THE

PARISIAN;

OR,

GENUINE ANECDOTES

OF

DISTINGUISHED AND NOBLE

CHARACTERS.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

Fictis meminerit nos non jocari fabulis.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR WILLIAM LANE,

AT THE

MINERVA PRESS,

LEADENHALL-STREET.

MDCCXCIV.

THE

PARISIAN.

CHAP. XIII.

AN event of the next day confirmed Madame de Germeil in a suspicion that totally disappointed such an expectation. Sir Edward Lockyer was in the evening a self-invited guest; and Madame de Germeil usually allowed Fitzpier to join her party, because the Duke yet seemed partial to him: he was not, however, a favourite with her, for the ceremony of soothing her vanity appeared to him so troublesome and superfluous, that he chose to omit it.

‘Pray, Mr. Fitzpier,’ said Sir Edward, continuing an oration which had never ceased from the moment of his entrance, ‘may I ask—may I inquire, who is the handsome foreigner who was talking with you so earnestly yesterday—no, I mean on Tuesday, on the road to . . . . I protest I forget what road; but I believe it was the road

to . . .’

‘Sir,’ said Fitzpier, interrupting him, ‘he is from Ireland; you do not, I hope, call him a foreigner?” “Oh, dear, no!” returned Sir Edward, in a shrieking voice, “surely not, by no means—certainly not: but the gentleman I speak of was a ——’ ‘Oh, yes,’ interrupted Fitzpier, rather impetuously, ‘you mean Baron ——’

“I thought so,” continued the indefatigable babbler, “I thought the gentleman was from France. I was just going to say he was a French gentleman; though I discovered it more by his manner than his person, which is—”

“It is Baron Wayermann, a German,” cried the other, endeavouring, in vain, to restrain his impatience.

‘——Which is, in my opinion, very handsome. Excuse me ladies, I admire the fair ladies of your country; there is so much charming vivacity, so much good-humoured freedom, such a pretty— But I was observing that I think this French gentleman very handsome, and a very fine figure of a man.’

‘By G—!’ said Fitzpier, losing all patience, ‘if you were to place a stick perpendicularly, to touch his knee and foot, you would find that his leg makes as complete a semi-circle as ever Sir Isaac Newton drew.’

‘—A very fine figure indeed! and a handsome face to crown it withal; fine intelligent eyes, and fine turned features.’

‘His mouth is turned into his ear by a stroke of the palsy,’ cried Fitzpier, in a rage.

Laure had listened to Sir Edward’s interrupted harangue in a consternation she could scarcely conceal, and Madame de Germeil seemed to think it very mysterious; but Adeline, Madame L’Arminiere, and the Duke, feeling neither doubt nor embarrassment, enjoyed the scene without restraint, and made no effort to control their mirth.

‘Bless me then, surely,’ continued the eternal Sir Edward, ‘we don’t mean the same person: I think it cannot be the same person. The gentleman I saw is tall, and well proportioned; a fine figure, a very fine figure! with a clear complexion, and dark eyes; but his mouth is quite strait, and when he speaks—’

‘He speaks to the purpose,’ interrupted the irritated Irishman, ‘and never outruns his own breath, or the patience of his hearers.’

Sir Edward had just penetration enough to discover that Fitzpier had lost his temper, an accident that never happening to himself, he was not quick at observing in others; he endeavoured to sooth him with a variety of excuses, insensibly ending in an involuntary self-congratulation, on his own happy mode of adjusting debates, and reconciling differences; recording with an inexhaustible memory, numberless instances to prove it, from the occurrences of Lockyer-Place.

Fitzpier recovered his usual good humour, when he thought the danger of a discovery was past; but Madame de Germeil continued to cherish suspicions, which, though she could not reconcile to probability, urged her to attend still more closely to the conduct of Fitzpier.

Madame de Germeil had not an intention, when she entered Harrowgate, of remaining there more than two or three days; but hearing from Mrs. Grenby the report that she was residing in one of the Duke of Harmington’s houses, she determined to lengthen her stay at a place so much frequented, the more forcibly to discredit the calumny.

Mrs. Grenby informed her she had traced it, with the assistance of her brother, to Lady Carbreon. Mr. Cosbyne, she said, was so much incensed at the malicious tale, that he had openly reproached her with being the authoress of it. Lady Carbreon supported the charge with admirable composure, and denied that the report originated with her. Mrs. Grenby added, that it was said, she had offered Lord William Dalvening all the consolation in her power, for the mortification he had endured from the rejection of Laure, which he had philosophically accepted, when the first transports of his disappointment had abated.

Madame L’Arminiere, whose only plan was amusement, had readily assented to remain with Madame de Germeil, at Harrowgate; and now, with equal pliability, agreed to stay there, until summoned, by their engagement to Lockyer-Place, to which they had all been invited with infinite eagerness and importunity.

Lady Lockyer remained at Harrowgate until the morning of a day on which she expected, by appointment, a large dinner party at home, and was not able to resist an offered rubber at piquet, while the horses were putting to. She sat down, utterly disregarding the remonstrances of Sir Edward, who was too experimentally certain how the affair would end.

