"WELL, monsieur Dorsain, I have brought you your god-daughter; and a main fine lass she's grown since last you saw her. Heaven help us! We a' had a deal o' crying on the road—but fair weather's come at last, you see"—Such were the words of Antoine, as he stopped his little garden-cart at the door of a small cottage on the confines of the marquis de Valmont's estate in Languedoc.—"And how does our old dame hold it?" continued he with the same good-humoured loquacity. "And your neigh­bour [Page 6] Justine; is she as round, and as merry as ever? There's such racketting work at the castle, that a body can never find time to come among you—I remember when we used to foot it every evening under yon elms."

Dorsain shook his grey locks—"That's as much as to say our dancing days are past!" added Antoine, observing it. "More's the pity—However, we must leave it to the young ones to supply our places. Come, don't cry, my little maid! Hast buried thy father and mother, to be sure; but God Almighty's a father to all!—Be a good girl! pray to him every morning and night, and I warrant he'll not forget thee." Honest Antoine accompanied this rustic summary of religion and morality with a hearty salute; shook Dorsain by the hand; and, once more mounting his vehicle, took the path that led him to the great road of the castle.

Let us now turn to his fellow traveller, whom we have seen consigned with so little ceremony to the care of Dorsain.

It was a female of about six years of age, lovely enough to have passed for one of those cherubs whom the wishes of mortals have figured as me­diating [Page 7] spirits between themselves and heaven. Its little rosy and pouting lip seemed designed by nature to call forth a thousand dimples; its bright eyes, blooming cheeks, and forehead of a dazzling whiteness, realized the fancied model of the poet, or the painter; while the soft expression of suspended sorrow, and infantine curiosity, which had taken possession of its features, gave them the peculiar charm of interest.

Dorsain, who had thus undertaken a charge which his age and misfortunes might well have rendered burdensome, was no common character. Singular occurrences in life had elevated, and occurrences still more singular depressed it; but they had not deprived him of a just, though un­cultivated understanding, a clear and decided judgment, and that sort of dignity, which, as it is the result of merit and virtue, may be found in the humblest situation. The small cottage he inhabited with his wife, an infirm though re­spectable old woman, made, as we have already said, a part of the extensive domains of the mar­quis de Valmont. The marquis was a man—whom it is by no means proper to describe in the same paragraph with monsieur Dorsain: with the deference due, therefore, to' his character, we begin another.

[Page 8] The marquis de Valmont, it has been said, was a man; let us respect his feelings, and say he was a nobleman: one, who, having somewhat unexpectedly succeeded to the family title, had profited by the privileges it bestowed, to plunge unrestrained into folly and vice. A constant re­sidence at Paris, deep play, expensive mistresses, and an equipage almost princely, had in a very few years considerably impaired a noble fortune. It was necessary to retrench: but little minds do not correct faults—they only change their com­plexion; and the marquis grew proud and op­pressive, in proportion as he ceased to be profuse.

At the time that Constantia, for so our little orphan was called, first inhabited the cottage of Dorsain, monsieur de Valmont was not forty; unprincipled rather than dissolute; still admired in the metropolis; little known on an estate which he was just then quitting, after having visited it for the only time within the course of some years; and blessed in his domestic society with the amiable additions of a conceited wife and a spoiled son.

"This place is detestable," said madame de Valmont one day to her husband—"My son has no tutors here, you have no friends, and I have [Page 9] no health; for Heaven's sake let us return to Pa­ris!" And to Paris they went.

What did the marquis and his son find there? Why, any thing but tutors or friends: the mar­chioness was the only one of the three that was successful; not that she found health, for, to say the truth, she did not at that time want it; but she certainly found a cure for all complaints, both real aud imaginary, by being deposited within less than five years under a very magnifi­cent monument in the church of St. Genevieve. The marquis put on his sables in the most be­coming taste—for he was still handsome. The young chevalier also made his arrangements: for he had profited enough by his mother's instruc­tions, and the society in which he lived, to think of commencing petit-maitre at least. Four years more threw some new traits in his character, and finished his education: at the expiration of which, both father and son, from some political reasons, prevailed on themselves, with half a dozen friends, to revisit the long-forgotten castle of Valmont.

And what is become of Constance?—Nine years are past—nine long years in about as many lines. This is going full speed indeed! Patience, courteous reader! The ensuing years will per­haps [Page 10] creep a snail's pace. Nature had not for­gotten Constance, nor have we. Tall beyond her age, pure and lovely as the flowers it was her business to tend—light of heart and graceful of form, Constance saw her fifteenth year without having once ceased to be the playful unconscious character she had first been set down at the cot­tage of Dorsain. She had made rapid strides too in her education; she wrote tolerably—read at least as well as monsieur le Curé—understood the whole management of a garden—danced like a fairy—could rear young birds, and spin à mer­veille. Let us not dissemble her foibles; she loved the flowers and the birds better than the spinning­wheel, and Dorsain, who indulged her with the two first, much better than his wise, who would willingly have confined her to the last.

"What a shame yon pretty cot should be suf­fered to go to ruin!" exclaimed Constance as she was one day walking with Dorsain—"Ah, fa­ther!" for so she always called him, "if you and I had the management of it, we would bind up those honey-suckles that now hang so neglected. Look, how the jeffamine has even forced its way through that broken shutter! The inside of the casement, I dare say, is covered with flowers. Well, great folks are much to be pitied!"

[Page 11] "Why?" said Dorsain with an absent air, and fixing his eyes on the cottage with a profound sigh.

"Because they so seldom know how to enjoy the charming places they possess. There is Mon­seigneur, for example—"

"Let us not talk of him," interrupted Dorsain warmly. A servant in the marquis's livery at that moment crossed the path.

"Good day, monsieur Dorsain!"—"Good day, mademoiselle! We are like to have a busy time of it—My lord is coming down with a power of gentry to stay six whole weeks at the castle. The avant-courier is just arrived; and our old concierge in no small bustle with the preparations.—Dor­sain fixed his eyes upon Constance, who, busy with the wilderness of sweets her imagination was reducing to order, attended but little to what was said either of my lord, or his guests. The cottage indeed she had seen before—but she happened now for the first time to view it under the full blaze of a summer's sun; a summer, too, so unusu­ally luxuriant as to have made the whole country round a garden. That which adjoined to the building in question, had once been extensive and [Page 12] beautiful; the clustered trees, shot up into strength and wildness, had gained in foliage what they had lost in regular grace, and presented a welcome retreat from the sun; while the shrubs and flowers blew under them with a profusion so excessive as seemed to mock the hand of culture. "One might be so happy in that cottage!" sighed the little protegée of Dorsain softly to herself as she went home—and this was the first time that imagination had ever presented to her those sha­dowy forms of uncreated pleasure, of which not even that can trace the outline.

Her days, however, passed not now so plea­santly as before; the vicinity of the marquis in­duced her venerable protectors to confine her al­most constantly to the house. She had indeed never been accustomed to mingle with the peasantry of the neighbourhood; who, from jealousy, or some other unaccountable motive, kept at a distance from the cottage of Dorsain; but still she had been permitted sometimes to walk in the next village, under his care, and sometimes to dance there upon the green. But the character of the marquis was bad enough; that of the chevalier, they were told, was still worse—for he was less a hypocrite; and both were, by the avowal of all who visited the cottage of Dorsain, bold, dis­solute [Page 13] and haughty. Beings like these were to be dreaded, and therefore to be shunned. Alas! there was still another danger: nor did it escape the attention of madame Dorsain, that the com­panions of the chevalier might be some of them more engaging than himself.

Constance, however, foresaw nothing of all this; she was heedless and lively. Well, well, "reflection will come with time!" So say the philosophers of all ages—and so said the tenants of monsieur de Valmont. Time came; but he certainly forgot the predictions of the philosophers, or took a malicious pleasure in falsifying them; for he neglected to bring reflection in his hand; and to this neglect only is to be imputed the error of Constance, who, weary of perpetual confine­ment, made it a practice to rise with the sun, and enjoy his earliest beams in the garden of that very cottage we have seen her admire. This spot, independent of its general claims, inspired a par­ticular interest. It contained—not a lover, but a bird's-nest. Wandering there one morning, she had nearly crushed with her foot, a young and unfledged linnet, that some accident had dis­lodged. Anxiously had she sought the brood, and most carefully had she replaced the little stray. It is so natural to love what we have served! [Page 14] Constance visited her nursery every day with new delight. The parent bird from home, she would venture to caress her protegée, place it in her bo­som, and seem willing to communicate to it the tender warmth of her heart.

The sun shone brightly, and the morning dew sparkled to his beams: such was the employment, and such the feelings of Constance, as she bent towards her favourite a cheek glowing with beau­ty, and half concealed by the ringlets which her attitude threw over it, when a slight noise in the bushes adjoining induced her to look up: it was caused by a young man of no ungraceful appear­ance, who, with a gun in his hand, stood on a bank that commanded the garden, and was ear­nestly gazing at her: the fine tinge of youth in­stantly brightened into a blush that gave her new charms. The stranger saw he was observed, and pulling off his hat, addressed to her some common salutations; to which she was about to reply, when the report of a gun caused her to start, and retreat some paces back. The young man, who mistook the cause of her flight, which was in fact much less fear of the gun, than that of being further seen either by him, or some of the mar­quis's guests, lightly sprung over the fence by which they were separated, and endeavoured to [Page 15] re-assure her. One versed in the world would perhaps have found somewhat in the tone with which this was done, that might have alarmed suspicion, and offended pride: but to both of these Constance was as much a stranger, as to deceit; and she answered his attentions, there­fore, by an ingenuous avowal of the real source of her terror.

"And what is there in the marquis, or his guests, that should make you fear their approach?" said the stranger with a smile.

"Their haughtiness—their arrogance!—Oh, if you were but to hear half the stories that are told of them in our cottage!"—

The stranger smiled again. Scandal, he found, was not confined to great towns; it reigned pow­erfully enough at Valmont, to attribute to all its inhabitants the vices of their lord.

"Is that then your cottage?" returned he with some impatience. Constance now smiled in her turn: how could she possibly avoid it? The young man had to all appearance the finest and most intelligent eyes in the world; yet it was plain he made no use of them, when he could [Page 16] suppose she lived under a roof that looked the image of beautiful desolation. Somewhat of this was perhaps, unconsciously, conveyed in her answer: and the reply?—Why, what it was ex­actly we cannot tell; but it is highly probable that Constance could; for her ear had suddenly ac­quired a retentive power that she had never ob­served in it before—till recollecting she had often learnt a favourite tune merely by once or twice hearing it: "It is with voices as with musical airs," thought Constance suddenly, "we uninten­tionally catch some, and forget others.—Painting is doubtless a gift of the same nature:—why may I not have a taste for that too, since I have often been told that I have one for music? If I may judge from my feelings, I am sure I have both. Ah, how much may we profit by a little reflection!—Madame Dorsain has told me so a thousand times. Well! I will improve: from this moment I will reflect on every object I see!" And so saying she fell into a deep rêverie upon the only object that she saw no longer. Without being inspired, however, by those feelings, which had thus suddenly taught Constance that she was both a painter and musician, we will endeavour to give a sketch with probably more likeness in it than her newly-acquired talent could afford.

[Page 17] Sparkling eyes, an animated and intelligent countenance, a form that appeared more naturally graceful, than artificially polished; an address, familiar without impertinence, and prepossessing without study;—such were the external advan­tages with which Constantia's new acquaintance was endowed. But, alas! though nature was so liberal, fortune seemed to have forgotten him: for while the chevalier de Valmont enjoyed, as it should seem, without deserving them, every gift of the latter; the former had taken pleasure in scattering her favours upon one, who, by his own confession, boasted no higher rank than being of the household. This discovery, how­ever, that pride rendered painful to him who made it, conveyed no wound to the bosom of Constance, happily ignorant of those refinements which teach us to annex consequence to situation, and to blush at paying to nature the dues she alone has a right to demand. Valrive, nevertheless, whose ideas had been formed in a far different school, made not this avowal without a degree of anxiety, which slowly subsided when he perceived that this crea­ture, so naturally polished, so intelligently beau­tiful, was yet so little conscious of her pretensions as to regard the attendant of M. de Valmont with no inconsiderable degree of respect.

