted only of a few hurried lines, desiring her to deliver an enclosed letter to Savillon, and to take charge of his answer.That letter now lies before me.Read it Segarva,thou wilt wish to stab her while thou read'st itbut Montauban has a dagger too. I know not, Sir, how to answer the letter my friend Mademoiselle de Roncilles has just sent me from you. The intimacy of our former days I still recal, as one of the happiest periods of my life. The friendship of JULIA you are [Page] certainly still entitled to, and might claim, without the suspicion of impropriety, though fate has now thrown her into the arms of another. There would then be no occasion for this secret interview, which, I confess, I cannot help dreading; but, as you urge the impossibility of your visiting Mons. de Montauban, without betraying emotions, which, you say, would be dangerous to the peace of us all, conjured as I am by these motives of compassion, which my heart is, perhaps, but too susceptible of for my own peace, I have at last, not without a feeling like remorse, resolved to meet you on Monday next, at the house of our old nurse Lasune, whom I shall prepare for the purpose, and on whose fidelity I can perfectly rely. I hope you will give me credit for that remembrance of Savillon, which your letter, rather unjustly, denies me, when you find me agreeing to this measure of imprudence, of danger, it may be of guilt, to mitigate the distress, which I have been unfortunate enough to give him. I feel at this moment a sort of determined coolness, which the bending up of my mind to [Page] the revenge her crimes deserve, has confered upon me; I have therefore underlined some passages in this damned scroll, that my friend may see the weight of that proof on which I proceed. Mark the air of prudery that runs through it, the trick of voluptuous vice to give pleasure the zest of nicety and reluctance. "It may be of guilt."Mark with what coolness she invites him to participate it!Is this the hand writing of JULIA?I am awake and see it.JULIA! my wife! damnation! I have been visiting this Lasune, whose house is destined for the scene of my wife's interview with her gallant. I feel the meanness of an inquisition, that degrades me into the wretched spy on an abandoned woman.I blushed and hesitated while I talked to this old doating minister of their pleasures. But the moment comes when I shall resume myself, when I shall burst upon them in the terrors of punishment. Whether they have really imposed on the simplicity of this creature, I know not; but her answers [Page] to some distant questions of mine looked not like those of an accomplice of their guilt.Or, rather, it is I who am deceived; the cunning of intrigue is the property of the meanest among the sex.It matters not I have proof without her. She conducted me into an inner room fitted up with a degree of nicety. On one side stood a bed, with curtains and a bedcover of clean cotton. That bed, Segarva!but this heart shall down; I will be calmat the time while I looked on it, I could not; the old woman observed my emotion, and asked if I was ill; I recovered myself however, and she suspected nothing; I think she did notIt looked as if the Beldame had trimmed it for their usedamn her! damn her! killing is poorCanst thou not invent me some luxurious vengeance? Lonquillez has resealed and sent off the letter to Savillon; he will take care to bring me the answer But I know the answerOn Monday nextwhy should I start as I think on it?Their fate is fixed! mine perhapsbut I will think no more.Farewell. [Page] Rouill is just arrived here; I could have wished him absent now. He cannot participate my wrongs; they are sacred to more determined souls.Methinks, at this time, I hate his smiles; they suit not the purposes of Montauban. LETTER XLII. JULIA TO MARIA. I HOPE, from the conveyance which Lisette has procured for this letter, it may reach you nearly as soon, as that in which I inclosed one for Savillon. If it comes in time, let it prevent your delivering that letter. I have been considering of this interview again and I feel a sort of crime in it towards my husband, which I dare not venture on. I have trespassed too much against sincerity already, in concealing from him my former attachment to that unfortunate young man. So strongly indeed did this idea strike me, that I was prepared to tell it him this very day, when he returned from riding, and found me scarce recovered from the emotion which a reperusal of Savillon's letter had caused; but his look had a sternness in it, so opposite to those feelings which should have [Page] opened the bosom of your distracted JULIA, that I shrunk back into secrecy, terrified at the reflection on my own purpose.Why am I the wife of this man? but if confidence and tenderness are not mine to give, there is a duty which is not mine to refuse.Tell Savillon I cannot see him. Not in the way he askslet