Chapter Eleven.We must now read Adèle’s letter.“My dear Valerie,—The die is cast, and I have now a most difficult game to play. I have risked all upon it, and the happiness of my future life is at stake. But let me narrate what has passed since I made you my confidante. Of course, you must know the day on which I was missing. On that day I walked out with him, and we were in a few minutes joined by a friend of his, whom he introduced as Major Argat. After proceeding about one hundred yards farther we arrived at a chapel, the doors of which were open, and the verger looking out, evidently expecting somebody.“‘My dear angel,’ said the Colonel, ‘I have the licence in my pocket; I have requested the clergyman to attend, he is now in the chapel, and all is ready. My friend will be a witness, and there are others in attendance. You have said that you love me, trust yourself to me. Prove now that you are sincere, and consent at once that our hands as well as our hearts be united.’“Oh! how I trembled. I could not speak. The words died away upon my lips. I looked at him imploringly. He led me gently, for my resistance was more in manner than in effect, and I found myself within the chapel, the verger bowing as he preceded us, and the clergyman waiting at the altar. To retreat appeared impossible; indeed I hardly felt as if I wished it, but my feelings were so excited that I burst into tears. What the clergyman may have thought of my conduct, and my being dressed so little like a bride, I know not, but the Colonel handed the licence to his friend, who took it to the clergyman while I was recovering myself. At last we went up to the altar, my head swam, and I hardly knew what was said, but I repeated the responses, and I was—a wife. When the ceremony was over, and I was attempting to rise from my knees, I fell, and was carried by the Colonel into the vestry, where I remained on a chair trembling with fear. After a time, the colonel asked me if I was well enough to sign my name to the marriage register, and he put the pen in my hand. I could not see where to sign, my eyes were swimming with tears. The clergyman guided my hand to the place, and I wrote Adèle Chabot. The knowledge what the effect of this signature might possibly have upon my husband quite overcame me, and I sank my head down upon my hands upon the table.“‘I will send for a glass of water, sir,’ said the clergyman leaving the vestry to call the verger, or clerk, ‘the lady is fainting.’“After he went out, I heard the Colonel and his friend speaking in low tones apart. Probably they thought that I was not in a condition to pay attention to them,—but I had too much at stake.“‘Yes,’ replied the Colonel, ‘she has signed, as you say, but she hardly knows what she is about. Depend upon it, it is as I told you.’“I did not hear the Major’s reply, but I did what the Colonel said.“‘It’s all the better; the marriage will not be legal, and I can bring the parents to my own terms.’“All doubt was now at an end. He had married me convinced, and still convinced that I was Caroline Stanhope, and not Adèle Chabot, and he had married me supposing that I was an heiress. My blood ran cold, and in a few seconds I was senseless, and should have fallen under the table had they not perceived that I was sinking, and ran to my support. The arrival of the clergyman with the water recovered me. My husband whispered to me that it was time to go, and that a carriage was at the door. I do not recollect how I left the church; the motion of the carriage first roused me up, and a flood of tears came to my relief. How strange is it, Valerie, that we should besocourageous and such cowards at the same time. Would you believe when I had collected myself, with a certain knowledge that my husband had deceived himself—a full conviction of the danger of my position when he found out his mistake, and that my future happiness was at stake—I felt glad that the deed was done, and would not have been unmarried again for the universe. As I became more composed, I felt that it was time to act. I wiped away my tears and said, as I smiled upon my husband, who held my hand in his, ‘I know that I have behaved very ill, and very foolishly, but I was so taken by surprise.’“‘Do you think that I love you the less for showing so much feeling, my dearest?’ he replied, ‘no, no, it only makes you still more dear to me, as it convinces me what a sacrifice you have made for my sake.’“Now, Valerie, could there be a prettier speech, or one so apparently sincere, from a newly-married man to his bride, and yet recollect what he said to his friend not a quarter of an hour before, about having my parents in his power by the marriage not being legal? I really am inclined to believe that we have two souls, a good and an evil one, continually striving for the mastery; one for this world, and the other for the next, and that the evil one will permit the good one to have its influence, provided that at the same time it has its own or an equal share in the direction of us. For instance, I believe the colonel was sincere in what he said, and really does love me, supposing me to be Caroline Stanhope, with the mundane advantages to be gained by the marriage, and that these better feelings of humanity are allowed to be exercised, and not interfered with by the adverse party, who is satisfied with its own Mammon share. But the struggle is to come when the evil spirit finds itself defrauded of its portion, and then attempts to destroy the influence of the good. He does love me now, and would have continued to love me, if disappointment will not tear up his still slightly-rooted affections. Now comes my task to cherish and protect it, till it has taken firm root, and all that woman can do shall be done. I felt that all that I required was time.“‘Where are we going?’ said I.“‘About twenty miles from London,’ replied my husband, ‘after which, that is to-morrow, you shall decide upon our future plans.’“‘I care not where,’ replied I, ‘with you place is indifferent, only do not refuse me the first favour that I request of you.’“‘Depend upon it I will not,’ replied he.