[Page 18] We left Constance in a reverie. We might write a good many pages, and find her there still, I am afraid, had she not unexpectedly found her­self at home: but spiritless, tired, and for the first time ungrateful to honest Antoine, who had walked from the chateau with a basket of fruit, and flowers, and was communicating the news of the family.

"Come hither, child," said madame Dorsain as she advanced: "See what a nosegay our good neighbour has brought us! Here is an employ­ment for you that you like!" Constantia, without replying, set herself to dress the flower-jars; and never before were they so ill dressed: yet, amid the profusion of sweets she heedlessly scattered, her own fair and blooming form might well have been mistaken for that of Flora herself.

Antoine, who, though old, had not lost the use of his eyes, and who was besides somewhat elevated with the hospitable glass that had just been pressed upon him, soon grew most eloquent in her praise.

"Your pretty god-daughter, neighbour Dor­sain," said he, "grows too tall and womanly to stay here. Not but you have had enough of mar­quisses [Page 19] and great folks, I trow, to keep her out of their way; and, between you and I, our gen­try don't care much, I believe, to come in yours: but, Heaven help us! the very servants now-a-days are enough to turn one's head—There's your fine monsieur Valrive, now, aping his lord, and strutting about as though he were a lord him­self."

Constantia, who had hitherto been inattentive to the discourse, at the name of Valrive blushed deeper than the roses she held, and became all ear.

"They say," added Antoine, "that he has made a campaign with the chevalier; 'twas there I suppose he got that scar that wins all the girls' hearts. More fool they! 'Tis not always the best head-pieces that get themselves in, or out of a scrape.—Why, 'twas but yesterday he'd have persuaded me not to clip my trees, because your English gardens are all the fashion at Paris—A fine fellow, indeed, to teach me!—He has seen more rogueries than battles, I believe, or he would ne­ver have stood so well both with my old and young lord."

Constance had heard but too much: Valrive, [Page 20] before only handsome, had now acquired the charm of interest. He was brave—he had been wounded—he was even scarred. To all that con­cerned either the wound or the scar, his young acquaintance could have listened for ages: but Antoine had already exhausted that little all in his momentary fit of spleen, and of an hour's long discourse besides, Constantia heard no­thing.

"If he should chance to visit the garden again!" said she, as with an uncertain step she advanced towards it two mornings after; and, while saying it, she fixed her eyes full upon him. Upon him? Ah no! upon a form ten thousand times more winning than that which at first had ac­cidentally engaged them—a form over which pre­possession had already scattered charms unknown to sober reality. Both the manners and countenance of Valrive, indeed, far from being improved, be­trayed an embarrassment that took somewhat from his natural grace.—In seeing Constance once more appear, he had instantaneously conceived ideas and hopes, which the sweet ingenuousness of her lan­guage immediately dispelled. She was too artless not to betray that she met him with pleasure, and too innocent not to prove that she did it without mistrust. Afraid to inspire that jealous sense of [Page 21] decorum of which she seemed so wholly uncon­scious, yet, hitherto, unversed in the language of delicate love, he viewed her with a mixture of tender admiration and surprise, that insensibly tinctured his mind with a passion to which it had yet been a stranger.

But an innocent heart, first awakened to sensi­bility, needs no better instructor in decorum: and it was from her own, not his, that Con­stantia began to suspect she ought to meet him no more.

This idea, essential as it might be to her fu­ture good, was productive at the moment of no­thing but evil. It insensibly led her to prolong her stay much beyond her usual hour—the burning sun gave her notice of the oversight; and she was returning homewards with feverish perturbation and haste, when, at the moment of crossing an open lane that interposed between a thicket of wild limes and horse-chesnuts, she heard the sound of loud voices, and as suddenly perceived a party of horsemen, who were advancing almost full speed from the brow of a gentle declivity. It was too late to retreat; but in the eagerness of advancing she struck her ancle against the root of a tree, and, overcome at once with trepidation [Page 22] and acute pain, sunk to the ground. The fore­most of the party, who was now very near, sprung from his horse; and, on perceiving she was young and handsome, raised her in his arms with an ex­clamation of mingled surprise and curiosity. The whole group instantly collected around her: their eager enquiries—their free and licentious expressions of admiration—the confused sound of their voices, and the passionate looks of the young man who held her, inspired Constantia both with distrust and alarm. In vain did she protest that she felt no inconvenience from her accident—that she was able to walk home without assistance. No credit was given to the assertion, as indeed it deserved none; and they eagerly disputed with each other which of them should have the plea­sure of carrying, or at least of assisting her to the cottage.

"And where, my dear, is your home?" said one of the party, who had surveyed her some time in silence. Constantia just raised her eyes to the speaker:—his years, the gracefulness of his per­son, and the tempered haughtiness of his man­ners, at once impressed her with a conviction that he was the marquis. The young man who still held her was doubtless his son; and she saw her­self in one luckless moment plunged into that cir­cle [Page 23] Dorsain had so anxiously guarded her against. Nor was this all:—that venerable and gentle old man, who had hitherto treated her with so much indulgence, received her from the gay group with astonishment; and seemed to see in her nothing but a criminal, whom he knew not whether to upbraid, or to weep over.

"You have been guilty of a most dangerous imprudence!" said he, as he left her to repose in a solitary chamber over that in which they ge­nerally sat—"Recover your spirits, however—remove the pain by proper applications, and all may be well again!"

Alas! Constantia thought otherwise.—There was a pain in her heart which she vainly strove to subdue; and while the events of the last hour, perverse as they had been, faded insensibly from her memory, the preceding ones were deeply engraven there.

That night, and the next morning, passed in restlessness and suffering; when, after having been disturbed by various voices that succeeded each other, she saw madame Dorsain enter her chamber.

"My husband was right," said she, dropping [Page 24] tears as she spoke: "this is no longer any place for you, Constantia. We have had gentry of all descriptions to enquire after you. Neither the marquis nor the chevalier, indeed, have been here—but that Valrive, who is the confidant of one or both, I suppose, has done nothing but ask impertinent and troublesome questions. Dry up your eyes, however, my dearest Constantia!" added she with tenderness, on perceiving the tears that flowed from them, "we have yet some friends in Dauphiné, to whom, in a few days, we will find means of conveying thee. M. Thuriot is a good man, and an honest apothecary; he will receive thee kindly for our sakes, and for the sake of those who are gone!—Be comforted, my child, there is a providence that will protect thee?"

Like many other honest people, madame Dor­sain did not perceive that she was comforting her­self, instead of the person she talked to; who, indeed, so far from being consoled, felt the bit­terest mortification at not having seen Valrive, and at having missed in his sympathy the only possible pleasure chagrin and indisposition would have allowed her to taste.

"He will doubtless come again," said she, as she tried to sleep for the night; "and to-morrow, [Page 25] sick or well, I will be below." Anxiety and pain, however, kept her waking till sunrise; and from that time till it had been many hours above the horizon, a soft and balmy slumber sealed up her eyes. The deep tones of a man's voice, as they penetrated the thin ceiling under her, first opened them.

"Ah, it is Valrive!" said she, starting up, and hastily beginning to dress herself. Not at all. It was Antoine, on the contrary, who, in a tone of much more significance and gravity than he was accustomed to, was detailing a long story to Dorsain. She listened attentively, but could distinguish nothing except the names of the che­valier, the marquis, and Valrive, till, the con­versation growing apparently less interesting, the naturally noisy and loquacious Antoine insensibly raised his voice to a pitch that permitted her to hear the whole arrangement of her journey to Dauphiné.

This cruel blow completed all that had passed. To Dauphiné she must go, however unwillingly, if desired; and in Dauphiné she had no probability of ever meeting Valrive again. Yet to meet him again was so much the first wish of her heart, that it might well be deemed her only one; and, after [Page 26] many struggles, she at lenth determined to risk the seeing him once more on the very spot where they had parted. A thousand doubts, howevery, the cruel offspring of passion, now harassed her mind. He might not be there. If there, he might think lightly of her for seeking an interview, or oblige her to think lightly of him by a mode of conduct she could not approve. Of these doubts, one only was verified. Valrive, assuredly, was not there; for, in truth, she met him pensively walk­ing in the path between their former rendezvous and the cottage of Dorsain.

"Ah! are you here?" said she faintly, blush­ing.

"Where should I be, dearest Constantia!" cried he, eagerly flying to meet her, "but on that only spot where I could hope to see you? How much did I suffer on the knowledge of your acci­dent!"

"And how indiscreetly," returned Constantia, "did you address your enquiries! Do you know that your visit will be the cause of sending me out of the province?"

It was now Valrive's turn to blush.—" That [Page 27] visit," said he, hesitating and looking down, "was not the effect of choice, but of situation—Blame not me, therefore, dearest Constantia! who have suffered far more than yourself in the re­collection that you have been seen—Yes," continued he after a break, "you have been seen with that admiration you must ever inspire. Your situation from the very moment became critical—nay, dangerous; and mine, unfortunately, is such that I cannot protect you."

"How can I be in any danger," said she in­nocently, "from those for whom I feel no re­gard?"

"Dear, adorable girl!" said Valrive, tenderly kissing her hands, "how does my heart venerate that pure one which dreams not of allurement but from its own affections! But there are gross and corrupted minds, my Constantia, capable of laying other snares than for your heart."

"I should dread the one snare much less than the other," said Constantia with the same unaf­fected candour. Valrive looked conscience-struck.

"The first would surely most offend," said he.

[Page 28] "But I should be most grieved by the last," again returned Constance.

"Woe to the man who shall either offend or grieve a mind so pure!" exclaimed Valrive with enthusiasm. "There is a guardian innocence about thee, dearest Constantia! that demands no other protector against those who aspire to thy affections. But you are yet feeble; nor dare I detain you longer—Promise, however, to meet me here, at least once again."

Constantia interrupted him, to recount the plan of her intended journey. "I cannot," said she, "venture abroad again to-morrow morning, lest I should incur suspicion, and be hurried off ab­ruptly.—On the morning after—"

"How unfortunate!" cried Valrive. "The morning after is a national festival. The marquis entertains his tenants, and my situation obliges me to preside. Their zeal, it is more than pro­bable, will lead them to the chateau at an early hour, nor dare I venture to absent myself. Yet I have one plan," added he with the eagerness of sudden recollection, "that promises us security. The chevalier, in his rides, has seen this cottage you so much admire, and given orders to have it [Page 29] refitted. I am entrusted with the directions and, the key—to you I make over this deposit, and entreat you to meet me there a little before sunset on the evening of that day—The tenants and do­mestics, will be engaged in dancing on the green, and my absence may for a time pass unnoticed."

Constance started at this proposal. Though yet ignorant of the forms of life, a painful sense of impropriety flashed across her mind, and be­trayed itself on her countenance. Valrive, who perceived its effects, used all his eloquence to ob­viate them. Of eloquence, indeed, nature had given him no inconsiderable portion; and his fair auditor slowly suffered herself to be persuaded.

The promise and the key were mutually inter­changed. Valrive leaped the fence, and Constance advanced homewards. She was not, however, ten yards from the spot on which they had con­versed, when a rustling among the trees engaged her attention. She turned her head, and a man who seemed passing through them by accident, slightly saluted her. He was tall, and of a dar­ing cast of countenance; but as he pursued not the same path with herself, she paid him little attention; and, engrossed by her own reflections, eagerly pressed forward.