Fitzpier happening to be present, was seized with an inclination to retaliate the uneasiness he had suffered from Sir Edward a few days before; and drew him out of the room, by desiring he would give his opinion of a brace of pointers he offered to conduct him to. The baronet jumped instantly into the trap, and Fitzpier led him to a private stable, when he descanted so long, and with so much energy, on the beauty of the dogs, that before the smallest probability appeared of his making a finale, the rubber was out, and Lady Lockyer looking at her watch, found that scarcely an hour and half remained to travel twenty miles in. The case was urgent—Sir Edward was sought for with the most diligent assiduity. Five—ten minutes elapsed, and every minute seemed an age.

At length, finding that her utmost efforts would not enable her to appear at her own house in tolerable time, unless she sat out instantly, she very gravely left word that Sir Edward was to be sent after her, and the postillions drove on.

When they had gallopped four or five miles, the projected departure, with all the inconveniencies of a delay, rushing suddenly into the imagination of Sir Edward, he started in great emotion: his tongue, which had rung a perpetual larum from the moment he had awoke in the morning, stopt as by enchantment; and darting through the stable door, he flew along the road like an old hunter, whose ears are suddenly regaled with a full cry. When he came near the Hotel, and could not discern any signs of the equipage, he immediately comprehended his disaster; and stood revolving in his mind, whether he should endeavour to overtake Lady Lockyer on horseback, or in a hack post-chaise: he would have much preferred the former, but for the unlucky circumstance of never having crossed the back of a horse during the last sixty years of his life.

In the height of his perplexity Fitzpier arrived, who had been put to his utmost speed in following him; and perceiving him in the middle of the road, trembling with anxious impatience, panting—his eyes staring wildly, and his head veering this way and that, as if it were turning on a pivot, exclaimed with a loud laugh, ‘A fine figure! a very fine figure! and a fine intelligent face to crown it withal!’

Sir Edward had just recollection enough left to order a chaise, which the ostler assured him was standing ready in the yard; but at the same time swore, if he were to be kicked from Durham to Dover, he could not find, in the whole place, a horse to draw it. Sir Edward was confounded at this intelligence: and whatever opinion he entertained of the excellence of his cook, every dish of the ill-fated dinner, mangled and disfigured, glided successively before his eyes, like the injured ghosts to the imagination of Richard the Third.

His concern was so much increased by the reflection, that Fitzpier could no longer withstand his distress, and instantly offered his horses and servant to attend him all the way, if he could not get up with the carriage. The proposal was accepted in a transport of thankfulness; and the eagerness of his anxiety to get home, overcoming every difficulty, Sir Edward ventured to seat himself in the saddle.

Of Fitzpier’s horses, one was hot and fiery, and the other remarkably quiet; a circumstance that would have given him a capital opportunity of completing the jest in style, by putting Sir Edward in a situation to break his neck: but though he was a young fellow of wit and spirit on most occasions, such a coup de maître never entered his imagination; on the contrary, he was so well satisfied with the little revenge he had already taken, that he really felt interested that Sir Edward should perform the journey in safety.

CHAP. XIV.

ADELINE knew that Madame de Germeil had very lately received letters from her father, and to her infinite surprise and chagrin, she was profoundly silent on the subject. Hitherto the Comte had always written either to Mademoiselle D’Ogimond or Laure, when he sent a pacquet to England; but in the last they did not appear to be noticed. Reason whispered to Adeline that such a total neglect was strange, but Madame de Germeil’s will, more powerful with her than reason, forbade her to complain.

Laure, whose fears and suspicions, excited by the accusations of the Marquis, were almost confirmed by the testimony of concurring circumstances, viewed the conduct of Madame de Germeil with the averted eye of disappointed confidence and repelled esteem, and doubted whether she had not with-held a letter the Comte had meant for her. As she hourly felt an increasing aversion from receiving benefits at the hands of a man whose conduct was repugnant to every principle of rectitude and humanity, after many efforts to overcome her timidity, she had written to him the day of De Saint Ouïn’s departure, to demand the information she felt every hour more impatient to hear; and concluded by conjuring him, with earnestness, no longer to tax his generosity by continuing her in a situation to which she was sensible she had no claim, either by birth or fortune, but suffer her to return to the humble station from which he had apparently taken her; and averred, with many protestations, that so far from being mortified at such a transition, she should be relieved from the humiliating consciousness, that she was not entitled according to the general opinion of the world, to mix with that part of it which had pretensions to the honor of living in the society of Mademoiselle D’Ogimond.

Laure had given this letter, sealed, to Madame de Germeil, to inclose with her pacquet; and as she had often written to the Comte on less interesting occasions, she hoped this letter would be the less remarked by her. From this period Madame de Germeil had treated her with the most chilling indifference, and sometimes with pointed neglect: Laure endured it with philosophy, for she no longer loved her; and could now perceive faults in her, which esteem and gratitude had formerly veiled from her penetration; her conduct added to these, a conviction that Madame could be unjust, and dislike without a cause.

The letter she suspected the Comte to have written her, she supposed not to be of much import, because he could not at the time have received hers; she therefore waited the event of her inquiries in silent suspense, certain that it could not be decided until the Comte’s messenger, who was dispatched every fortnight to England, returned again.

Laure sometimes imagined that Madame de Germeil’s displeasure arose from the failure of her efforts in making the Duke explain the motive of his attentions: a surmise equally founded on a cessation of her excessive complaisance to him, and a disposition she evinced to rally him on subjects she well knew he was vastly unwilling to have discussed. Laure perceived the restraint that now accompanied the officious solicitude he still continued to exhibit for her, and entertained hopes of being soon entirely exempted from it.