“‘It is this, dearest, take me where you will, but let it be three months before we return or come near London. You must feel my reason for making this request.’“‘I grant it with pleasure,’ replied he, ‘for three months I am yours, and yours only. We will live for one another.’“‘Yes, and never let us mention any thing about future prospects, but devote the three months to each other.’“‘I understand you,’ replied the colonel, ‘and I promise you it shall be so. I will have no correspondence even—there shall be nothing to annoy you or vex you in any way.’“‘For three months,’ said I, extending my hand.“‘Agreed,’ said he, ‘and to tell you the truth, it would have been my own feeling, had it not been yours. When you strike iron, you should do it when it is hot, but when you have to handle it, you had better wait till it is cool; you understand me, and now the subject is dropped.’“My husband has adhered most religiously to his word up to the present time, as you will see by the date of this letter. We are now visiting the lakes of Cumberland. Never could a spot be better situated for the furtherance of my wishes. The calm repose and silent beauty of these waters must be reflected upon the mind of any one of feeling, which the colonel certainly does not want, and when you consider that I am exerting all the art which poor woman has to please, I do hope and pray to heaven that I may succeed in entwining myself round his heart before his worldly views are destroyed by disappointment. Pray for me, dear Valerie—pray for one who loves you dearly, and who feels that the whole happiness of her life is at stake.—Yours,—“Adèle.”“So far all goes well, my dear Adèle,” thought I, “but we have yet to see the end. I will pray for you with all my heart, for you deserve to be happy, and none can be more fascinating than you, when you exert yourself. What is it in women that I do not feel which makes them so mad after the other sex? Instinct, certainly, for reason is against it. Well, I have no objection to help others to commit the folly, provided that I am not led into it myself.” Such were my reflections, as I closed the letter from Adèle.A few days afterwards I received a note from Mr Selwyn, junior, informing me that his father had been made a puisne judge. What that was I did not know, except that he was a judge on the bench, of some kind. He also stated his intention of calling upon me on the next day.“Yes,” thought I, “to receive the music from Caroline. Of course, she will return it to me when I give her a lesson to-day.”I was right in my supposition. Caroline brought me a piece of music with a note, saying, “Here is the music belonging to Miss Selwyn, Valerie; will you take an opportunity of returning it to her? Any time will do; I presume she is in no hurry,” and Caroline coloured up, when her eyes met mine.“To punish her,” I replied, “Oh, no, there can be no hurry; I shall be down at Kew in a fortnight or three weeks, I will take it with me then.”“But my note, thanking Mr Selwyn, will be of very long date,” replied Caroline, “and I want the other piece of music belonging to me which I left at Kew.”“Well, Caroline, you cannot expect me to be carrying your messages and going to the chambers of a handsome young Chancery-barrister. By-the-bye, I had a note from him this morning, telling me that his father is advanced to the bench. What does that mean?”“That his father is made a judge. Is that all he said?” replied Caroline, carelessly.“Why, now I think of it, he said that he would call upon me to-morrow, so I can give him this music when he calls.”At this intelligence Caroline’s face brightened up, and she went away. Mr Selwyn called the next day, and I delivered the music and the note. He informed me that he had now all his father’s private as well as Chancery business, and wished to know whether he was to consider himself my legal adviser. I replied, “Certainly; but that he could not expect the business of a teacher of music to be very profitable.”“No, nor do I intend that it shall be, but it will be a great pleasure,” replied he, very gallantly. “I hope you have some money to put by.”“Yes,” replied I, “I have some, but not quite enough; by the end of the year I hope to have 500 pounds.”“I am glad that you have told me, as a profitable investment may occur before that time, and I will secure it for you.”He asked permission to read Caroline’s note, and then said that he would find the other piece of music, and leave it at Monsieur Gironac’s in the course of a day or two—after which he took his leave. I received that evening a letter from Lionel, which had a great effect upon me. In it, he stated that at the fencing-school he had made acquaintance with a young officer, a Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf,—that he had mentioned to him that he knew a lady of his name in England; that the officer had asked him what the age of the lady might be, and he had replied.“Strange,” said the officer; “I had a very dear sister, who was supposed to be drowned, although the body was never found. Can you tell me the baptismal name of the lady you mention?”“It then occurred to me,” continued Lionel, “that I might be imprudent if I answered, and I therefore said that I did not know, but I thought you had been called by your friends, Annette.”“‘Then it cannot be she,’ replied he, ‘for my sister’s name was Valerie. But she may have changed her name—describe to me her face and figure.’“As I at once felt certain that you were the party, and was aware, that the early portion of your life was never referred to by you, I thought it advisable to put him off the scent, until I had made this communication. I therefore replied, ‘That’ (excuse me) ‘you were very plain, with a pug nose, and very short and fat.’“‘Then it must be somebody else,’ replied the officer. ‘You made my heart beat when you first spoke about her, for I loved my sister dearly, and have never ceased to lament her loss.’“He then talked a great deal of you, and gave me some history of your former life. I took the opportunity to ask whether your unnatural mother was alive, and he said, ‘Yes, and that your father was also alive and well.’