[Page 30] That day, and the next, passed in mysterious conferences between Dorsain and his wife, from which she was excluded. Yet did each direct to her, by turns, the sad and tender gaze that age so often fixes on unconscious youth, when the fearful images of the past crowd forward, and stretch their giant shadows over futurity. On the present now, however, seemed to rest the existence of Constance, as on the evening of her appoint­ment she surveyed the sweet cot she was about to enter. The dews already began to exhale a more exquisite odour from every flower; and the foliage, almost transparent with the setting sun, sheltered a thousand birds, whose chearful notes bade him a grateful adieu. Lively and animated nature seemed to breathe without, and contrasted the profound stillness that reigned within.

Through the lower apartments, where half­broken shutters admitted only an indistinct light, she passed to those above. They appeared to have been once the seat of elegance and happiness, such as the reposing mind finds delight in imagining. Curiosity insensibly swelled into interest, and the little heart of Constance paused on the scene be­fore her, with the same sentiment that rivets the eye upon a new-made grave.

[Page 31] The chairs and curtains were of green taffeta, elegantly fringed, though faded by time. A mu­sical instrument, crayons, and rough drawings, all, like the hand possibly that once guided them, mouldering into dust, by turns arrested her atten­tion. She touched the instrument; and its dis­cordant tone, as it rang through the house, first reminded her she was alone. She listened—paused—looked through the window for Valrive, and, perceiving no traces of him, passed to the adjoining room, which, commanding an eastern as­pect, was already sombre with the grey tinge of evening. The recess in which the bed stood was half shaded by a festoon curtain, the cords of which were broken, and hung down with an air of disorder, that indeed pervaded every thing around. Stands for flowers were fixed on each side the dressing-table; and amidst its ornaments carefully folded in paper, she discovered a quan­tity of rich auburn hair, the long locks of which had doubtless been treasured as a sad memento to some heart that had now ceased to throb over it.

Is it the insignia of death that is most touch­ing?—Ah no!—it is the melancholy memorial of life;—the painful vacuum—the affecting desola­tion of a scene that presents every dear and fami­liar [Page 32] object, except that which once vivified and embellished all!

Depressed by a sensibility that was not unmixed with awe, and alarmed by the increasing obscu­rity, Constance began to give up all hope of seeing Valrive, and thought only of retiring unobserved, and of fastening the cottage door. With an im­pression of terror that she had never before felt, she found the door already fast, and the key no longer there. That it was left in the lock on her entrance she perfectly recollected, as well as that she had no otherwise closed the door than by a rustic latch she had thought it prudent to drop. Locked up it now undoubtedly was; and whether by a hand within or without the house, she dared hardly venture to examine. The name of Valrive, faintly articulated, expressed a timid hope that it might be him; but no voice, no step, was heard in answer—the same pensive stillness continued to reign around—and even the voices of the birds, retiring with the retiring sun, seemed to close up every thing in silence and gloom. Far as her eye could trace, did Constance explore through the casement which commanded the garden. From the chamber window nothing could be seen but the thick and interwoven trees of an adjoining copse, thot spread their long shade over a reedy [Page 33] pool, from both of which the cottage was divided by a road.

Terror, which at first had arrested her footsteps, now pressed the idea of the future so forcibly, that she wandered in breathless expectation over the house, to find some outlet by which she might quit it. A sudden and indistinct noise engaged her attention. Her heart told her it was Valrive, and she flew to the front: but from thence the sound came not, and she was slowly returning, when a door, that led from the other side of the house, shook, with the evening blast, upon its hinges, and seemed to require only a very feeble ef­fort to open it. Even that, however, was unneces­sary; for it was opened at the same moment by two men, who, rushing from the narrow road, at­tempted to stop her mouth. But terror rendered that needless; for she sunk insensible in their arms. The rapid motion of a carriage restored her to recollection, and the name of Valrive, faintly, and involuntarily, issued from her lips.

"He is not here at present, ma'm'selle," said the ill-looking man who sat by her—for the other had taken upon him the office of postillion—"but have patience, you will see him very soon, I don't doubt."

[Page 34] " See him!" repeated Constantia in astonish­ment, "see him!—Ah, it is not possible he should be a principal in a scheme like this!—and an in­strument—Oh heaven!—"

To vague and painful surmises, that rested on her lover, only because there was no other being on whom they could rest, the surly ruffian who watched her returned no answer. The carriage continued to move with some velocity; nor was it till night was advancing, that they stopped at a remote cottage, whence issued an old woman of no very prepossessing appearance; whom one of her conductors saluted as his mother. With a mix­ture of more than common apprehension, from the miserable chamber assigned her, Constance beheld a blaze of distant fires, and was disturbed by shouts, that by turns rose and died upon the wind. From the only slumber she had known, she started suddenly at the grey dawn of morning, roused by a chorus that seemed to burst from be­neath; in which the screams of women, the shrill tones of childhood, and the hoarse rough voices of men, were discordantly blended—tumultuous talking ensued, and all then was silent. While fear still throbbed over her frame, the carriage wheels were heard, and her conductors appeared at the door. Their manners were not less surly [Page 35] than before; and as she cast a fearful glance round on quitting the cottage, she observed that each wore a tri-coloured ribbon in his hat.

Constance was not to learn, that in France there were proud men who oppressed, and despe­rate ones who resisted. Among the peasants of the district, and even upon the estate of the mar­quis de Valmont, the scenes transacting in Paris had long been a theme of wonder and admiration; and Dorsain, who had groaned under the iron hand of aristocracy, listened with no ungracious ear to the story of its downfal. The young heart of Constantia had early learnt to beat in unison with all the wise and good, at the idea that every man should in future repose under his own vine, without fearing that the rude gripe of despotism should tear away its fruits. Alas! the wise and good were far from foreseeing, that, while cor­ruption was sapping the foundation of morality, a mad rabble was to beat down the superstructure; and that nothing was to remain visible, but a hi­deous mass of ruin.

It was not till the evening of the second day's journey, that Constance discovered it was to ter­minate at a chateau too proudly magnificent, even in decay, to leave her a doubt of its owner. [Page 36] It was then to the marquis that she was a victim, and it was by Valrive she had been delivered up. That servile licentiousness with which she had heard him taxed, was now proved. The people around her did not even dissemble; and his name, eternally united with that of his lord in every direction concerning her, inspired hourly a regret that became almost insupportable, when she re­collected all that her venerable protectors would suffer in her absence. To this regret for some days she wholly abandoned herself: childish im­patience, and unavailing tears, were her only re­turns for the domestic attentions of an old woman, in whose charge she appeared to be placed, and whose manners, if coarse, were not offensive; though her blunted faculties, and habitual torpi­dity, left nothing to be expected from her feelings. Of the golden hopes that might have enlivened them, Constance had none to offer. She was herself indigent and obscure—had no friends to protect her, no wealth to bestow. For the grief she felt on being thus torn from her relatives, she could awaken a very small portion of sympathy in one accustomed to vegetative existence; and for the evils she dreaded, she vainly strove to excite any. But the mind thus compressed within a narrow circle, only proves its elasticity; that sun, whose parting beams she commanded from her [Page 37] chamber, and whose lingering light she delighted to trace, often left her in a state of abstraction, which insensibly matured her intellectual faculties. Adjoining to her apartment was another filled with books. Curiosity led her to examine them—they were covered with dust, but it was, indeed, the sacred dust of learning and genius, whole treasures of which were buried beneath it: yet did she open them with indifference; for she was yet ignorant of the charm of reading;—that en­chanting pleasure, that innocent voluptuousness—that atmosphere in which the half-fledged fa­culties delight to try their little wings, and soar into a region that grosser spirits know not!

This study soon took possession of her heart, and insensibly meliorated feelings it could not sub­due. Three months elapsed, to her astonishment, without bringing either the marquis or Valrive—three months of uniform solitude and confine­ment, for which she knew not how to account; when the castle bell, which rang long and loud one evening, gave the unusual signal of a guest. The heart of Constantia sunk at the sound, which reverberating through the halls, and increased by the general stillness, spread far around, till it sullenly died away upon the cold blasts of au­tumn.

[Page 38] Her hours of negative tranquility now vanished at once. Monsieur de Valmont—for it was he himself who arrived—assuming, haughty, and ob­serving, inspired terrors which, while they were remote, she barely guessed at. Hardly deigning to listen to her, with eyes that wildly ran over her person, he lifted from it eager glances of cu­riosity and astonishment, when roused by some energy of expression which his ideas of her rustic education had left him unprepared for. Those licentious wishes which might naturally be deemed the motives for his carrying her off, only betrayed themselves as the habit of his character, not as impelling him to any particular pursuit: and every day, as it called forth the latent powers of her mind, awakened in his a perturbation other pain­ful events alone superseded. Insensibly he learnt to speak, as well as to listen. The letters he daily received; the distracting variety of emotions they occasioned, and the insupportable restraint he laboured under with every one beside, induced him, by starts, to betray all that the pride of aristocracy, and the dread of humiliation, made him secretly groan under. Immured in the bo­som of a remote chateau on the shores of the Me­diterranean, Constantia became informed of the terrible scenes that were passing in the metropolis. The marquis de Valmont, secretly trembling at [Page 39] his own vassals, self-imprisoned on an obscure estate, while the more virtuous, or more wise, among his dependants, were endeavouring to save his lands from pillage and his person from insult, formed but a very small and inconsiderable part of the vast picture now presented to her view. She shuddered over the wounds of humanity; she turned from them to her own individual sufferings with that still more painful and acute interest self always inspires. Immersed as the mind of mon­sieur de Valmont appeared in political considera­tions, yet there were moments when his famili­arity shocked, and his insolence alarmed her. To escape became the constant object of all her thoughts. Once beyond the walls of the chateau, she doubted not of protection—nay within them, could it have been possible to gain access to the train of servant▪ that now filled it, she hoped to discover some generous heart that would find power to shelter her. Valrive she knew to be at Paris. Through him those communications reached the marquis, that stole the colour from his cheek, and shot cold thrills through his frame. The young chevalier was there too; and she had no difficulty in perceiving, that, in addition to the storm of public calamity which seemed ready to tear up the lineal honours of his house, Valmont groaned under the pressure of family dissension. [Page 40] The democratic principles of his son had inspired him with a horror little short of aversion: and it was rather to Valrive, than to that son, he com­mitted the care of his safety, and the protection of his rights.

That Valrive had been an instrument in betray­ing her, Constance had long ceased to think. The tone of bitter persiflage, with which the marquis had questioned her concerning him; the inquisi­tive and earnest glance he had fixed upon her while he spoke, and the circumstance of his keep­ing him at Paris, all conspired to convince her that she might expect every protection from a lover whose fidelity to his lord gave so honourable a testimony to his character.

The fortunate moment for accelerating her escape, seemed at length to arrive.—In taking out some books, she accidentally brushed down a key: it had two wards, which, though rusted by time, appeared curious; and on applying it to the locks of the various closets, with which her old-fash­ioned apartment abounded, she discovered it to be a master key. This was indeed a discovery! Nor was it the only one: a stream of light that issued through a crevice whence she had removed the books, soon led her to perceive a door behind [Page 41] them, to which her new found treasure belonged. Breathless with joy, and trepidation she only ven­tured to try the lock, and, perceiving it opened outwards, carefully concealed the key till some more secure opportunity of using it. Such an opportunity was not indeed easily found.—The hour of rest was the only one on which she could depend; and as she judged her apartment to be at no great distance from the hall of entrance, she was willing to try that part of the chateau of which she had some recollection, rather than open a door that appeared to have been long closed.