In fact, Madame de Germeil and the Duke had been playing a separate game: he imagined the Comte D’Ogimond’s resources must soon fail; and when he first saw Laure, he hoped to procure her upon his own terms, by assisting him to prosecute his ill-digested plans of villany. Madame de Germeil, on the contrary, foreseeing the storm ready to burst on the Comte’s head, was eager to obtain for him a support and ally in a country she thought he must necessarily fly to on an emergency. They were both disappointed. The Duke was too crafty to give into her scheme, and soon discerned in Laure a mind too elevated to be induced by any accident or mischance to comply with his.

Madame de Germeil, as a last resort, mentioned to him, with an affectation of distress, the intimation she had received from Mrs. Grenby. The Duke catching eagerly at an opportunity of extricating himself with decency from a situation which began to be extremely irksome to him, lamented very pathetically that he should be the unfortunate, though innocent agent to such a piece of illiberal scandal; and declared that he would render it abortive, by absenting himself from their fascinating society: and in undergoing so cruel a mortification, he should be almost recompensed, by reflecting that it was a sacrifice voluntarily offered by the most respectful attachment, in return for the envied distinction which had called it forth.

Much as Madame de Germeil had disliked his reserve, she was unprepared for such heroic sentiments; and if she acquiesced in them, it was, at least, for five minutes in silence. The Duke profiting by this unexpected effect of her astonishment, retired with a gravity becoming the occasion, sincerely thanking fortune that he had escaped so well. The last seven days had gradually prepared Madame de Germeil for this disappointment; yet she could not endure to be thus baffled in a plan she had originally thought herself sure of succeeding in. Her ill humour and resentment were not to be concealed by any ordinary effort; and her patience, irritated by several recent events, could not enable her to pass this over with her accustomary discretion.

The Duke judged it would be prudent to withdraw as much as possible from the verge of her phillippics; and entered immediately on his sagacious resolution of self-denial, by dining that day with a family, neither very young nor very handsome, consisting of three discreet damsels, and an invalid dowager, their mother, whose society not offering a very alluring prospect, he had hitherto repeatedly neglected their advances. The next morning he found himself under the necessity of paying a long promised visit to a gentleman in the North-Riding; and as the expedition would certainly require two or three days to perform, he told the young ladies he feared he should not have the pleasure of seeing them again until they met at Sir Edward Lockyer’s. The young ladies received the intimation with a very decent appearance of regret; but they were not by any means inconsolable in his absence. The intervening time passed quietly on without any incident to disturb them.

Madame de Germeil was not indeed kind to Laure, yet she was now no longer reproved for inattention to the merits of the Duke, which she had often fatigued herself to no purpose to discover.

CHAP. XV.

AT length they bade adieu to Harrowgate; for Madame de Germeil meant to proceed immediately to London on quitting Lockyer-Place. They were almost the first who arrived there on the Jubilee day, and were received by Sir Edward with all the unfeigned pleasure of genuine hospitality, and he acknowledged with gratitude the honor their presence conferred on him. Such a compliment from the lady of the house would not have appeared superfluous to a person of Mademoiselle’s D’Ogimond’s rank; but as she depended entirely on her sposo for the ceremonial of receiving her guests, she did not descend amongst them until the dinner was announced.

The company was very numerous, and consisted of a strange, but entertaining, medley. Sir Edward repeated to every young lady individually, that he expected part of the band from York; and hoped, with a most joyous smirk, that they would not have any serious objection to a ball in the evening.

Fitzpier advanced to Laure, and secured her promise for two dances before Madame de Germeil could find time to forbid her compliance, had she been disposed to do it.

At seven the music was expected, and a quarter after, Sir Edward began to be very much disconcerted that it did not appear: when the clock struck eight he was half distracted, and ran, with his watch in his hand, from the Terrace to the Drawing-room, from the Drawing-room to the Offices, and from the Offices to the Terrace, alternately. The setting sun gilded the road they were to pass, but no rattling post-chaise struck his eye or saluted his ear. It was as impossible to forbear smiling at his perplexity as it was to pity his mortification. He affirmed with an earnestness of asseveration, that would almost have enforced belief of a Jew, that he had himself engaged the band, and consequently their absence was not occasioned by mistake or negligence on his part.

The last sun-beam dropped beneath the horizon, and carried with it all the hope Sir Edward had still entertained of seeing his tardy Orions. He then returned to the drawing-room in great despondency, having charged some of the servants to keep a look out, and give him instant notice if their approach should be discovered.

Those who had declined dancing retired with great composure to the card-room, exulting perhaps internally, that the younger and more attractive should be deprived of an amusement they were no longer themselves capable of relishing.

The calm however, was soon disturbed by the entrance of a servant, who whispered to the expecting Sir Edward, with many marks of fear and horror, that while John and Joe were listening in the Park for the sound of wheels, they had seen a figure, all in white, carrying a white coffin round the clump of elms.