him come as the friend of JULIA DE ROUBIGNOh! MARIA! what a picture do these words recal! the friend of JULIA DE ROUBIGN!in those happy days when it was not guilt to see, to hear, to think of himwhen this poor heart was inconscious of its little wanderings, or felt them but as harmless dreams, which sweetened the real ills of a life too early visited by misfortune! When I look back on that life, how fateful has it been! Is it unjust in Providence, to make this so often the lot of hearts little able to struggle with misfortune? or is it indeed the possession of such hearts, that creates their misfortunes? Had I not felt as I have done, half the ills I complain of had been nothing, and at this moment I were happy. Yet to have wanted such a heart, illsuited as it is to the rude touch of sublunary thingsI think I cannot wish so much. There will come a time, MARIA, (might I forebode [Page] without your censure, I should say it may not be distant) when they shall wound it no longer! In truth, I am every way weak at present. My poor father adds much to my distresses He has appeared, for some time past, to be verging towards a state, which alone I should think worse than his death. His affection for me is the only sense now quite alive about him, nay it too partakes of imbecillity. He used to embrace me with ardour He now embraces me with tears. Judge then, if I am able to meet Savillon, at this time, if I could allow myself to meet him at all. Think what I am, and what he is. The coolness I ought to maintain had been difficult at best; at present, it is impossible. I can scarce think without weeping; and to see that form MARIA! when this picture was drawn!I remember the time wellmy father was at Paris, and Savillon left with my mother and me at Belville. The painter (who was accidentally in our province) came thither to give me a few lessons of drawing. Savillon was already a tolerable designer; but he joined with me in becoming scholar to this man. When our master was with us, he used sometimes to guide my hand; [Page] when he was gone, at our practice of his instructions, Savillon commonly supplied his place. But Savillon's hand was not like the other's I felt something from its touch, not the less delightful from carrying a sort of fear along with that delight It was like a pulse in the soul! Whither am I wandering? What now are those scenes to me, and why should I wish to remember them? Am I not another's, irrevocably another's?Savillon knows I am.Let him not wish to see me We cannot recal the past, and wherefore, wherefore should we add to the evils of the present? LETTER XLIII. MONTAUBAN TO SEGARVA. I HAVE missed some link of my intelligence; for the day is past, and no answer from Savillon is arrived. I thank him, whatever be the reason, for he has given me time to receive the instructions of my friend. You caution me well as to the certainty of her guilt. You know the proof I have already acquired; but I will have assurance beyond the possibility [Page] of doubt I will wait their very meeting, before I strike this blow, and my vengeance, like that of Heaven, shall be justified by a repetition of her crimes. I am less easily convinced, or rather I am less willing to be guided, by your opinion, as to the secrecy of her punishment. You tell me, that there is but one expiation of a wife's infidelity.I am resolved, she diesbut that the sacrifice should be secret. Were I even to upbraid her with her crime, you say, her tears, her protestations would outplead the conviction of sense itself, and I should become the dupe of that infamy I am bound to punish.Is there not something like guilt in this secrecy? Should Montauban shrink, like a coward, from the vindication of his honour?Should he not burst upon this strumpet and her loverthe picture is beastlythe sword of Montauban!Thou art in the right, it would disgrace it.Let me read your letter again. I am a fool to be so movedbut your letter has given me back myself. "The disgrace is only published by an open revenge It can be buried with the guilty by a secret one."I am yours, Segarva, and you shall guide me. [Page] Chance has been kind to me for the means. Once, in Andalusia, I met with a Venetian empiric, of whom, among other chymical curiosities, I bought a poisonous drug, the efficacy of which he shewed me on some animals to whom he administered it. The death it gave was easy, and altered not the appearance of the thing it killed. I have fetched it from my cabinet, and it stands before me. It is contained in a little square phial, marked with some hieroglyphic scrawls, which I do not understand. Methinks, while I look on itI could be weak, very weak Segarva,But an hour ago I saw her walk, and speak, and smileyet these few drops!I will look on it no more. I hear the tread of her feet in the apartment above. Did she know what passes in my mind!the study in which I sit seems the cave of a