The slow and heavy clock of the castle struck eleven, before the footsteps of the servants ceased to jar through the galleries. To meet with one, she indeed desired; but the risque of discovery she feared might increase, were the number extended: for, where each was suspicious of the other, each might be willing first to prove his duty to his lord, by betraying her. The silence that pre­vailed, at length gave her courage; and cautiously introducing her key into the lock of her apart­ment, she had the satisfaction to hear that which had been left in it on the opposite side fall to the ground. The door opened at her touch; and the light-hearted Constance half breathed out in joy­ful [Page 42] and imperfect accents—"I am free!"—What, however, was her freedom? In truth, she looked before her, and hardly knew. The taper she held, cast a faint and uncertain light upon a spacious staircase, the sides of which, once magnificently painted with groups of fabulous divinities, retained only imperfect and pale outlines of figures as large, or even larger than the life. Though somewhat startled, she had the courage to proceed; and sheltering the light with her hand, she descended the first slight of stairs. To the great hall of en­trance she was indeed much nearer than she even suspected; for, from the balustrade of a square gallery, into which she now entered, she looked immediately upon it: a view, however, that by no means encouraged any nearer advance; since, had it been peopled by the marquis, and his ser­vants, she would hardly have felt a less pleasant sensation than presented itself at the cold groups of marble with which the taste of different owners had enriched it. Maimed and gigantic figures, some of them exquisite productions of sculpture, others less remarkable for beauty, than antiquity, seemed starring, with wild and distorted attitudes—not into life, for that idea their colour precluded, but into preternatural animation. Involuntarily she drew back at the view; and striking at the same moment against somewhat that stood near, [Page 43] the clank of steel rang low and dismally upon her ear. Her blood chilled; and casting her eyes round, she perceived that the gallery in which she stood was hung with vast coats of mail, the work of different centuries; various in form, and pre­senting, in the long protruded lance, the short sharp spear, and the weighty battle-axe, all the savage stratagems of military prowess.—A fear, however, more immediate and more certain, pre­sented itself at the same moment, when a bell sounded below, and the door opened of a distant apartment. It was too plain she had erred in supposing the family retired. Valmont in a night­gown, a candle in his hand, and passing, as it should seem, to his chamber, advanced directly towards the gallery. Hardly had she time to extinguish her light, ere he was near enough to have seen it. The trophy she stood near partly shaded her, yet her dress caught the eye of the marquis. It was white: her hair hung loose over her shoulders, nor was the marble she had been viewing more deathlike than terror had rendered her cheek. She lifted her hand in the attitude of supplication. It was unnecessary. He distinguished not the fea­tures; but the form—the outline—some horrible recollection, that night and fancy aided, at once struck upon the soul of Valmont, and he sunk lifeless to the earth. Hardly alive herself, Con­stance [Page 44] had just time and courage to snatch the taper he had dropped, nearly extinguished in its fall, and, leaving it burning, to hasten by its un­certain light to her chamber; where, locking the door, she concealed the invaluable key in her bo­som, and threw herself into bed. Imperfect but mingled voices quickly assured her that the valet of the marquis, summoned previously by his bell, had alarmed the household. Silence at length succeeded.—Constance counted the long hours of darkness—nor was it till encouraged by the return of morn, that she closed her eyes to sleep.

To discover what had passed, was now the great aim of her curiosity. Nor was that difficult. "That monseigneur had seen the ghost; that he had had a fit in consequence; and was still indis­posed," was intelligence of such magnitude, as even to unbind the frozen faculties of her old at­tendant. That Valmont believed, indeed, from some infirmity of constitution, that he had seen a ghost, she hardly doubted; but who was the ghost with whom his houshold seemed so well acquaint­ed? She made the enquiry, and was somewhat surprised to hear it was that of a woman, a for­mer marchioness de Valmont, who, clothed in white, had long wandered over all parts of the cha­teau, but more especially inhabited one:—which, [Page 45] indeed, complaisance to so unwelcome a visitant had induced all the rest of the family to abandon.

Valmont, however, was ill—really ill; and while he confined himself to his chamber, she had opportunity to explore some less public path to escape by, than that of passing through the hall, and the court. The futility of the marquis's fears she well knew: and though they so far affected her own mind as to determine her against a noc­turnal expedition, she had no hesitation in at­tempting any other.

The hour, therefore, on which she now fixed to execute her project, was when the servants were at dinner: a ceremony, which, as it imme­diately succeeded to that of their lord, secured her, during his indisposition, from the visits of either. With an anxious heart did she await the bell by which this hour was announced; and no sooner did its noisy discord cease, than she opened the secret door, of which she had before only tried the lock. It presented to her view a long and gloomy corridor, where high circular windows admitted only a dim light; nor did the season of the year afford a very brilliant one at the best. Some portraits remained on the walls, either torn or defaced, and the discoloured wainscotting be­tween [Page 46] them shewed that others had been re­moved.

"I wonder if any body ever admired those frightful figures," thought Constance, as she has­tily cast her eye over them, and then, with a piercing glance, directed it forward. It is pro­bable that the story of the lady in white occurred to her: but she had known too little of danger to be much accustomed to fear; nor has the human mind capacity to retain two sentiments equally forcible. Love and liberty floated before her imagination; and the terrors that superstition might have kindled, insensibly faded. With a light step did she trip across the gallery. Two doors presented themselves at the extremity—she hesitated, and at length turned towards the left. "What a charming place is a cottage!' again silently thought our little païsanne, as the key with difficulty turned in the massy lock. The door creaked on its hinges. She half started—it was but half—She smiled at her own fears—yet fear she did; and wistfully cast her eyes on a nar­row and winding stair-case, of which, with some tremor, she reached the top. What was her dis­appointment, to find herself in the gallery of a chapel, the dreary and desolate appearance of which denoted it to have long seen no other con­gregation [Page 47] than that of rats, whose devastations were indeed sufficiently obvious in the rotten beams, and worm-eaten chairs! From the win­dow at one end, obscure as it was with dust, and covered with ivy, she commanded no very narrow view; but it was of a flat and pathless greensward, interrupted only by clumps of firs, and terminat­ing, as it approached the coast, in a barren sand. The opposite window looked into the court of the castle; a court which so seldom opened its hospi­table gates, that the untrodden grass grew high and rank amid the stones. From hence, had she been discerned by any of the domestics, she could form no hope of relief; or indeed any hope but that of being mistaken for the supernatural appear­ance she had heard described. Anger and disap­pointment banished every other recollection. She impatiently descended the stairs, and as impati­ently opened the door she had before neglected. From a long and narrow passage, which she was to enter down a flight of steps, the close-pent-up air struck upon her a damp and chilling blast. Its influence communicated to her heart. A name­less dread seemed at once to fall upon her. Cold dews started on her brow, and a universal tremor took possession of her frame. Yet impelled by shame, by hope, perhaps even by a fear of return­ing, she had crept more than half way through the [Page 48] passage, when a sound, real or imaginary—a low and melancholy moan, seemed to creep along the walls. On the ground sunk the terrified Constance, hiding her face with her hands, and pouring out a vehement ejaculation to the Being who alone could protect her. A long and profound silence succeeded. Constance continued to pray: and can the prayers of the innocent and the pious be breathed in vain? Speak, ye who have ever known what it was to mingle your souls with your Crea­tor, through the sweet channels of confidence and adoration!

Constance arose, and looked round her. Her mind had lost half its weakness, and the place con­sequently half its gloom. She believed herself sure of having passed the desolate angle of the castle, and began to hope, that if she had indeed heard any noise, it was the distant echo of some servant's foot, that resounded through the offices. The apartment that presented itself was not ill calcu­lated to confirm this idea: it had indeed no ap­pearance of having been inhabited for some time past, but it was fitted up with shelves, that gave it the air of a store-room, and communicated with some other, by a door that was fastened across with a slight bar of iron. Constance easily re­moved it; and, agitated between hope and fear, [Page 49] cautiously lifted up the tapestry on the other side. The hope, however, vanished at once—and ter­ror, undescribable, unresisted terror, seized upon her, when she found herself in a small room, or rather dungeon, at the further end of which stood a stone coffin; and near it, as well as sear, and the shadowy light, permitted her to discern, a meagre and ghastly figure that resembled a man. An agony, to which fainting would have been a relief, struck upon every sense. Pale, speechless, convulsed, she leaned against the door-way. The phantom approached—it touches her hand—it speaks—it is no vision—it is a human being! or rather, alas! it is the wreck of a human being, long since, as it should seem, excluded from every right of humanity.

Why should curiosity be kept in suspense? Reassured by slow degrees, Constance at length learns, that this creature, whose form is ema­ciated by suffering—whose voice is become monotonous, and hardly audible through despair, is no other than the rightful lord of the castle of Valmont the predecessor of the present one, and his victim. A gleam of benevolence and grati­tude, that shot across her soul at being made an instrument in the hands of Heaven to assuage, perhaps to end, misfortunes so intolerable, did [Page 50] more towards recovering the fortitude of Con­stance than had been effected by all the efforts of reason. Sweet and grateful humanities, that thus by starts shew man his truest relation to the Deity! How does your powerful influence brace the feeblest nerves, dilate the narrowest understand­ing, and strike that electric fire from the heart, which at once invigorates the frame!

"I have told you," said monsieur de Valmont, "what I was:—Have you patience, and courage, to hear the means by which I became what I am?"

Constance was now all—and, indeed, more than herself. With a voice, therefore, of sym­pathy and fortitude, she requested him to proceed.

"Born," said he, "an only son, and heir to an extensive domain, it was my misfortune to in­herit from my mother a delicate and sickly con­stitution, that often afforded little prospect of my reaching maturity. The next heir, who was my cousin, and nearly of my own age, had fallen under the guardianship of my father, and was educated with me. We spent our childhood together. I was sincerely attached to him, and believed my affection requited: it was with regret, therefore, [Page 51] that I saw him depart at a very early period, to enter into a military line, from which my ill health excluded me. His profession brought with it expences, which his imprudence greatly increased. My father often refused him sup­plies; but, as we held a constant correspon­dence, he had the address to gain from me, what he could not from my parents. Those pa­rents at length descended to the grave! Happy, most happy would it have been for the son they so anxiously reared, had he shared it with them! I was at Paris with my cousin, when my father died; and, though absorbed in grief, it even then casually occurred to me, that my newly-acquired honours were not recognized by him with the pleasure I had a right to expect. I assured him, however, of my continued regard; supplied him with a large sum of money; and set out for my chateau in the hope of recovering my health, which the air of Paris ill agreed with.

"On the sweet moments of my life which suc­ceeded," added he—pausing, and sighing deeply, "I could dwell long, did I not fear to exhaust your patience. Suffice it to say, that it was my sate to meet with a woman, humble indeed in birth, but who, to a degree of beauty beyond all her sex ever boasted, added every charm of virtue [Page 52] and prudence. The obscurity of her origin was no obstacle, in my eyes, to a union which I thought assured me felicity. In a word, I de­termined to marry her. My relations were alarmed. Letters, expostulations, menaces reached me. Even my cousin presumed to interfere, in terms which at once excited my chagrin and my resentment. I was, however, the head of my family, and possessed a power of regulating my own actions, which I exerted. I wrote to him to announce my marriage, and to express at the same time the sentiments with which his conduct in­spired me. It was some time before I received an answer. One at length was brought me: it was conciliatory and kind. He apologized for the lan­guage, which pride, and the persuasions of others, had induced him to hold; and finally assured me, that he rejoiced in my felicity. Ah! how pure, how unalloyed, did my felicity at that moment seem! My wife and I lived together the life of angels! she gave me hopes of an heir. Her pa­rents, as well as all my tenants, shared in our pleasures. I was too happy to be suspicious, or even prudent. In an evil hour I invited my cousin down, and in a still more evil one he arrived.