This intelligence was overheard by a lady, whose husband, an officer, was supposed to have been lost in the Bay of Bengal. She had supported this mournful conjecture of his fate about two months; and withstood with great firmness the intreaties of a young man who solicited to succeed him in her heart; but her scruples had not allowed her to listen to the one, until the death of the other was better ascertained. On hearing the servant’s report, a whim instantly seized her that the ghost of the dear deceased had indulgently taken this method of convincing her of the reality of his death, that she might comply with her own wishes and those of her lover, and was at that moment about to appear before her. The idea was not entirely an unwelcome one; yet the terror that naturally accompanied it, and perhaps a spark of affection revived by this delicate proof of posthumous attention to her happiness, made her shriek violently for a minute, and then, with the usual gradations, fall into strong convulsions.

Every body was astonished, and the exclamation observed on these occasions, flew round the room very fast; but no answer could be returned to the universal cry of ‘What is it? What is the matter?’ for Sir Edward had slipped away to learn more of the story.

Lady Lockyer repeatedly rung for assistance, and no one appeared to receive her commands: surprised at this unusual neglect she withdrew to discover the cause of it. Every place was empty; she called several times; no answer was returned: she then took a light, and went up stairs; every thing there was equally solitary. She returned to her company in some consternation, at the instant the affrighted widow recovered sufficiently to declare the reason of her terrors, and to ask if her late husband had not entered the room, carrying a white coffin. This question struck a panic into some of her audience, whilst the rest supposed her intellects were suddenly deranged. Every body now looked round for Sir Edward, who had not yet re-appeared, and were seized with fresh wonder at the tale Lady Lockyer related.

Some of the gentlemen rushed out to learn what had happened: of these was Fitzpier, whose curiosity and expectation of amusement from the dénouement were raised to the highest pitch. They ran into the Park; the moon shone very bright, and they soon discovered Sir Edward at the head of a troop of servants, male and female; for not only the domestics of the family, but of every guest, had run out to see the ghost; most of them induced by curiosity, and the rest because they were afraid of being left behind.

The whole party seemed to be dancing the Heyes, for nobody would have stood on the outside if they could have prevailed upon another to do it. Fitzpier, who was the first that joined them, demanded of Sir Edward, how much of the enemy’s motions he had discovered since he had occupied that post?

‘Bless me!’ returned the Baronet, who was strongly tinctured with superstition, ‘this is the strangest thing!—I certainly saw the figure and the coffin, as plainly as I see you. Surely it can’t be a thief! What should he be lugging about a coffin for?’

‘There it is! there it is!’ they all cried.

Fitzpier advanced towards the ghost, and hailed it. ‘God bless you!’ returned the spirit, ‘do tell me where I am. I am fainting with thirst and fatigue. The devil fetch me if I have not been wandering nine or ten miles, with my d—d instrument, case and all, upon my shoulders!’

Notwithstanding the tone of distress with which this was uttered, Fitzpier could not restrain an immoderate fit of laughter, which being heard by Sir Edward and his followers, who had still kept aloof, they all ran to the place, and discovered in the object of their terror, an unhappy individual of the expected York band, stripped of his coat and waistcoat, which hung on his arm, and the white coffin a viol de Gamba, in a deal case.

Sir Edward first questioned him, with great eagerness, on the cause of his disappointment, and then inquired how he came there, and where his companions were? The man disburthening his shoulders of the white coffin, replied very humbly, that he would relate their mischance; but begged first to have something to drink, and to be permitted to sit down.

When his request was complied with, he told Sir Edward that he had set out with his companions at three o’clock, in two post-chaises; but at the last stage, the only post-boy who knew the way to Lockyer-Place was in liquor; and when they got on the moor, on the other side of the Park, he turned out of the road, on pretence of taking a short cut, and drove into a large bog; and the other chaise following the first very rapidly, stuck fast before they discovered the mistake. They all contrived, he said, to scramble over in safety; but found it impossible to extricate the first chaise and horses, and in trying to free the other, the harness and traces were broken, so as to render them useless. The post-boys and his companions returned to the last post-town they came through, which was not more than a mile and a half from the scene of their disaster; and as his instrument was so heavy and troublesome to carry, and he did not chuse to leave it behind him, he agreed to be the person left on the moor to watch the chaises, till they returned in others. After waiting two hours, and not seeing any thing of them, he took his viol on his back, and marched the same way they had appeared to take. He soon lost himself; and rambling about until he was heartily tired, he entered the Park, and keeping the strait road, instead of turning off to the house, he found himself going out at another gate. Puzzled and bewildered, the twilight just coming on, he had measured back his steps, and again lost his path. He added, that he discovered Sir Edward and the servants, but the moon at that instant getting behind a cloud, he had mistaken them for a herd of deer.

At this observation Fitzpier’s laugh returned with redoubled violence, in which he was joined by the whole company, who had assembled to hear the story, the widow excepted, who found herself so much indisposed and chagrined, at having exposed herself so unmercifully, and at the uncertainty in which she was again plunged, that she ordered her carriage, and went immediately home. In passing the clump of elms she could not forbear throwing a sidelong glance of inquiry; but not a speck of white appeared to confirm her yet existing expectation.

The wandering son of Apollo had scarcely finished his narrative, when his companions arrived in much better condition than himself. They directly attacked him for quitting his post on the moor, where they had been two hours hallooing and searching for him. He asked, in his turn, why they made him stay such a confounded time, broiling in the sun, and parched with thirst, while they were, most likely, amusing themselves over a bottle.