demon! Lonquillez has relieved me again. He has this moment got from her maid the following letter, addressed to her friend Mademoiselle de Roncilles. What a sex it is! but I have heard of their alliances of intrigue.It is not that these [Page] things are uncommon, but that Montauban is a foola husbandaperdition seize her! Is my friend too leagued against me? Alas! my virtue was too feeble before, and needed not the addition of MARIA'S arguments to be overcome. Savillon's figure, you say, aided by that languid paleness, which his late illness had given it, was irresistibleWhy is not JULIA sick?yet, wretched as she is, irretrievably wretched, she breathes, and walks, and speaks, as she did in her most happy days! You intreat me, for pity's sake, to meet him.He hinted his design of soon leaving France to return to Martinique.Why did he ever leave France? had he remained contented with love and JULIA, instead of this stolen, this guilty meetingWhat do I say?I live but for Montauban! I will think no longer.This one time I will silence the monitor within me.Tell him, I will meet him. On Thursday next, let him be at Lasune's in the evening It will be dark by six. [Page] I dare not read what I have written. Farewell. "It will be dark by six"!Yet I will keep my word, Segarva! they shall meet, that certainty may precede my vengeance; but, when they part, they part to meet no more. Lonquillez's fidelity I know His soul is not that of a servant He shall provide for Savillon. JULIA is a victim above himJULIA shall be the charge of his master. Farewell! When I write again, it shall not be to threaten. [Page] LETTER XLIV. SAVILLON TO HERBERT. AFTER an interval of torture, I have at last received an answer from Madame de MontaubanHave I lived to write that name!but it is fit that I be calm. Her friend has communicated her resolution of allowing me to see her in the house of that good Lasune, whom I have mentioned to you in some of our conversations, as the common nurse of both. Were it not madness to look back, and that, at present, I need the full possession of myself, the idea of Lasune's house would recal such thingsbut they are past, never, never to return! I have recovered and can go on calmly. I set out tomorrow morning; Thursday next is the day she has appointed for our interview. I have but to dispatch this one great business, and then depart from my native country for ever. Every tie that bound me to this world is now broken, except that which accident gave me in your [Page] friendship Before I cross the Atlantic, I would once more see my Herbert When I have indulged myself in that last throb of affection, which our friendship demands at parting, there remains nothing for me to do, but to shrink up from all the feelings of life, and look forward, without emotion, to its close! I feel, at this moment, as if I were on my deathbed, the necessity of a manly composure; that stifled sigh was the last sacrifice of my weakness! I am now thinking what I have to do with the hours that remain Meet me like a man and help me to employ them as I ought. Nothing shall drag me back to Europe, and therefore I would shake off every occasion to revisit it. Though the externals of place and distance are not of much importance to me, yet there is something in large towns that I wish to avoid. As you mention a design of being in Dorsetshire sometime soon, may I ask you to make next week that time, and meet me at the town of Poole in that county? Inconsiderable and unknown as I am, there are circumstances that might mark me out in Picardy; and therefore I shall go by Dieppe to that port of England, where I know I shall, at this season, find an opportunity of getting over the Atlantic. [Page] I inclose a letter to a merchant in London, relating to some business in which my uncle was concerned with the house, of which he is a partner. Be so kind as to forward it and let him know, that I desire the answer may be committed to your care. As I see, by his correspondence, that he is not altogether a man of business, he may perhaps be desirous of meeting with you, to ask some questions about the nephew of his old acquaintance. He will wonder, as others will, at so rich a man returning to Martinique. If a reason is necessary, invent some one; it is peculiar to misery like mine to be incapable of being told.I shall relapse, if I continue to write.You will, if it is possible, meet me at Poole; if not, write to me thither, where I shall find you. Let your letter wait me at the posthouse. Farewell. [Page] LETTER XLV. JULIA TO MARIA. THE hour is almost arrived! My husband has just left me He came into my room in his ridingdress."I shall not be at home (said he) till supper time, and Rouille's shooting party will detain him till it is late." The consciousness of my purpose pressed on my tongue, while I answered him I faltered and could hardly speak. "You speak faintly (said Montauban) You