"Let me shorten my tale," continued the marquis, laying his hand on his forehead, and [Page 53] speaking in a low and suffocated voice. "By in­direct methods did this serpent contrive to assem­ble, in my house and neighbourhood, various hirelings devoted to him. One of them was an apothecary.—A premature labour—A still-born child—blasted my hopes, and even taught me to tremble for the object dearest to my heart. Partly by force, and partly by entreaty, did they prevail on me to leave her apartment—to leave her to re­pose; it was, indeed, an everlasting one! A long time did not elapse, before my cousin entered mine. For the first time did I look at him with horror and distrust. Methought I saw a concealed joy sparkle in his eyes, while, with a harsh and unfeeling tone he pronounced these words: "Pre­pare yourself for the worst!—your wife is dead!" I heard no more. He would have detained me; but though inferior to him in strength at all other times, I was then irresistible. Furious through despair, I broke from him, and rushed to her apartment.—Oh, wife most beloved!" conti­nued Valmont passionately, turning towards the coffin, "in what a situation did I find thee! Speechless,—struggling in the arms of death—that fair countenance disfigured with livid spots! Merciful Heaven! do I recollect it, and exist?"—

He paused, as if desirous to collect himself.

[Page 54] "For some hours I ceased to do so. I reco­vered, however, to every torment of mind, and of body! to a burning fever!—to temporary madness!—to horrors inspired by suffering, and increased by oppression and barbarity. Some months elapsed—I became but too sensible—and was therefore, as they said, conveyed to Paris to be cured!—Oh God! what a cure!—Shut up from air, from day, from consolation! from every claim of nature, or of birthright; a cruel visita­tion, converted into a constitutional malady." Again he made a pause—a long and fearful pause—while the blood of Constance, she hardly knew why, receded to her heart. He looked at her fixedly, but with kindness, and then added, in a flower and more guarded tone, "Let me draw a veil over events at which my imagination recoils, and which time has nearly effaced from my me­mory. It is now near a century that I have been confined in this miserable dungeon."—Constance started, and saw at once the affecting truth—"My cousin," continued he, not noticing her emotion, "is doubtless long since dead—the fa­mily honours and estates have passed, probably, into the hands of strangers, to whom my person as well as my misfortunes are unknown. It has indeed pleased the Almighty to extend my life in a miraculous manner: but I have no longer any [Page 55] relatives for whom I could wish to live. My rea­son, cleared and purified from its former wan­derings, teaches me to desire nothing beyond these melancholy walls. They at least present me one consolation—one sweet, though painful consola­tion, which I perhaps should not enjoy elsewhere— It is the hour of visitation!—Swear to me an eternal secrecy," continued he, lowering his voice, "and you shall be a witness of it."

Alas! the terrified Constance, before whose imagination fearful images of horror began to float, was in no condition to swear, had he waited the performance of his request: but it vanished from his mind the moment it was made. His countenance grew suddenly animated—his eyes sparkled—he breathed quick, and, bending for­ward in the attitude of a person who listens, he advanced towards the coffin, and threw himself on his knees by the side of it; where, clasping his hands together, he seemed to lose all recol­lection in one visionary idea.—Constance, whose terrors were suspended in pity, fixed her stream­ing eyes upon him. All the charms of youth and health were vanished from a countenance which, when possessed of them, must have been eminently handsome. Monsieur de Valmont could not be above forty, yet had sorrow and suffering scattered [Page 56] "untimely grey" amid the quantity of brown hair that hung neglected on his shoulders. His large hazel eyes had contracted a languor which every moment of emotion bespoke foreign to their original expression; and his stature, noble, graceful, and interesting, demanded that senti­ment which rank so often vainly flatters itself with inspiring.

He continued kneeling. " Now is the moment of escape," thought Constance. She again looked earnestly at him. His lips moved, but no articu­late sounds issued from them. Trembling, she advanced towards the door by which she had en­tered, and once more turned her eyes to the mar­quis. Large and agonizing drops seemed forcing their way to his; yet so unconsciously did they fall, that a smile—a cold and languid smile—played round his lip. He bent his head still lower, as if listening to some imaginary voice; and so perfectly was every sense absorbed, that Constance no longer hesitated. Her hand is on the door—she opens it—makes but one step into the outer-room, and the barrier is once more dropped between her and the unfortunate Valmont.

Slowly, and buried in thought, she returned through the corridor. All visionary terrors had [Page 57] faded from her mind. The image of real misery was before her eyes, and the acuteness of real suf­fering wrung her heart. A painful doubt too had obtruded there. Had she a right to close again the door Heaven had so singularly destined her to open? Was she to become an accomplice in injustice? to deny the common blessings of air, and daylight, to one who languished in a living grave? A sensation like remorse, a painful and oppressive feeling, seized upon her heart; and hardly were the various motives of prudence and propriety, which presented themselves, strong enough to prevent her returning once more to raise the cruel bar she had had so rashly dared to drop.

From a harassed and half sleepless night, where the pale shade of Valmont still haunted her dreams, she opened her eyes upon more new and extraor­dinary realities. After viewing the sufferings of the oppressed, she was now to witness the heavy retribution that fell on the oppressor.

By a strange concurrence of events, distinction, power, and affluence had insensibly vanished from the grasp of him, who, to these accumulated losses, secretly added that of an unsullied con­science. And the possessor of the inheritance of [Page 58] Valmont, was hardly less an object of commisera­tion than the man he had deprived of it.

The communication between the marquis, his son, and Valrive had been finally out off. The blood that deluged Paris had even swept away all traces of their existence.—His titles were anni­hilated—his estates were plundered—himself on the point of being denounced—and nothing re­mained for his personal security but flight.

"You are free," said he to the astonished Constance, as pale and haggard he traversed her apartment, and imperfectly detailed his situation—"free to wander over an accursed country, which I renounce. Return to that wretched old man whom it was my fate to crush to the humble lot in which he now finds a security I want. Go!" said he, giving her a handful of assignats with a wildness and impatience that left him not time to consider the embarrassment of her situation—"Go! Let me carry with me the consolation of thinking I have done one act of justice."

A thousand tumultuous ideas passed across the mind of Constance. To go—strange and mad as the proposal seemed of plunging her thus abruptly into a world she knew not, would not [Page 59] have cost her a moment's hesitation. But it was no longer her own fate only on which she was to decide. The skeleton of Valmont, neglected, forgotten, perishing with famine, or in the flames to which she understood the peasants had devoted the castle, presented itself instantaneously to her imagination.

Is there," said she, while impelled irresistibly by this idea—"is there no other prisoner to whom your justice should extend?"—The marquis started—"no unhappy relative," she added, trembling excessively as the perceived his counte­nance change, "to whom your mercy—whose claims—whose misfortunes I mean—" The look of the marquis transfixed her—she already saw

for a smile of bitter rage and indignation quivered on his lip.

"You have seen him, then?" said he, com­manding his voice—"You have doubtless re­ported the tales of Dorsain, and you have your­self credited the dreams of insanity and dotage! You mean to propagate them, too! Beware that [Page 60] you do not prepare a worse fate for—him you would liberate!"

The pause that preceded the last sentence was lost upon Constance. Half the speech was inex­plicable: the whole scene appeared a vision; and she found herself alone, she hardly knew how: terror-struck, bewildered, and sensible too late that she had exposed the imprisoned Valmont to dangers more immediate than those she would have guarded him against. To release him from his confinement, and throw him, and herself, on the protection of the domestics, appeared now indispensable to the safety of both. The disaffec­tion of those domestics the marquis had already betrayed to her, and she saw her own security in his fears: yet was it not without perturbation she prepared again to visit a spot she had quitted with impressions so gloomy. Fear, however, was su­perfluous; for Valmont was buried in a profound sleep, which her light and timid step disturbed not. She paused, and looked round her in silence. The apartment, though not humid, was cold enough to communicate a shiver to beings who know what it is to enjoy the fireside comforts: the cheerful hearth, so justly allotted to the house­hold gods, and within whose magic circle a thou­sand graceful affections and nameless courtesies seem to dwell!

[Page 61] The sarcophagus, which was evidently antique, though placed there probably to cherish a melan­choly remembrance, served the unfortunate Val­mont as a resting-place. More than half his face was buried in his arm—cold dews stood on his brow, and a strong hectic flushed his cheek, while sighs, or starts, disturbed his respiration. In one of them he awoke—

"You are come again, then!" said he, fixing his eyes on her—"How did you vanish? I began to doubt whether you were a human being or some consoling angel. Why," added he, suddenly changing his tone to extreme asperity—"why did you stay away so long, or wherefore are you now returned? Did you fear that misery was con­tagious?"

There was something so touching, and so frightful in the embittered sensibility of his man­ner, that it overwhelmed the already half-subdued spirits of Constance, and she burst into tears.

Valmont, born a compound of every gentle and generous affection, felt, though he could not rea­son upon such a reply.

"You are very young—you are very timid," [Page 62] said he, softening his tone. "I perhaps frighten you!—Perhaps the recital of my sufferings—"He paused with a look of self-distrust his counte­nance often assumed, and pressing his hand on his forehead, added, "Yet if you knew how much it relieved me!—how I longed to speak to you again!—"

Constantia wept more abundantly than before. Perhaps there is no sensation of the human heart more complicated or affecting, than that of know­ing it has, by one tender stroke of symyathy, as­suaged a grief it feels itself impotent to cure.

The interest expressed by her tears tranquillized Valmont; and as soon as she could trust her voice, she endeavoured to explain to him that she was no less a prisoner than himself.

"The world," said he, after listening to her with the most profound attention, "is then what I long ago supposed it; a scene of oppression, from the effects of which no innocence can shelter us. Resolve, like me, never to enter it again."

"And live—or rather, I fear, die—a victim!" said Constance.

"You are then rich!"

[Page 63] "Alas, no!" she replied, with a tone between peevishness and depression. Valmont, whose imagination, long fixed to one point, had seen nothing in her confinement but a plan to deprive her of some envied advantage of rank or fortune, now gazed, as her blushes and tremor heightened her beauty, with a consciousness of it he had not before felt; and no sooner did his mind catch a ray of truth, than it became perfectly enlightened. All the warm blood congealed round his heart, flowed obedient to the voice of humanity; and in the wild hope of affording protection, he seemed to have forgotten how much he wanted it.

Steady to honour and to feeling, there was yet one point on which his reason obstinately wan­dered—It was the period during which he had been secluded. That dismal and solitary period had made an impression which no arguments could correct—In vain did she offer every rational one. "Do not," said he, "attempt to deceive me! I have had nothing to do but to measure and calculate those hours, which have passed lightly over the heads of the gay and the happy! Their duration assures me the present marquis de Valmont cannot be my cousin. Yet will I once more, for your sake, emerge into a world where I shall doubtless be a stranger. If what you tell [Page 64] me approaches to truth, the same monarch sits upon the throne. I will appeal to his tribunal—I will rescue my inheritance from the hands of spoilers."

"Alas!" said Constance, let us rather appeal to the tribunal of Him before whom the monarch you speak of has been awfully summoned to ap­pear!"

" Louis Seize is then dead!" said Valmont, starting—"but his queen—his son—"

"Perished—crushed—annihilated—vanished from the face of the earth"—would have been the answer of Constance, could she but have looked a little, a very little, into that fearful future which fancy itself yet hardly ventured to fully so deep with blood.

"They exist," said she mournfully; "but they are no longer royal. France is a republic!—"

" France a republic!" re-echoed Valmont with astonishment. "What is it you tell me? Ah, I have indeed been buried centuries, if this be truth!"

[Page 65] Constance briefly recited the story of her country.

Valmont listened—doubted—listened—and doubted still.

That, green in youth, she should have seen the gaudiest and gayest flowers of creation thus blighted; the vast consolidated mass of prejudice and principle whole ages had accumulated, crum­bled at once to dust; systems annihilated that seemed incorporate with thought itself;—a whole nation changing, with one convulsive crisis, its character, its manners, and its laws—reason more steady than Valmont's would have grown dizzy with the prospect; and humanity shuddered at her own errors, whether she calculated the enor­mous pile of evil she had destroyed, or that she was perhaps assisting to raise.