At this hint, which was in part well founded, and closely followed up by a torrent of reproaches from the knight of the white coffin, every man began his separate defence, with such eagerness and vociferation, that the bystanders were deafened with the clamour. In short, they never made a more hideous noise even in tuning their instruments in a concert-room for the edification of the audience.

At length Sir Edward obtained silence, by desiring them to refresh themselves, and repair immediately to the ball-room, where the delay their disaster occasioned was forgotten in the laugh it excited. Sir Edward rubbed his hands; and to every gratulation on the conclusion of his troubles, crowed out with infinite satisfaction, ‘Ay, ay, better late than never; better late than never.’

Fitzpier did not fail to claim Laure’s promised hand; and took an opportunity to inform her that he had received a letter from De Saint Ouïn, dated from Dover, written while he waited for the vessel that was to convey him to Calais. ‘He meant to have left Valain in England,’ continued Fitzpier, ‘but I persuaded him I should be as faithful, and probably more useful to him. As I am an idle fellow, I intend to employ the rest of the week in sauntering up to London; perhaps I shall be there almost as soon as you; and if Madame will not allow me the honour of seeing you in Park-Lane, I may be fortunate enough to meet you sometimes elsewhere.’

Laure, who felt an increasing regard for Fitzpier, was not displeased at the intimation. She listened to his account of De Saint Ouïn with silent attention, but resolutely denied herself the satisfaction of speaking of him. Fitzpier observed this circumstance, and instantly dropped the subject.

The Duke of Harmington entered very late in the evening: he paid his compliments to Madame de Germeil and the young ladies with unusual zeal and respect: but though importuned by Sir Edward to sleep at Lockyer-Place, he chose to slip away at one o’clock, and before he was missed by half the party, had travelled twenty miles.

Laure rejoiced internally at being delivered from his gallantry; yet had she been allowed the privilege of extracting amusement from it, she would have found it more laughable than vexatious; but while Madame de Germeil continued his champion, she had been obliged to listen to him with affected complacency, and repress the mirth his absurdities would have extorted from a stoic.

CHAP. XVI.

THE next morning the four ladies sat out for London, where they arrived in safety the third day. Mrs. Grenby happened to be still at Wincale, and flew to them immediately. In a tête à tête with her friend, the subject of the Duke’s attentions was discussed, and Madame de Germeil suppressing her own plan and discomfiture, gave such a detail of them, that Mrs. Grenby, for a fortnight after, could never preserve her gravity when she reflected on it.

The town was very empty; but Madame de Germeil chose to remain there, as she expected hourly a summons from the Comte to return to Paris, where her talents, and the beauty of Laure, were much wanted, to counterbalance the effects of the proceedings against him, planned by the old Marquis de Saint Ouïn, with so much prudence, and executed with so much vigour, that little doubt now remained on the public mind of the innocence of his son in that fatal affair, which stampt the family of Saint Ouïn enemies of the Comte D’Ogimond for ever.

It was proved by them, that this fell villain, who was indeed ever ready primed with mischief, which his erring head and coward hand sometimes failed to perform, had proposed to the young Marquis to murder Lamalaige; and finding the instigation rejected with the highest indignation and horror, and the young man’s friendship and esteem forfeited for ever, urged equally by fear and revenge, had procured a wretch to commit the atrocious act, and then accuse and arrest De Saint Ouïn, as the murderer; who would not have had time given him to explain the matter, because being a Noble, and the unhappy Lamalaige of the tiers etat, the populace would not have permitted him to be conducted alive to prison; and if unexpectedly they should have been inclined to spare him, the Comte’s agent was directed to make a scuffle, and dispatch the young Marquis on pretence of his having attempted to escape.

This diabolical scheme was, however, in part disconcerted. When Valain gave his master the letter, in which the Comte explained himself, he remained for some purpose in the room; but his attention was soon diverted from his occupation, to the emotion that agitated the Marquis whilst he read it, who sat for some time motionless: at length, starting up in an ecstacy of rage, he tore the paper, and throwing it from him with violence, darted out of the room. He returned however in two minutes, but it was no longer where he had left it: he questioned Valain, who answered in great confusion, that as Monsieur le Marquis had torn the letter and thrown it away, he had had the misfortune to think it of no further use, and as it littered the place, he had put the pieces in the fire. The Marquis, too much agitated to attend to the improbability of his excuse, and imagining his embarrassment arose from having destroyed the paper, mal-apropos, told him he had done well.

Valain was a great favourite with De Saint Ouïn; he had served him from a boy with the utmost zeal and fidelity: he knew the letter was from the Comte, whom he had always detested, and was afraid the young Marquis would be entrapped into some mischief; for he had been told of an illustrious young man, who had been insidiously allured to ruin by the pernicious influence of the Comte’s society and example.

Valain’s attachment to his master coinciding with his curiosity, had induced him to snatch up the letter, which he meant to read, and replace where he found it; but the sudden return of the Marquis prevented him: yet he had already seen enough to confirm his suspicions of the Comte, and hastily put the detestable scrawl in his pocket.