are not ill, I hope," taking my hand. I told him, truly, that my head ached a good deal, that it had ached all day, that I meant to try if a walk would do it service. "Perhaps it may," answered he, and methought he looked steadily, and with a sort of question, at me; or rather my own mind interpreted his look in that manner.I believe I blushed. How I tremble as I look on my watch! Would I could recal my promise! I am somewhat bolder now; but it is not from having conquered my fear; something like despair [Page] assists me.It wants but a few minutesthe hand that points them seems to speak as I watch itI come, Savillon, I come! How shall I describe our meeting? I am unfit for describingit cannot be describedI shall be calmer by and by. I know not how I got to the house. From the moment I quitted my chamber, I was unconscious of every thing around me. The first object that struck my eye was Savillon! I recollect my nurse placing me in a chair opposite to where he satshe left usI felt the room turning round with meI had fainted, it seems. When I recovered, I found her supporting me in her arms, and holding a phial of salts to my nose. Savillon had my hands in his, gazing on me with a countenance of distress and terror.My eye met his, and, for some moments, I looked on him, as I have done in my dreams, unmindful of our situation.The pressure of his hand awakened me to recollection. He looked on me more earnestly still, and breathed out the word JULIA!It was all he could utter; but it spoke such things, MARIA!You cannot understand its force. Had you felt it as I did!I could not, indeed, I could not help bursting into tears. [Page] "My dearest children," cried the good Lasune, taking our hands which were still folded together, and squeezing them in hers. The action had something of that tender simplicity in it, which is not to be resisted. I wept afresh; but my tears were less painful than before. She fetched a bottle of wine from a cupboard, and forced me to take a glass of it. She offered another to Savillon. He put it by, with a gentle inclination of his head. "You shall drink it, indeed, my dear boy, (said she) it is a long time since you tasted any thing in this house."He gave a deep sigh and drank it. She had given us time to recover the power of speech; but I knew less how to begin speaking than before. My eyes now found something in Savillon's, which they were ashamed to meet.Lasune left us; I almost wished her to stay. Savillon sat down in his former place He threw his eyes on the ground"I know not, (said he, in a faltering voice) how to thank you for the condescension of this interviewour former friendship"I trembled for what he seemed about to say.I have not forgotten it," said I, half interrupting him.I saw him start from his former posture, as if awaked by the sound of of my voice.""I ask not (continued he) to [Page] be remembered I am unworthy of your remembrance.In a short time, I shall be a voluntary exile from France, and breathe out the remains of life amidst a race of strangers, who cannot call forth those affections, that would henceforth be shut to the world!"Speak not thus, (I cried) for pity's sake, speak not thus! Live and be happy, happy as your virtues deserve, as JULIA wishes you!""JULIA wish me happy!""Oh! Savillon, you know not the heart that you wring thus!If it has wronged you, you are revenged enough.""Revenged! revenged on JULIA! Heaven is my witness, I intreated this meeting, that my parting words might bless her!"He fell on his knees before me"May that Power (he cried) who formed this excellence, reward it! May every blessing this life can bestow, be the portion of JULIA! May she be happy, long after the tongue that asks it, is silent for ever, and the heart that now throbs with the wish, has ceased its throbbing!"Had you seen him, MARIA, as he uttered this!What should I have done?Weeping, trembling, unconscious, as it were, of myself, I spoke I know not whattold him the weakness of my soul, and lamented the destiny that had made me another's. This was too much. When I could recollect myself, I felt that it was too much. I would have [Page] retracted what I had said I spoke of the duty I owed to Montauban, of the esteem which his virtues deserved."I have heard of his worth (said Savillon) I needed no proof to be convinced of it; he is the husband of JULIA."There was something in the tone of these last words, that undid my resolution again.I told him of the false intelligence I had received of his marriage, without which no argument of prudence, no paternal influence, could have made me the wife of another.He put his hand to his heart, and threw his eyes wildly to Heaven.I shrunk back at that look of despair, which his countenance assumed.He took two or three hurried turns through the room; then, resuming his seat, and lowering his voice, "It is enough (said he) I am fated to be miserable! but the contagion