Confused voices, which decidedly, though im­perfectly, rung through the hollow arches of the chateau, suspended the attention of Constance and Valmont, even from the affecting detail by which they were engrossed. The sounds increased every moment: by degrees they grew mingled with shrieks; with jarring footsteps, with loud and near-approaching accents. A discharge of muskets [Page 66] was heard;—a pause—a shout—a fearful interval of tumult ensued, and Constance had hardly time to tell herself they were at the mercy of a popu­lace, when a door on the farther side was forcibly burst open, and a confused mass of people, of all ages and descriptions, rushed in. Of the fero­cious kindness of which he was the object, Val­mont comprehended nothing: dragged forth, he hardly knew how, or why, to the overpowering glare of day, he indeed

and while the cries of Liberté and la Nation rent the very air, the poor and solitary blessing of ex­istence seemed mounting towards heaven with them. The affrighted Constance had only sense enough to perceive that the hands of her deliverers were died in blood, and that Providence had made the worst passions of man, awful ministers to cor­rect his worst abuses.

Amid the noisy exultation of the moment, some attempted to pour wine, of which they had dragged large quantities from the marquis's cellars, down the throat of him they had liberated. But nature refused: the pulse of life stood still: the group around gazed on the human ruin: of its suffer­ings, [Page 67] its wrongs, or its resentments nothing seemed to remain but dust; yet they continued to wrong, to suffer, and to resent.

By degrees they grew weary of the trouble of humanity. "La jeaune fille, et fon père" for so the rabble termed them, were insensibly deserted for the more alluring objects of plunder and re­venge; and when the feeble flutter of existence began once more to be visible in Valmont, Con­stance found herself still kneeling by him on the greensward, with no other companion than a child of about ten years of age, who though it had joined the crowd, had not courage to plunge with it into the long galleries and unknown apartments of the castle. This succour, feeble as it appeared, was not, however, useless. It was the means of obtaining water; which, plentifully thrown over Valmont, effected what the wine could not, and he once more opened his eyes. Their wild and interesting languor sensibly touched the heart of Constance; and without attempting explanations, which neither appeared to have strength to bear, she took advantage of his extreme gentleness and docility to lead him to a cottage, which the child assured her was inhabited by his mother, at less than half a league's distance.

[Page 68] This miserable shelter they with great difficulty reached; and, with still more difficulty, obtained admittance. The woman, who alone remained at home, regarded them with a sullen and mis­trustful air, muttering some phrases to herself, in which the term aristocrates was alone to be distin­guished. Her countenance, however, cleared on being told by the boy they were prisoners liberated par ses compatriotes; and, moved by the supplica­tions of Constance, she shewed them one poor apartment, where a flock-bed afforded the now quite bewildered and exhausted Valmont a tem­porary stupefaction, rather than repose.

Sad and comfortless, mean time, were the re­flections of Constance. The house was lonely, and on the verge of a wood. She placed a chair by the casement, and, as the moon rose from be­hind the dark edges of the trees, prepared herself thus to pass a long, cold, and dreary night in winter, without any prospect that the morning would better her situation. She could neither hear of carriage, horses, or conveyance of any kind, by which she might hope once more to reach the hospitable roof of Dorsain; though the assig­nats providentially given her by the marquis ena­bled her to offer an ample recompence. That unfortunate marquis himself continually haunted [Page 69] her imagination—she saw him pursued by his own vassals—agonized, mangled, serving perhaps as a bloody trophy. It was no dream of fancy and credulity—it was a horrible picture, of which the letters of the young chevalier, and Valrive, had described too many originals; and she even shud­dered with doubt, whether the ensuing day might not realize it, and possibly render both herself and her companion, the helpless objects of some sa­vage festival.

Reflections like these at length exhausted the energy of her mind, while sad necessity tranquil­lized it. Three hours of watching and profound silence, began to stupify her senses, and drowsiness was sinking into slumber, when a sudden consci­ousness made her start, and listen to what was passing below. The voices of men and the tramp­ling of horses, with a faint idea of having heard a carriage, at once assailed her. Oh! it was not that only! a name dear and familiar to her heart, struck at once upon her ear. "Valrive, Valrive, Valrive," repeated often, and familiarly, in tones that spoke him present, communicated to every pulse a throb so tumultuous, that hardly had she power to totter down the dark and narrow stair­case that separated her from the room below.—A group of common-looking men stood round the [Page 70] kitchen fire, over whom her eyes fearfully wan­dered, as she perceived she had attracted theirs, without being able to trace one likeness to him she sought.

"Monsicur Valrive n'est pas ici," said she, shrinking back—

"Si, si, ma'm'selle!" said one of the group, fixing on her a stare of surprize. "Valrive, où est-tu donc?" added he, raising his voice.

"Ma foi, c'est un garcedil;on de bonnes fortunes ce Valrive!" said another, taking up a candle, and looking confidently in her face. Constance drew back, and uttered inarticulately she knew not what.

"Valrive! viens, mon ami!" again shouted the first. "On te demande avec instance;" and with a sneer he pushed forward a person who en­tered. How did Constance recoil, when, almost on the point of sinking into his arms for shelter, she beheld—not a lover—not a protector—not, in short, Valrive—but a countenance wholly new to her, or of which she could only have the faintest recollection, as it once glanced across her on re­turning from her favourite cottage; a countenance [Page 71] whose singular hardness even then had offended her, and which now, lighted up with insolent familiarity, froze her very blood!

"Ah, I have been mistaken!" said she, turn­ing pale, and shrinking from the embrace he seemed preparing to take. An incredulous shout followed the sentence; and the man, who seemed piqued by it into additional effrontery, attempted to seize her hand. With a vehement exclama­tion of terror and disgust, again she repulsed him.

"What voice was that?" said a young man, who rushed at the same moment into the kitchen. Breathless and pale, Constance would have fallen but for his support; while a thousand joyful emo­tions overcome her still more than her fears had done. She had now indeed found her lover—but it was no longer Valrive—no longer a venal dependant, unwilling or unable to protect her—He was brave—noble—he was, in fine, no other than the chevalier de Valmont!—or rather, he had been all these; and Constance remembered not that he was now nothing.

Valmont himself, however, who had had much and sorrowful experience, did not wholly forget this. Recovered from the emotion of the moment, he [Page 72] spoke with much gentleness and complacency to the men who had retreated some distance, and from whose altered demeanour, though not wholly what it would once have been, she had discovered he was their lord. Then taking a light from the one that stood nearest him, he conducted her in silence up stairs.

Constance, who, in the transport of this un­expected meeting, had forgotten every thing else, now struck with his manner, fixed her eyes upon him in fearful expectation. Unlike the gay and happy lover she had seen him, hardly would she gave guessed him to have been a lover at all, but from the extreme emotion that seemed to shake his whole frame. Somewhat, indeed, he said of joy, and somewhat of tenderness; but it was ra­ther her heart, than her ear, that caught the sounds. What, however, was her astonishment, when, in a tone and manner that spoke him fully acquainted with her late imprisonment, he eagerly questioned her about his father!

In an imperfect voice she detailed a little of what she knew, and a little of what she feared.—"It is time," said he in a low tone, and with­out commenting upon the story as she concluded it, "to release from this spot, one whom nothing [Page 73] but persecution and calamity can attend here!—The means are fortunately yet in my power—let me then," added he, tenderly folding her to his bosom, "communicate somewhat of those happy presentiments to which our unexpected meeting has given birth!"

Constance was not duped by this semblance of tranquillity. The wretched candle that lighted them, had shewn her a countenance that ill ac­corded with his words; and hardly had he quitted her, which he did precipitately on pronouncing the last sentence, than all the melancholy truth rushed upon her imagination. Surrounded by beings, who, emancipated from oppression, saw a degraded tyrant in every one born rich or noble, he was but too much exposed to danger in his own person, and in that of his father devoted to destruction.—Under these melancholy impressions terrible did the moments of his absence seem; and most insupportable the intrusion of her hostess, who brought a refreshment of wine and biscuits, she doubted not, by his direction; while the im­pertinent Valrive gratified his curiosity, by assist­ing in the ceremony, and eyeing her with half-suppressed insolence.

The sound of wheels again attracted her to the [Page 74] casement; and the moon shone full upon a car­riage, near which stood the chevalier, in earnest conversation with two men. He appeared to be giving them directions, and money—it was too plain then that he meant to send her away.—Without knowing why, she eagerly opened the casement:—he saw her, and was almost instantly in the room.

"Constance—dearest Constance," said he, as he closed the door, "at what a moment do we meet!—It is now only for a moment; but, if that in which we are to meet again ever arrives in this world, how much shall I have to tell you!"

"Whither then are you going?"

"To the chateau," replied he with embarrass­ment.—Constance was no longer mistress of her­self—her terrors, her doubts, her certainties blazed out at once: but the eloquence of all was ineffectual towards shaking the resolution of her lover; whose internal conviction of the fate that awaited him veiled itself under a thousand spe­cious arguments, which though she disbelieved, she vainly strove to controvert. On the point at length of yielding to his entreaties, a recollection [Page 75] flashed across her mind, which the agitation of the moment had driven from it.

"You are yet to learn," said she, stepping back with embarrassment from the door of the apartment, "that I am not alone."

"And who is your companion?"

"A man—in whose fate I—I am so much in­terested—

"Ah, beware of what you tell me," said her lover, starting wildly—" there wants only that!"—Constance, frightened at the eagerness of his manner, faltered, and knew not what to say. In the chevalier she saw the most engaging of human beings, and in Valmont the most unfortunate. But would they view each other with the same eyes? Grievous had been the confinement of the unhappy marquis—long and weary the days of his oppression: but his oppressor was the father of the chevalier; and by what right could she impart to the man from whom it might be most necessary to conceal it, a secret confided by insanity, and rendered sacred by misfortune?

"The moments," said the chevalier with an [Page 76] anguish ill-subdued, as he perceived the irresolu­tion of her mind, "admit not of our pausing even over that which is to ascertain the future value of existence! We must part Constantia. Yet if it is ever permitted me again to grasp the hand which now trembles in mine, remember it is assianced—remember, I seal upon it a sacred and inalienable vow; and should my Constantia live to have a widowed heart, as probably she will, let me bear into another world the consciousness that I shall, for a time at least, live in her memory!" With­out waiting her answer, and as if he mistrusted his own fortitude, he would have led her down stairs. Unable to speak, she pointed in silence to the bed, on which he, for the first time, noticed Valmont. With tremulous curiosity he snatched up the light, and drew near. It struck upon the eyes of the marquis: he opened them, looked at Constance, and, laying her hand upon his burning forehead, closed them again in silence. The astonished chevalier gazed alternately at both, and hastily started out of the room. Again, almost as hastily he returned. But Constance, roused to energy by the distress of the occasion, had already, with her enfeebled companion, advanced towards the stairs. The hand of her lover involuntarily, and with a sort of sullen tenderness, received hers. Anxious to speak, she trembled, doubted, and [Page 77] knew not what to say; nor did one of the group, as they passed through the kitchen, recollect the extraordinary spectacle they presented to the eyes of those collected there. The silence continued till she was in the carriage. An exquisite pain then seemed to seize suddenly upon her heart: she bent forward to speak. The eyes of the che­valier, rivetted upon her, had more than sadness—had more than love in them—there was terror—there was despair!—Struck with their expres­sion, she clasped her hands together, almost in the act of springing from the carriage, when the horses at the same moment began to move, and she was already many paces from him.—Silence, darkness, and a long track of woody road suc­ceeded. As moonlight struck through the breaks, she put her head out of the window, in the vain hope of once more seeing at least a ray of light from the cottage which now contained the being to which her heart had most tenderly attached it­self. For a few moments Valmont silently fol­lowed the vehicle with his eyes, and dwelt upon her image; then, burying it in his heart, turned both to blacker prospects.