The more Valain considered the subject of the letter, and the disappointment of those hopes the Comte had formed, the more his apprehensions increased for the safety of his master, which he thought would be highly endangered by remaining where he was, and he often ventured to remind him that he generally at that season of the year was accustomed to visit his father. De Saint Ouïn was much more inclined to visit England and Laure; for when he thought of the opinion she would entertain of him from the representations of the Comte, he was more than half distracted. In one of his paroxysms he determined to indulge his inclination; and his impatience not admitting the delay of a minute, he directed Valain to execute a few commissions, and follow him post to Ostend. He then sat out, though it was almost dark, attended by one servant.

Valain was preparing to depart the next morning, when he was prevented by the arrival of an enraged mob, who beset the house, and demanded the Marquis with loud shouts. Some of the people soon rushed in, accompanied by a guard, who inquired for his master. Valain coolly replied, that he did not exactly know his route, but he believed he was gone to Brittany. They would not credit the assertion; and after having searched every place in vain, returned to the spot where he was left, with some of the party to guard him, and broke open a box, in which Valain had just packed some cloaths belonging to De Saint Ouïn: they found in it two letters addressed to him, not yet unsealed, which had arrived only an hour before: one of them, which was read aloud, reproached him vehemently for conceiving a design so base, as that he had manifested towards Lamalaige; and contained many supplications not to engage in an act so barbarous and dishonourable. The signature Valain was unacquainted with, but he easily discovered the disguised writing of the Comte.

In the interim the other letter had been seized by a man who was remarkably officious in searching for the Marquis: it was taken from his reluctant hand, and appeared to be dated five days before the other, and signed by the Count D’Ogimond. He reproached De Saint Ouïn with pusillanimity and want of friendship, in refusing to perform what he had requested of him; and alluding to the letter Valain at that instant happened to have in his pocket, ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that if you are a man of honour, the letter of the 16^th is destroyed.’

Whilst the paper was reading, the fellow who had first taken possession of it, called vehemently to the guard to continue the search, observing that it was almost impossible the Marquis could be out of the town; or if he were, it would be proper to inquire which of the gates he had passed through, that he might be traced; alledging that his flight was every proof of guilt that could be required.

Valain having learnt the purport of the accusation, strenuously asserted his master’s innocence, though at the hazard of his own life; and taking from his pocket the letter he had so fortunately preserved, gave it to the officer who commanded the guard, and desired him to compare it with the others, and he would find they were all written by the same person: it would illustrate too, the request which the Marquis was reproached for refusing to comply with.

Valain demanded when the murder was committed? and was answered, that Lamalaige had been seen walking on the Esplanade at five in the morning; and it was supposed the atrocious deed had been done soon after. He then triumphantly desired they would take the trouble of inquiring at the gates, and they would find that his master had quitted the town the preceding evening.

The same fellow who had been so active in the accusation and search, remarked with a malicious sneer, that the affair might have been performed by deputy. However as the mob could not be immediately gratified, by tearing the supposed offender to pieces, some of them admitted that he might possibly be innocent; and in a short time they dispersed very quietly, leaving the guard to continue their search and execute their office, without favouring them with any further assistance.

Valain remained unmolested until evening; and then began his journey, first making a circuit to mislead any one who might be inclined to follow him. He arrived at Ostend in safety, and was directed to proceed to Dover, where he would find the Marquis, who had thus flown from the danger he was not aware of. And that very ardour of attachment which the Comte meant to disappoint, even while he unfeelingly encouraged it to assist his views, occasioned them to be baffled thus fatally for his peace and reputation.

CHAP. XVII.

MRS. GRENBY prevailed with Madame de Germeil and the young ladies to pass a few days at Wincale; and it was announced to be a farewel visit. Mr. Cosbyne was not there: his sister told her guests that he was making the tour of France and Italy, both for amusement and the recovery of his health, which had been a little impaired.

And here they learnt that Lady Carbreon, accompanying a party on the water, without any prudent addition to her usual habiliments, had caught a violent cold, and lost the use of those limbs she had been so forward to exhibit.

Madame de Germeil received the mandate she was expecting immediately on her return to London. Calling to take leave of one of the few families they had any knowledge of, who yet remained in Town, they met Fitzpier, who was surprised at the news of their sudden departure. His adieus to Madame de Germeil were rather cold; but as he conducted Laure to the carriage, he told her that he felt a strange regret at being obliged so quickly to relinquish the sight of her; yet if the result of her leaving England were to be advantageous to the Marquis, he would try to overcome it.

She bade him farewell with a sweetness of concern that made the task still more difficult; and when the coach drove from the door, after following it sometime with his eye, he walked home without his hat.

Madame de Germeil sighed that she was obliged thus to quit England with the design that had brought her thither still unaccomplished. She had hoped either from the rank and reputed fortune of Mademoiselle D’Ogimond, or the powerful charms of the admired Laure, to have procured an alliance in this country, that would have proved essentially useful to the Comte.

She had sacrificed Lord William Dalvening to the fancied attachment of the Duke of Harmington, whom she wished to encourage in preference to almost any other candidate: and at the moment she discovered her mistake with respect to his designs, she was obliged to relinquish the pursuit, and repair by her personal efforts, the alarming effects of the perverse obstinacy with which the Comte neglected her counsel, to follow the dictates of his own wilful imbecility.

Adeline conceived only pleasure at the idea of returning to her father, while Laure was overwhelmed with perplexity and confusion, when she thought of her approaching meeting with the Comte, who had not deigned to take the least notice of her appeal to him, and for whom she felt her horror and disgust hourly increase.