of my destiny shall spread no farther.This night I leave France forever!""This night!" I exclaimed. "It must be so (said he, with a determined calmness) but before I go, let me deposit in your hands this paper. It is a memorial of that Savillon, who was the friend of JULIA!"I opened it It was a will, bequeathing his fortune to me. "This must not be (said I), this must not be. Think not, I conjure you, so despairingly of life; live to enjoy that fortune, which is so seldom the reward of merit like thine. I have no title to its disposal." "You [Page] have the best one (returned Savillon, still preserving his composure) I never valued wealth, but as it might render me in the language of the world, more worthy of thee. To make it thine, was the purpose of my wishing to acquire it; to make it thine, is still in my power." "I cannot receive this, indeed I cannot. Think of the situation in which I stand." I pressed the paper upon him He took it at last, and pausing, as if he thought, for a moment"You are right, there may be an impropriety in your keeping it.Alas! I have scarce a friend, to whom I can intrust any thing; yet I may find one, who will see it faithfully executed." He was interrupted by Lasune, who entered somewhat hurriedly, and told me, Lisette was come to fetch me, and that she had met my husband in her way to the house. "We must part then (said he) for ever!let not a thought of the unfortunate Savillon disturb the happiness which Heaven allots to JULIA; she shall hear of him but once againwhen that period arrives, it will not offend the happy Montauban, if she drops a tear to the memory of one, whose love was expiated by his sufferings!"MARIA! was it a breach of virtue, if then I threw myself on his neck, if then I wept on his bosom? His look, his last look! I see it still! never shall I forget it! [Page] Merciful GOD! at whose altar I vowed fidelity to another! impute not to me as a crime the remembrance of Savillon;thou canst see the purity of that heart, which bleeds at the remembrance! Eleven at night. You know my presentiments of evil; never did I feel them so strong as at present. I tremble to go to bedthe taper that burns by me is dim, and methinks my bed looks like a grave! I was weak enough to call back Lisette. I pretended some little business for her; the poor girl observed that I looked ill, and asked if she should sit by me I had almost said Yes, but had courage enough to combat my fears in that instance. She bid me Goodnightthere was somewhat solemn in her utterance of that Goodnight; I fancy mine was not without its particular emphasis, for she looked back wistfully as I spoke. I will say my prayers and forget it; pray for me too, my friend.I have need of your prayers, indeed I haveGoodnight to my dearest MARIA! [Page] If I have recollection enoughOh! my MARIA!I will be calmit was but a dreamwill you blush for my weakness? yet hear meIf this should be the last time I shall ever writethe memory of my friend mingles with the thought!yet methinks I could, at this time, beyond any other, die contented. My fears had given way to sleep; but their impression was on my fancy still. Methought I sat in our family monument at Belville, with a single glimmering lamp, that shewed the horrors of the place, when, on a sudden, a light like that of the morning, burst on the gloomy vault, and the venerable figures of my fathers, such as I had seen them in the pictures of our hall, stood smiling benignity upon me! The attitude of the foremost was that of attention, his finger resting upon his lip.I listenedwhen sounds of more than terrestrial melody stole on my ear, borne, as it were on the distant wind, till they swelled at last to music so exquisite, that my ravished sense was stretched too far for delusion, and I awoke in the midst of the intrancement! I rose, with the memory of the sounds full upon my mind; the candle I had ordered to stand by me was still unextinguished. I sat down to the [Page] organ, and, with that small soft stop you used to call seraphic, endeavoured to imitate their beauty. And never before did your JULIA play an air so heavenly, or feel such extasy in the power of sound! When I had catched the solemn chord that last arose in my dream, my fingers dwelt involuntarily on the keys, and methought I saw the guardian spirits around me, listening with a rapture like mine! But it will not lastthe blissful delusion is gone, and I am left a weak, an unhappy woman still! I am sick at heart, MARIA, and a faintness like that of death The fit is over, and I am able to write again; and I will write while I am able. Methinks, my friend, I am taking farewell of you, and I would lengthen out the lingering words as much as I can. I am just now recalling the scenes of peaceful happiness we have enjoyed together.I imagine I feel the arm of my MARIA thrown round my neckher tears fall on my bosom!Think of me when I am goneThis faintness again.