Amidst the numberless painful ideas pressing on Constance, that of her own singular situation now first occurred in its true colours. She viewed it [Page 78] as a dream. Immured in the chateau, the single sentiment of captivity and sorrow, absorbing every other, had formed an imaginary connexion be­tween herself and the imprisoned Valmont. But now, that various objects and feelings divided her attention, she had some difficulty to recollect the force of her former impressions. Perhaps a latent sense of regret, on reflecting that by means of the marquis she had added a momentary pang to those already felt by her lover, contributed to estrange her from the former. But Valmont was not born to be the object of disgust. A natural eloquence, a low and pleasant voice, a sedateness of manner that had all the effect of reason with the wildness of fancy, soon conciliated the interest she was be­ginning to renounce. Hard indeed must have been the heart that could have resisted him! The weakness attending so painful an exertion as that of walking, had brought on a temporary inanity, rather than slumber, from which, as he slowly recovered, it was nevertheless visible he had de­rived refreshment. He began now to dwell upon events, which, while the torrents rushed by him, he had been unable to comprehend. There was something so affecting in his imperfect attempts at recollection, in his disjointed efforts to fix ideas, which, like shadows upon a wall, wavered and played before the yet unsteady lamp of reason, [Page 79] that Constance insensibly directed her efforts to the same point. Nor were they unsuccessful. All the objects of creation, as they began again to be visible to his eyes, resumed their natural in­fluence over his heart. The long-forgotten image of his home, his native domain, to which Con­stance had in general terms assured him their jour­ney was directed, kindled once more that secret, and inexplicable flame, which ever burns through the veins when we touch the circle with which our affections incorporate us.

But a danger new and unexpected now oc­curred. At the post-house, where the avant-cou­rier dispatched by the chevalier as their guard had already prepared horses, Constance had the indis­cretion to pull out a considerable number of assig­nats. The face of the post-master informed her the horses were already paid for; but his tongue was not equally sincere. To the mortification of seeing herself duped, by paying for them again, was added the terror of knowing that she was in the power of men rapacious enough, under the name of protectors, to abet the extortion; and in whose inquisitive countenances, as the lights gleamed upon them, she discovered an expression that conveyed a terrible pulsation to her heart. She saw too late that the prudence of the cheva­lier, [Page 80] in providing for the expences of her journey, had yet not been sufficiently watchful to think of cautioning her on the subject: but the moments spent in irresolution decided themselves, and they once more entered on a dreary road. The men who still followed them, whether impelled by fear of danger or some worse motive, she perceived rode nearer the carriage than before; sometimes talking loudly together; at others joining in the cedil;a ira, or thundering out the Marseillois hymn. At length

But never was rural prospect half so delightful to the eye of an enthusiast, as that of the towers and buildings of a large city to the now exhausted Constance. They were not long in reaching it. Her guides conducted her to an hotel, and her fate at length seemed at a pause.

The chevalier, in whom the distracted state of his country had already matured a spirit of pre­caution little congenial to his natural character, had given the men to whom he had entrusted Constance every charge that might ensure her safety. They were instructed to take the necessary steps with the police; and as soon as their depo­sitions [Page 81] had secured a proper passport, by establish­ing the certainty that both she and her companion were prisoners liberated in a popular commotion, one of them was to return with the information to the chevalier. He obeyed; but previous to his departure presented himself to Constance with the air of a man, who, conscious of having con­ferred an important service, comes rather to de­mand than to solicit a reward. Though given with liberality, it satisfied him not; but his com­rade, stepping forward, remonstrated with some warmth on the injustice of expecting a further re­compense, while assured of an ample one on the part of the chevalier; and reminded him at the same time that the latter waited his return with the greatest impatience.

"Qu'il attend," replied the other in a brutal tone, as he went away: "Chacun à son tour." Constance felt a pang at her heart. This wretch was to return as one of the protectors of the che­valier. The relief she herself even might have experienced in being freed from him, was soon lost in apprehension, when she perceived that his dismission took from his companion the only check he feared, because, probably, the only sharer in the plunder he meditated. Equivocal or insolent answers, as to the probable length of their jour­ney, [Page 82] plunged her alarm: the journey itself be­came visibly flower and flower. His rapacity increasing with her apparent terrors, soon left her little to give, and that little she was often ob­iged to share with the bons patriotes, whom he encouraged to loiter around them. With these people, who were indeed every thing but what they called themselves, a look might be a crime, and a word destruction. Every post, every vil­lage, became a new scene of danger and delay. Yet the posts were insensibly passed, the villages were left behind; and after accumulated fatigue, suffering, and apprehensions, Constance sound, with unspeakable transport, that she was within a short distance of the chateau de Valmont.

The transport, however, was momentary. Her guide, whose reverence for the name of Valmont had been daily diminishing, found nothing as he approached the domain that should strengthen it; and falling in with some of his acquaintance, whose business was plunder, he scrupled not to declare to Constance, that both she and her fellow traveller must find their way on as well as they could; and that, to secure their own safety, it would be ad­visable first to part with all the little wealth that re­mained to her. Remonstrance was vain; and in silent terror she complied.

[Page 83] No other alternative now presented itself, but that of exploring a road, which, fortunately, was not wholly unknown to her. It was already the close of evening, and frost lay hard upon the ground. She lifted her eyes to the stars which shone bright above her head, and addressed her­self silently through them to the Deity that bade them shine. Invigorated by hope, and within the circle of home, she found no difficulty in proceed­ing: but it was otherwise with Valmont. A league became to him a distance which his foot­steps were as ill able to trace, as his reason to calculate. Already both began to fail. Hopeless—helpless, they sat down together, "under the shade of melancholy boughs," when Constance exclaimed with a start of joy, "Sure I see Thi­bout!" Thibaut was a young carpenter of the village. With tumultuous pleasure, she recog­nized a face that was familiar to her. The lad, whose good-nature was yet uncorrupted by the world, greeted her with cordiality, and, though returning from his day's labour, offered to be of any service to her she might require.

His arm was more steady than that of Con­stance, and Valmont again crept on; but nature was fainting within him, and to reach the habita­tion of Dorsain appeared wholly impracticable. It [Page 84] was at that moment the recollection of her once­favourite cottage glanced across the mind of Con­stantia. The distance to it was much less; the shelter, if it still stood, was certain. Even were the door fast, the strength of Thibaut, a stout lad of eighteen, could easily force it. To the cottage, therefore, she directed their steps; and to the cottage, after many a weary step, they came. Yet she saw it not without a strong palpi­tation. Her eyes rested there intently, as all the remembrances attached to it passed across her heart. It afforded indeed shelter, but neither light nor food; and vehemently recommending the marquis to the care of Thibaut, who engaged to watch with him during her absence, she pressed forward to the habitation of Dorsain.

The moon was now rising, and every spot as it opened before her became more and more inter­esting. It was here she had parted with the che­valier; at the foot of that declivity she had the ill fortune to be seen by his father. There, em­bosomed in trees, was the roof of Dorsain—and there, rising full in sight, the chateau de Valmont. Part of it had been laid in ruins by the peasants; smoke had disfigured the rest; and the marks of plunder and devastation were every where visible. "Ah, if such is the fate of grandeur—"thought [Page 85] Constance as she directed her eyes eagerly for­wards—Her fears were ill-founded! The cottage of Dorsain, secure in its poverty, still remained: still did its humble casement emit a cheerful and far-streaming ray, while all was dark and silent round the superb chateau.

With a trembling hand Constance tapped softly at the door, and at the same moment lifted the latch. Two men were sitting by the fire, one of whom instantly advanced with a taper in his hand: the light shone full upon his features, and they were those of Dorsain. The joy of both blended in a gush of tears, and for some moments they wept in silence. Antoine, who had also started from the chimney-corner, first suspended the tide by his busy enquiries; and Constance, whose heart, despite of all that engaged it there, flew back to the suffering Valmont, recited, in as few words as she could, the extraordinary history of her absence. Dorsain and Antoine listened to her with greedy attention. Their eyes, their ears, their very souls seemed absorbed in the narrative.

"Que le bon Dieu soit loué!" exclaimed the latter, ere she had well finished; while the qui­vering lips and pale countenance of Dorsain shewed him incapable of articulating a syllable. [Page 86] "Et le pauvre Thuriot! Comme il s'en rejouira! Ah, savez-vous, ma'm'selle, que c'est votre père dont il s'agit?" ^*

"Yes, Constance, it is thy father," added Dorsain, in broken, but joyful accents; "it was my daughter the generous Valmont raised from obscurity! Oh, if ever there was an angel upon earth, it was he! That cottage thy little heart in­tuitively attached itself to, was the scene of his love and his benefits. We were too happy, my child! I am afraid we forgot God Almighty, for he sent a scourge to punish us. Thy mother was the victim; and but for the good Thuriot, then only a journeyman apothecary, thy little spark of being would never have been recalled. Ah, in that very cottage wert thou born; and there stands thy poor mother's death-bed!"

The rush was too mighty for Constance. She tottered, turned pale, and sunk to the ground.

The dreadful, deadly apprehension that had seized upon her heart was communicated in a look; no words could be added to it: with tremb­ling [Page 87] steps they flew towards the cottage. Already they approached it; already the reedy pool be­hind it became visible by a stream of moonlight, that pierced through the now leafless branches. A man, who stood stooping over the brink, at­tracted their eye. It was Thibaut, who, with a pitcher in his hand, was breaking the surface of ice to draw water. He advanced to them in haste, but with a countenance that bade their hearts beat less anxiously.

"He is well?" cried Constance, while yet afar off.

"Ah! Dieu merci! very well now, ma'm'selle." said Thibaut; "but he has been fearfully bad. To be sure, the mad fit came on him when the moon shone out; and, would you believe it? he that had not before set a foot to the ground, ran all over the house like a lapwing? And then he talked, and then he was convulsed. But I gave him water, and he is gone to sleep!"

As Thibaut spoke, they were already in the chamber, which the moon now fully illumined. Valmont lay half reclined upon the bed, his face towards the pillow; the long hair of his wife, which he had found, was treasured in his breast.—He had indeed slept—the sleep of death. [Page 88] No longer suffering, no longer convulsed, no longer a maniac, his soul had rejoined its Creator; there to claim, and to receive, the glorious recom­pense due to those who have suffered without guilt.

A rude coffin constructed by Thibaut, a grave dug within the limits of the garden, the prayers of the devout, and the tears of the innocent, were all the funeral rites of the marquis de Valmont. The curé of the village, driven from his home, had left none to supply his place; and such was the spirit of the times, that a religious duty, even to dust, was likely to have been deemed a crime. That dust had once been noble, rich—Alas! that it was human, too, would, probably, amid the convulsions of humanity, have been forgotten!

Yet does the weakness of nature blend with its most solemn duties! The grave of the marquis was a chosen spot. It lay open to the western sun; and the hillock that marked it, received his last reflected ray, as it glanced from the windows of the beloved cottage.

[Page 89] "Let us beware, my child," said Dorsain, as he dragged from it the weeping Constance, "let us beware how we deem that spot unhallowed which receives the ashes of the good! "It is no longer the breath of a mortal—It is the Divinity himself who sanctifies it!"