Madame de Germeil travelled in silence, apparently in the deepest contemplation. When they arrived at ——, about forty miles north of Paris, in returning to the carriage after taking some refreshment, she was stopt by a party of National Guards, who affirmed that Mademoiselle D’Ogimond and herself were prisoners.

‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Madame de Germeil with trembling astonishment, ‘by what authority?’ ‘That of the National Convention,’ they replied. She seemed thunder-struck; but instantly recovering herself, desired to see the principal magistrate of the place. This request was with some reluctance complied with.

Adeline was carried thither in a state of insensibility, and Laure followed in silent agony.

They were escorted to the house of the Magistrate, who was likewise a Priest; and Madame de Germeil leaving Adeline to the care of Laure and the attendants, repaired to the presence of the great man, who looking at her with an air of authority as she entered, did not condescend to rise from his seat, but evinced his knowledge of the laws of good breeding only by a gentle inclination of the head.

His gouvernante, though a very important personage in his family, had not yet assumed any of the concomitants of sudden elevation; and was vastly civil to the young ladies, whose situation she thought requiring attention and commiseration, she offered them hers, with a hearty good will; but the beauty and condescension of Laure soon gained her the pre-eminence in Madelon’s favour, and she addressed to her most of her consolitary compliments.

Madame de Germeil’s own femme de chambre and Laure’s maid, who were following in another carriage, arrived at —— during Madame’s conference with the Abbé. They instantly learnt what had happened, and were conducted, at their own request, to their ladies.

The moment Madame de Germeil’s woman appeared before Madelon, she first examined her very attentively, and then springing upon her with wonderful agility, screamed out, ‘Give me my child! Where is my child? You shan’t move a step till you have given up my beautiful child. It did not belong to you—I’ll take you to Monsieur L’Abbé, and you shall be made to confess where you have put my sweet child—I thought such a powerful sweet baby didn’t belong to you. Madame de Brience came for her a year after you had her, and if it hadn’t been for you, I should have had my fortune made, and all for the sake of my beautiful nursling!’

The femme de chambre had not power to answer these furious interrogations: she was too respectable a woman in the opinion of every one present to incur the suspicion of being a kidnapper of children, and her agitation might have been the effect of surprise as well as any other emotion. However the uproar made by Madelon drew the Abbé himself and all his auditors to the spot, where her tongue, which did not appear to the by-standers either stiff or paralytic, soon informed them of what the culprit was accused.

The Abbé commanded silence; but Madelon was never so much inclined to disobey him, and continued her accusation with unwearied perseverance and obstinacy.

‘She came to me one day in the spring,’ said the gouvernante, ‘fifteen years ago: I remember her ugly face well enough; and said she was sent by the father of the child to fetch it away. I should never have believed her to be sure, only she brought with her a powerful heap of crowns, and then I thought it must be true; but no such thing. Here truly a year after came to my cottage Madame Duchess de Brience — No — I mean Madame Brience, for she is no Duchess now, and said the sweet child was her grand-daughter; and then I was ready to kill myself that I had let this old ape have it;—for to be sure Madame Brience offered me any money to let her know where the nursling was—and I can send to her now—so do you be pleased to tell Monsieur L’Abbé where my child is.’

‘Peace, Madelon,’ cried the Abbé. ‘—Who is this woman? What child does she talk of?’

‘My child, my nursling!’ screamed Madelon, ‘who was never christened that I heard of, and so I called her Louise.’

‘And who were her parents?’ demanded he.

‘That I don’t know,’ said the gouvernante. ‘My mother used at that time to carry cream and butter to Paris every morning; and a number of great houses she went to; for they all said her butter was very good. God bless her. I used to help make it before I married Louis Duhamel—and when I came to have a child, my mother asked wherever she went, if any of the grand people wanted a wet-nurse: they all said no, but I suppose some of them did, for a little while after, I had this child brought to me, and money enough to keep it, bless its little heart! for a power of time.’

‘Why then,’ interrupted the Abbé, ‘if you are not certain to whom it belonged, perhaps this woman may have had a right to claim it.’

‘No, Sir, if you please, not!’ exclaimed Madelon, ‘it was grand-daughter to Madame de Brience.’

‘Sir,’ said Madame de Germeil impatiently, ‘will you be pleased to defer hearing this person’s detail, until you have listened to what I was about to have the honour of saying to you before we were interrupted?’

‘Monsieur L’Abbé shan’t go,’ cried the gouvernante, ‘till he has made this ugly wolf confess what she has done with Louise.’

Unhappily the countenance thus apostrophized had some resemblance to the animal mentioned; and this epithet added to the preceding ones, entirely overset the patience of the femme de chambre. Such a storm of rage ensued, that the voices of the two women sounded more like a peal of discordant bells, jingled by unskilful ringers, than the delightful organ of harmony and reason, belonging to a pair of the softer sex.

The lady of the bed-chamber in the course of her vindication, asserted that she had taken the child from nurse by the order of the father, as she had told the woman at the time, and she could prove it to any body.

‘What absurdity!’ exclaimed Madame de Germeil; ‘will it not be soon enough to vindicate yourself when you are accused by those who have a right to arraign your conduct?’