Farewell! farewell! perhaps [Page] LETTER XLVI. MONTAUBAN TO SEGARVA. IT is done, Segarva, it is done!the poor unthinkingSupport me, my friend, support me with the thoughts of that vengeance I owe to my honourthe guilty JULIA has but a few hours to live. I did but listen a moment at the door; I thought I heard her maid upon the stairsit is not yet the time.Hark!it was not my wife's bellthe clock struck elevennever shall she hear it strike that hour again! Pardon me, my Segarva; methinks I speak to you, when I scrawl upon this paper. I wish for somebody to speak to; to answer, to comfort, to guide me. Had you seen her, when these trembling hands delivered her the bowl!She had complained of being ill, and begged to lie alone; but her [Page] illness seemed of the mind, and when she spoke to me, she betrayed the embarrassment of guilt. I gave her the drug as a cordial. She took it from me, smiling, and her look seemed to lose its confusion. She drank my health! She was dressed in a white silk bedgown, ornamented with pale pink ribbands. Her cheek was gently flushed from their reflection; her blue eyes were turned upwards as she drank and a dark brown ringlet lay on her shoulder.Methinks I see her nowhow like an angel she looked! Had she been innocent, Segarva!You know, you know, it is impossible she can be innocent. Let me recollect myselfa man, a soldier, the friend of Segarva! At the word innocent I stopped; I could scarce hold my pen; I rose from my seat, I know not why. Methought some one passed behind me in the room. I snatched up my sword in one hand and a candle in the other.It was my own figure in a mirror that stood at my back.What a look was mine!am I a murderer?Justice cannot murder, and the vengeance of Montauban is just. [Page] Lonquillez has been with me.I durst not question him when he entered the apartmentbut the deed is not done he could not find Savillon. After watching for several hours, he met a peasant, whom he had seen attending him the day before, who informed him, that the strange gentleman had set off, some time after it grew dark, in a postchaise, which drove away at full speed. Is my revenge then incomplete?or is one victim sufficient to the injured honour of a husband?What a victim is that one! I went down stairs to let Lonquillez out by a private passage, of which I keep the key. When I was returning to my apartment, I heard the sound of music proceeding from my wife's chamber; there is a double door on it; I opened the outer one without any noise, and the inner has some panes of glass atop, through which I saw a part of the room. Segarva! she sat at the organ, her fingers pressing on the keys, and her look upraised with enthusiastic rapture!the solemn sounds still ring in my ear! such as angels might play, when the sainted soul ascends to Heaven! I am the fool of appearances, when I have such proofsLisette is at my door. [Page] It is now that I feel myself a coward; the horrid draught has begun to operate!She thinks herself in danger; a physician is sent for, but he lives at a distance; before he arrivesOh! Segarva! She begged I would quit the chamber; she saw my confusion, and thought it proceeded from distress at her illness.Can guilt be thus mistress of herself?let me not think that waymy brain is too weak for it!Lisette again. She is guilty, and I am not a murderer! I go to [Page] LETTER XLVII. MONSIEUR DE ROUILL TO MADEMOISELLE DE RONCILLES. MADAM, THE writer of this letter has no title to address you, except that which common friendship and common calamity may give him. Amidst the fatal scenes, which he has lately witnessed, his recollection was lost; when it returned, it spoke of Mademoiselle de Roncilles, the first, he believes, and dearest friend of the most amiable, but most unfortunate Madame de Montauban The office he now undertakes is terrible; but it is necessary.You must soon be told, that your excellent friend is no more! Hear it then from one, who knew her excellence, as you did; who tells the horrid circumstances of her death with a bleeding heart.Yes, Madam, I must prepare you for horrors; and while the remembrance tears my own bosom, assume the calmness that is necessary for yours. On the evening of Thursday last, I was told Madam de Montauban was a good deal indisposed and had gone to bed before her usual time. [Page] At a very short and silent supper, I perceived her husband uncommonly agitated, and, as soon as decency would allow me, withdrew and left him. Betwixt eleven and twelve o'clock. (I had not gone to bed) one of the maidservants came to my room, begging I would instantly attend her to the chamber of her mistress, who was so extremely ill, that without immediate assistance, they feared the very worst consequences. I had formerly studied a little physic, and been in use to practice it in some particular campaigns, when abler assistance could not be had. I ran down