They were now in the very heart of winter. Nature and man seemed in unison to desolate the earth. France daily poured forth miserable thou­sands, to endure all the severities of the season in foreign countries, while those that remained at home groaned under the accumulated evils of anarchy and bloodshed. That she had witnessed them seemed now a frightful vision to Constance, as, shut up in a lonely cottage, the sole consola­tion and support of an aged parent, who, during her absence, had lost his wife, half stunned, she listened to the distant storm of nature and society. With her, the stream of life now seemed to stag­nate. How wild and irregular is its current! Im­pelled, at some periods of it, by strange and irre­sistible events, we rush forward into action; and, tossed from thought to thought, imagination knows no scope, and memory no point. At others, the soul is driven back upon herself; the senses subside into torpor,

[Page 90] Such was now the fate of Constance!—Week after week rolled heavily away, and the chevalier appeared not. Already she divined his fate. His last words recurred to her with all the force of a prediction. She repeated them to herself every night ere she closed her eyes; and even in sleep, officious memory still told her of her widowed heart.

Yet for the pure spirits accustomed to look out of themselves, and direct their view by turns to God and man, a balm will be found even in the hour of suffering! It was through the medium of her own sorrows, that Constance became truly alive to the duty of assuaging those of others. The conviction sunk deep in her heart. All its turbu­lent feelings harmonized by degrees into a soft and useful sensibility. The extraordinary con­vulsions of civil society daily called upon her to exercise it, and she learned to value, whilst ad­ministering them, the blessings of benevolence, and the consolations of piety.

Though shrinking before the piercing winds of spring, she neglected not to offer up her first prayers every morning over the grave of her fa­ther. Already the ground, no longer hard with intense frost, began to open itself to her tears; [Page 91] and to put forth the crocus, the snowdrop, and the few early flowers with which she had marked it round. It was yet but the grey dawn of morn­ing, when raising her eyes from the spot they had been fixed on, full of melancholy recollections, she directed them towards the cottage. Suddenly she perceived a stream of light issue through its broken shutters. She started, and continued to gaze more intently. It was no illusion. A light, like the gentle fanning of a flame, perceptibly shone, and died away. Trembling with curiosity, she drew nearer. It was not difficult, through the cleft of the shutter, to distinguish all that was passing within. A young peasant, poorly clad, was standing on the hearth, by a small pile of chips, to which he had set fire. He seemed pierced with cold; for he frequently stooped, chaf­ed his hands, and carefully kept up the little blaze with every remnant of fuel he could collect. Con­stance had lately seen but too many of her coun­trymen plunged in the direst extremes of suffer­ing, not to feel her compassion awakened. But, oh! how piercing was the pang that seized upon her heart, when the young man, by a sudden turn, received the light full on his countenance, and discovered to her the features of the chevalier! A cry of anguish announced to him that he was ob­served; and Constance, Constance, who but a few [Page 92] moments before had wept for the imaginary death of her lover, suddenly found herself in his arms!

For the joy, the sorrow, the tender agony of that moment, there were no words; and Val­mont himself shed tears as he held her to his bosom.

"It is here, then, that I find you," said he; "here, on the spot where, by a mystery, to me then inconceivable, you seemed to vanish from me! Nor did Fortune, beloved Constance! stop there; every good she had ever bestowed seemed vanishing with you!

It was in the midst of extravagant conjectures—of fruitless researches—of burning anxiety for your fate, the unlooked-for intelligence reached me, that both my own and my father's were on the point of being decided. In vain had we re­treated from the metropolis; its horrors, its sus­picions pursued us: and our very existence was then weighing in that political balance, of which the bloody scale had long been known to prepon­derate.

"Insurmountable necessity called me hence; yet, dupe that I was, even at the moment of de­parting, it was to the man whose artifices had de­tained [Page 93] me beyond my appointment—whose villany had made him the ready tool of villany in others—to the profligate instrument of my own follies, as I believed, but in reality to the spy of my father, that I committed the dearest secret of my bosom. To Valrive I left the charge of tracing you. Oh, Constance, Constance! bitter is the pang, when those evils that fall upon us through the corrup­tions of others, come with the accumulated weight of our example to justify them!"

Valmont, to whose heart the story of his coun­try was present, made a long pause, while his eyes swam in tears, and his cheek burned with the shame of retrospection.

"Views I myself had hardly analysed," he con­tinued, "united with the well-founded prejudice you so artlessly betrayed at our first meeting to make me assume a name that might lull caution to sleep; and I was now not without hopes that that name, so familiar to your ears, would of it­self, should it reach them, forward a discovery of your concealment.

"With a distracted heart I flew to Paris. How many distracted ones did I find there! My opi­nions, which, in the early struggles, had de­cidedly [Page 94] inclined to the popular party, still left me friends amidst the faction most adverse to my father. I had even the good-fortune to be per­sonally beloved by many with whom I did not wholly accord in politics. Young, fearless, and ready, as they believed, to stand forth a daring partisan of any leader to whom I should attach myself, I suddenly became, by a strange fluctua­tion in my fate, the object of enthusiasm and ap­plause.

"I had now entered that vortex from which I found it impossible to retreat. Thousands were daily ingulphed by it before my eyes. Of those that yet floated on the surface, many touched the fearful point that was to sink them. I was myself fast approaching to it, for the opinions that had been mine were no longer those of the multitude. My father, in the interim, in whose heart my flattering reception had planted an ima­ginary dagger, reprobated the conduct by which alone his liberty, or life, was secured. The per­fidious Valrive, whom, with a confidence as mis­placed as my own, he had sent after me to Paris, soon learned to think of raising his fortunes upon the wreck of ours. Though I was in fact the only bulwark between my father and destruction, yet by a train of insidious artifices were the feuds [Page 95] between us hourly increased; and while to him I became suspected of little less than parricide, every engine was set in motion by a party, to render me really such. Daily receiving from him letters full of bitter reproach; death before my eyes, and indignation in my heart, what days, what nights were mine!—Shall I dare to say, that love it­self was superseded? I began to reconcile myself to your loss. There were moments when I even deemed it providential. Yes, lovely Constance! when I recollected the time, the place, the cir­cumstances of our intended meeting—all that was wrong in my own character, and all that was charming in yours, I learned too justly to doubt myself. Oh, let me not lose your regard by the very candour which shews you how much I de­serve it!"

"The hour of mortal trial at length came on. After my duties had struggled against temptation in almost every shape, it was from Valrive I re­ceived the extraordinary news of your imprison­ment; received it at the dreadful crisis when my father was about to follow you. Too well aware of the licentiousness of his character, how distracting were my apprehensions!—Prudence, policy,—all that had hitherto guided me, vanished into air. I flew to obtain a passport—it was denied me. I [Page 96] would at an risque, have quitted Paris without one. The barriers were closed. In the desperation of my heart I wrote a letter. How it reached my father I know not: his answer was strange, was enigmatical. He spoke of you as of one whom he feared; whom he abhorred; and while in the most solemn terms he re-assured my heart on the point it was most jealously alive to, he left me im­pressed with a vague horror as to your future fate. Of this, Valrive either could not, or would not, inform me; and it was during these mo­ments of perturbation and rage that he myste­riously insinuated to me the execrable project of denouncing my father. My blood flowed back with a chill like that of death; but I had lived amongst savages who called themselves politicians, and believed I had learnt to dissemble. I therefore rejected his proposal, but accepted from him a passport obtained under a feigned name from a popular leader. It was only one hour previous to that on which I should have availed myself of it, that I received through a friend of the same party an intimation that it would prove the signal of my fate; that a mandate had been privately issued to arrest the bearer; and that Valrive, to whom my countenance had doubtless been more sincere than my words, had, while thus securing me in the snare, been himself the indirect means of de­nouncing his lord.

[Page 97] "Why should I recount to you all the horrible perplexities that ensued? Suffice it to say, that finding it impossible to save my father, I made a secret oath to die with him. By a strenuous ex­ertion of the credit I had left, I at length obtained a passport, with permission, as I was not cri­minated, to secure for myself all I could of my family estates. The barrier were now open; and, with a few faithful, though humble, well-wishers who had served in my regiment, I set out on the memorable journey which was to decide the fate of my family. Within a few leagues of the chateau, I unexpectedly encountered Valrive, doubtless eagerly hastening to join the plunderers. The meeting was a thunderbolt to both of us. He, like myself, had companions, but they were less numerous, and probably worse armed, for he accosted me with profuse testimonies of respect. Each was yet to learn what was passing at the chateau. Alas, I learnt it too soon from you! I had firmness enough to dissemble. I parted with you—Oh God! let me not recollect the bitterness of that moment, or the horrible ones that suc­ceeded it! Doomed to see my own estates a scene of bloodshed and rapine; an assassin in every vassal, and a spy in every human face; for three weeks I struggled vainly against evils no courage could guard me from, no prudence could avert. [Page 98] With the same assiduity that I sought my father, he sought to conceal himself: it was my fate at last to find him in an obscure hovel, sick, languish­ing, disabled; with no other companion than a poor ecclesiastic nearly under the same circum­stances with himself, and no other guard than the charitable hospitality of an individual, who, though low-born, and low-bred, still cherished a spark of the Divinity.

"During that period which preceded the day when I followed a parent to the grave, I had long and melancholy leisure for explanation: I heard with horror the avowal of crimes, of which I would now willingly bury the recollection. My father, notwithstanding all the precautions that attended your birth, had long learnt to doubt whe­ther those crimes had obtained their fruition: a doubt, the sight of you instantaneously confirmed. Fear soon magnified every danger: our secret correspondence became known to him: and I learned, with astonishment, that he tore you from your home, chiefly because he suspected Dorsain and yourself of influence enough to make his son an accessary in his punishment.

"Heaven was gracious! for it permitted him to live long enough to see that son acquitted, by [Page 99] his misfortunes, of the imputed guilt; to see him a voluntary sharer in his parent's sufferings!—proscribed, impoverished!—I at length received his last sigh!—It was not a painful one, for the bitterness had been exhausted in those that pre­ceded it. To him, reason had long been but the instrument of remorse, and life only desirable as a barrier against the dark chasm of eternity!

"Deeply did I meditate over the obscure grave his fate had allotted him.—Oh, Constance! there are moments, when the illusions of this world fade into nothing, and that only is real which is to come!"

"Yes! there are dear and sacred realities, even in this world," cried Constance, as she cast her eyes on Dorsain, whom tender anxiety had brought in search of her. "When the virtues of a parent spread a venerable and protecting shade over youth; when youth is employed, like Val­mont's, in assuaging the sorrows, or sometimes the death-bed, of a parent; these are the realities that give at once a glory, and a grace, to life!"

Dorsain, who, in the wan countenance of Val­mont, at first hardly recognized the blooming young man he had formerly seen, received him [Page 100] generously to his heart; and Constance now, with tender emotion, noticed the change in his person.

"From the day I lost my father," said he, "I had no object in life, but to pursue my way hi­ther. My name was now added to the list of the proscribed, and I had neither passport nor protec­tion. My journey was necessarily on foot, and the hazards I encountered made it both circuitous and fatiguing. Conscious that my person would here be universally known, I thought not of ven­turing near this spot till dark: but I had already overtasked my own strength, for it was midnight ere I arrived; an hour when I feared to alarm you. Immoderate fatigue compelled me to take a repose which lasted somewhat longer than I in­tended; and when I awoke, I found my limbs stiff at once with weariness and cold. I had, never­theless, a double incitement to seek you—justice and love! My father, well aware of the dangers to which his principles would expose him in a national contest, had long ago vested large sums of money in foreign banks. To me in the article of death, he entrusted the securities—you may well judge, that I consider them only as a trust.—I bring with me," continued he smiling, "me­morandums, that will enable my Constance to make a poor man rich, if her heart remembers [Page 101] the affiance, which in his more prosperous days he sealed upon her hand!"

Ah! the heart of Constance remembered it well! Her hand again joyfully confirmed it. Moderately rich in the gifts of fortune, with spirits subdued, not embittered, by suffering; ennobled by their virtues, and happy in the exer­cise of them, Constance, Dorsain, and Valmont, looked on man with benevolence, and to heaven with veneration: and though driven like our first parents from their native home, yet did innocence and love still find, amid the wilderness of life, a spot on which to create their own Eden!