‘Pardon me, Madame,’ replied the femme de chambre, ‘but I cannot bear to be so called by such an one as she, for all the rights in the world. I am no more an ugly wolf than she is: and you, Madame, know very well, I did not steal the child as she says.’

‘Take down that woman’s deposition,’ said the Abbé, in a magisterial tone, to a man who acted as his secretary, or clerk.

‘And do you really, Monsieur L’Abbé, treat this affair seriously?’ cried Madame de Germeil. ‘At least I hope you will first have the goodness—’

‘Madame,’ interrupted he, ‘I shall do myself the honour of treating you with all the civility in my power, until I find it convenient to have you conveyed to Paris. Meantime I must inform you, that the National Convention, when it appointed me an humble administrator of justice, supposed me incapable of employing my time and attention on frivolous objects.’

Madame de Germeil finding the man at once proud and imbecile, instead of reasoning, soothed him with all the persuasion she was mistress of; but could only obtain the favour of being heard immediately after the examination of Mademoiselle Bridonette, her woman; who was ushered into the chamber her lady had just quitted, and Madelon followed without much entreaty.

CHAP. XVIII.

MADAME DE GERMEIL remained with the young ladies in a state of perturbation and anxiety that would have excited interest in a mind far more unfeeling than that of Laure; who forgetting all the coldness and dislike with which she had lately been treated, shared her grief, and consoled her with inimitable delicacy and tenderness.

Madame de Germeil was not insensible to her attentions; but much as she was accustomed to repress every emotion, she gave way at this instant, to her anguish, and wept.

A sight so unusual, drew the trembling Adeline to her side, who hanging over her in an agony, sobbed with violence: yet she knew but half her misfortune; for Madame de Germeil had learnt from the Abbé, that the Comte D’Ogimond was then in confinement, without a hope of being again liberated.

She soon however recovered from a softness so uncommon to her, and was endeavouring to gain composure, when Madelon’s voice from the next room, saluted her ear, with that kind of tone that will be heard. ‘Jesu Maria!’ said she, ‘why then she is my sweet child, my little Louise!’ and darting into the room with violence, she ran to Laure, and surveying her eagerly, from head to foot, embraced her with an extravagance of joy that knew no bounds.

Her imagination converting, in an instant, the beautiful girl again into the pretty nursling, she called out in a manner something between singing and screaming, ‘You shall go directly to Madame Brience—I will take you myself to Madame Brience, your grand-mamma.’

‘The woman doats,’ said Madame de Germeil, ‘how can she be so related to Madame Brience, whose only offspring is the Countess D’Ogimond!’

‘But she was not always her only child,’ observed the Abbé, who had again emerged from his audience-room.

‘I should rather suppose, Sir,’ answered she with great deference, ‘that this young lady was born after the event that made her so.’

‘However that may be,’ cried the Abbé, in a tone of decision, ‘I shall take charge of this young person until I receive instructions from the Convention in what manner to dispose of her.’

Laure had attended to this scene from the entrance of Madelon in a violent conflict of emotions, that took from her the power of utterance and motion, yet left her sense enough to hear the discussion. At the close of the Abbé’s speech she sunk back in her chair, in an agony not to be described. To be left in the power of a man she knew nothing of—to be torn from her beloved Adeline, now that she was in distress—and to be at the disposal of a set of people, who might not allow her to claim the protection of her natural friends, when she might indulge a hope of being acknowledged by them, were circumstances that filled her mind with terror and despondency. Adeline almost equally moved, threw herself at the feet of the Priest, and entreated that Laure might not be taken from her: while Madame de Germeil, discovering that she had to deal with a man who possessed some power but no feeling, received his fiat in silence, and declined any further conference with him.

She was then, with Mademoiselle D’Ogimond, escorted back to the inn, from whence they were to be conducted to Paris. Laure was prevented from following them, not without some violence, and Madelon then set about consoling her with all her might.

‘Diantre,’ cried she; ‘my sweet Miss Louise, if I was in your place, I would not care for that proud woman full of great words, nor t’other cup of milk and water that’s with her: why Madame Brience will take care of you, she will be glad to do it, I’m sure she will, for she cried when you was not to be found, here fourteen years ago, when she came to me; and I was obliged to swear before the Bailly that I didn’t know where that ugly thing had taken you. To be sure she might well cry; for it was just after her son, the Prince of Lamare, died, and he led a sad rakish life; and they said it was all along of somebody I shan’t mention, who married his sister, and then he thought to have all the money when the old ones died: but there’s one of ’em not dead yet, and certain I am she will take care of her son’s child.’

‘How did you learn,’ said Laure with impatience;—‘are you sure I am the Prince of Lamare’s daughter?’

‘Ay, sure,’ cried Madelon. ‘Madame Brience told me so herself, to make me confess where you was hid. Bless her! she could not tell that I should have been as glad to have known as she, every bit.’

‘And for what purpose,’ asked Laure, ‘did Mademoiselle Bridonette remove me from you—by whose direction?’

‘Why she says the Comte D’Ogimond sent her by the Prince’s order; but Lord! it was no such thing; for Monsieur Lamare thought when he died that you was at nurse with me, and so he told Madame Brience, his mother.’

‘I wish I could have the honour of seeing Madame Brience!’ said Laure thoughtfully.

‘And so you shall,’ cried Madelon.