stairs with the servant, desiring my own man to seek out a little case of lancets and follow us. The girl informed her mistress of my being at the door of her apartment. She desired I might come in, and with that smile, which sickness could not quench, stretched out her hand to me. I found her pulse low and weak, and she complained of a strange fluttering at her heart, which hardly allowed her to speak. I was afraid to venture on bleeding, and only gave her a little of some common restoratives that were at hand. She found herself somewhat relieved, and sat up in her bed supported by her maid. Montauban entered the room His countenance surprised me It was not that of distress alone, it was marked with turbulence and horror. It seemed to hurt his wife. At that moment she [Page] was scarce able to speak; but she forced out a few broken words, begging him to leave the room, for that her illness affected him too much. He withdrew in silence. In a little time she seemed a good deal easier; but her pulse was still lower than before. She ordered her maid to call Mons. de Montauban again "I dare not trust to future moments (said she) and I have something important to reveal to him."I offered to leave the room as he entered."His friend may hear it"she said, in a faltering voice. She fixed her eye languidly, but steadily on Montauban. He advanced towards her with an eager gaze, without uttering a word. When she would have spoken, her voice failed her again, and she beckoned, but with a modesty in her action, signifying her desire that he should sit down by her. She took his hand; he seemed unconscious of her taking it, and continued to bend a look of earnestness upon her. When she had recovered the power of utterance, "I feel, Sir, (said she) something in this illness predictive of the worst; at any rate, I would prepare for it. If I am now to die, I hope (lifting up her eyes with a certain meek assurance which it is impossible to paint) I die in peace with Heaven! there is one account which I wish to settle with you. These moments of ease, which I enjoy, [Page] are allowed me to confess my offence, and intreat your forgiveness." "Thou wert guilty then?"exclaimed her husband, starting from his seat. She paused in astonishment at the impassioned gesture he assumed"Speak!" cried Montauban, recovering himself a little, his voice suffocated with the word. "When you have heard me (said JULIA), you will find I am less guilty than unfortunate; yet I am not innocent, for then I should not have been the wife of Montauban." "When I became yours, my heart owned you not for the lord of its affections; there was an attachmentyet look not so sternly on me.He, in whose favour that prepossession was formed, would not have wronged you if he could. His virtues were the objects of my affection; and had Savillon been the thing you fear, JULIA had been guiltless even of loving him in secret. Till yesterday he never told me his love; till yesterday he knew not I had ever loved him." "But yesterday," cried Montauban, seeming to check the agitation he had shewn before, and lowering his voice into a tone of calm severity. [Page] "For the offence of yesterday, (said she) I would obtain your pardon, and die in peace. I met Savillon in secret; I saw the anguish of his soul, and pitied it.Was it a crime thus to meet him? Was it a crime to confess my love, while I received the last farewell of the unfortunate Savillon? This is my offenceperhaps the last that JULIA can commit, or you forgive!" He clasped his hands convulsively together, and throwing up to Heaven a look of despair, fell senseless into my arms. JULIA would have sprung to his assistance, but her strength was unequal to the effort Her maid screamed for help, and several of the servants rushed into the room. We recovered the hapless Montauban; he looked round wildly for a moment, then fastening his eye on JULIA"I have murdered thee, he cried; that draught I gave theethat draught was death!" He would have pressed her to his bosom; she sunk from his embraceher closing eye looked piteous upon himher hand was half stretched to hisand a single sigh breathed out her soul to Heaven! "She shall not die," he cried, eagerly catching hold of her hand, and bending over her lifeless body with a glare of inconceivable horror in his aspect. I laid hold of his arm, endeavouring [Page] to draw his attention towards me; but he seemed not to regard me, and continued that frightful gaze on the remains of his much injured wife. I made a sign for the servants to assist me, and taking his hand began to use a gentle sort of violence to lead him away. He started back a few paces, without, however, altering the direction of his eye. "You may torture me (cried he, wildly), I can bear it allHa! Segarva there!let them prove the handwriting if they canmark it, I say, there is no blood in her facelet me ask one question of the doctoryou know the effects of poisonher lips are whitebid Savillon kiss them nowthey shall speak no more, JULIA shall speak no more!" Word was now brought me, that the physician, who had been sent for to the assistance of JULIA, was arrived. He had come, alas! too late for her; but I meant to use his skill on behalf of Montauban. I repeated my endeavours, to get him away from the dreadful object before him; and at last, though he seemed not to heed the intreaties I made use of, he allowed himself to be conducted to his own apartment, where the doctor was in waiting. There were marks of confusion in this man's countenance which I wished to dissipate. I made use of some expressive looks to signify that he should appear more easy; and, assuming that manner [Page] myself, begged Montauban to allow him to feel his pulse."You come to see my wife, (said he, turning towards him)tread softlyshe will do well enough when she wakes. There!(stretching out his arm)your hand trembles sadly; I will count the beatings myselfhere is something amiss; but I am not mad.Your name is Arpentier, mine is MontaubanI am not mad."The physician desired him to get undressed, and go to bed. I mean to do so, for I have not slept these two nightsbut it is better not. Give me some potion against bad dreamsthat's well thought on, that's well thought on." His servant had begun to undress him. He went for a few minutes into his closet; he returned with his nightgown on, and his look appeared more thoughtful and less wild than formerly. He made a slight bow to the physician "I shall see you when I rise, Sir.Rouill, is it not? (addressing himself to me, and squeezing my hand)I am not fit for talking just now, I know I am not.Goodnight!" I left him, whispering his servant to stay in the room, unperceived, if he could; but, at any rate, not to leave his master alone. I know not how I was so long able to command [Page] reflection. The moment I left Montauban, the horror of the scene I had witnessed rushed upon my mind, and I remember nothing of what passed, till I found myself kneeling before the breathless remains of the illfated JULIA. The doctor was standing by me with a letter in his hand It was written by Montauban, and had been found open on the table of his study. Arpentier gave it me, saying, it contained things which should be communicated only to the friends of the Count. From it I discovered the dreadful certainty of what I had before gathered from the distracted words of Montauban. He had supposed his wife faithless, his bed dishonoured, and had revenged the imagined injury by poison.My GOD! I can scarce, at this moment, believe that I have waked and seen this! But his servant now came running into the room, calling for us to hasten into his master's chamber, for that he feared he was dead. We rushed into the room togetherit was too true Montauban was no more! The doctor tried, he confessed, without hope, several expedients to revive him; but they failed of success. I hung over the bed, entranced in the recollection of the fateful events I had seen. Arpentier, from the habit of looking on the forms of death, was more master of himself; after examining the body, and [Page] pondering a little on the behaviour of the count, he went into the closet, where he found, on a small table, a phial uncorked, which he brought to me. It explained the fate of Montauban; a label fastened to it, was inscribed LAUDANUM; its deadly contents he had swallowed in his delirium, before he went to bed. Such was the conclusion of a life distinguished by the exercise of every manly virtue, and, except in this instance, unstained with a crime. While I mourn the fate of his most amiable wife, I recal the memory of my once dearlyvalued friend, and would shelter it with some apology if I could. Let that honour which he worshipped plead in his defence.That honour we have worshipped together, and I would not weaken its sacred voice; but I look on the body of MontaubanI weep over the pale corpse of JULIA!I shudder at the sacrifices of mistaken honour, and lift up my hands to pity and to justice. THE END Notes  It is proper to apologize to the reader for introducing a letter so purely episodical. I might tell him, that it is not altogether unnecessary, as it introduces to his acquaintance a person, whose correspondent Savillon becomes at a future period; but I must once more resort to an egotism for the true reason The picture it exhibited pleased myself, and I could not resist the desire of communicating it.   There are no letters in this collection, of a later date, from Savillon to Beauvaris. The person who at first arranged them, seems to intend to account for this, by the following note on the outside of the preceding one, written in a hand of which I see little jottings on several of the letters. "Beauvaris died 5th April, a few days after the receipt of this."   The passages here alluded to are printed in Italics.