“I did not dare to ask more. Have I done right or wrong, my dear Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf? If wrong, I can easily repair the error. Your brother, for such I presume he is, I admire very much. He is very different from the officers of the French army in general, quite subdued, and very courteous, and there is a kind spirit in all he says, which makes me like him more. You have no idea of the feeling he showed, when he talked about you—that is, if it is you—which I cannot but feel almost certain that it is. One observation of his, I think it right to make known to you, which is, that he told me that since your supposed death, your father had never held up his head; indeed, he said that he had never seen him smile since.”The above extract from Lionel’s letter created such a revulsion, that I was obliged to retire to my chamber to conceal my agitated feelings from Madame Gironac. I wept bitterly for some time. I thought of what my poor father must have suffered, and the regrets of poor Auguste at my supposed death; and I doubted whether I was justified in the act I had committed, by the treatment I had received from my mother. If she had caused me so much pain, was I right in having given so much to others who loved me? My poor father, he had never smiled since! Should I permit him to wear out his days in sorrowing for my loss—oh, no! I no longer felt any animosity against others who had ill-treated me. Surely, I could forgive even my mother, if not for love of her, at all events for love of my father and my brother. Yes, I would do so, I was now independent of my mother and all the family. I had nothing to fear from her; I could assist my family, if they required it.Such were my first feelings—but then came doubts and fears. Could not my mother claim me? insist upon my living with her? prevent my earning my livelihood? or if I did employ myself, could she not take from me all my earnings? Yes, by the law of France, I thought she could. Then again, would she forgive me the three years of remorse? the three years during which she had been under the stigma of having, by her barbarity, caused her child to commit self-destruction? the three years of reproach which she must have experienced from my father’s clouded brow? Would she ever forgive me for having obtained my independence by the very talents which she would not allow me to cultivate? No, never, unless her heart was changed.After many hours of reflection, I resolved that I would make known my existence to Auguste, and permit him to acquaint my father, under a promise of secrecy, but that I would not trust myself in France, or allow my mother to be aware of my existence, until I could ascertain what her power might be over me. But before I decided upon any thing, I made up my mind that I would make a confidant, and obtain the opinion of Judge Selwyn. By the evening’s post I wrote a note to him, requesting that he would let me know when I might have an interview.An answer arrived the next day, stating, that Judge Selwyn would call and take me down with him to Kew, where I should sleep, and return to town with him on the following morning. This suited me very well, and, as soon as the carriage was off the stones, I said that I was now about to confide to him that portion of my life with which he was unacquainted, and ask his advice how I ought to proceed, in consequence of some intelligence lately communicated by Lionel. I then went into the whole detail, until I arrived at my being taken away from the barracks by Madame d’Albret; the remainder of my life he knew sufficient of, and I then gave him Lionel’s letter to read, and when he had done so, I stated to him what my wishes and what my fears were, and begged him to decide for me what was best to be done.“This is an eventful history, Valerie,” said the old gentleman. “I agree with you on the propriety of making your existence known to your brother, and also to your father, who has been sufficiently punished for his cowardice. Whether your father will be able to contain his secret, I doubt very much; and from what you have told me of your mother, I should certainly not trust myself in France. I am not very well informed of the laws of the country, but it is my impression that children are there under the control of their parents until they are married. Go to France I therefore would not, unless it were as a married woman: then you will be safe. When does Lionel come over?”“He will come at any time if I say I wish it.”“Then let him come over, and invite your brother to come with him, then you can arrange with him. I really wish you were married, Valerie, and I wish also that my son was married; I should like to be a grandfather before I die.”“With respect to my marrying, sir, I see little chance of that; I dislike the idea, and, in fact, it would be better to be with my mother at once, for I prefer an old tyranny to a new one.”“It does not follow, my dear Valerie; depend upon it there are many happy marriages. Am I a tyrant in my own house? Does my wife appear to be a slave?”“There are many happy exceptions, my dear sir,” replied I. “With respect to your son’s marrying, I think you need not despair of that; for it is my opinion that he very soon will be—but this is a secret, and I must say no more.”“Indeed,” replied the judge, “I know of no one, and he would hardly marry without consulting me.”“Yes, sir, I think that he will, and I shall advise him so to do—as it is necessary that nothing should be known till it is over. Trust to me, sir, that if it does take place, you will be quite satisfied with the choice which he makes; but I must have your pledge not to say one word about it. You might spoil all.”The old judge fell back in his carriage in a reverie, which lasted some little while, and then said, “Valerie, I believe that I understand you now. If it is as I guess, I certainly agree with you that I will ask no more questions, as I should for many reasons not wish it to appear that I know any thing about it.”Soon afterwards we arrived at Kew, and, after a pleasant visit, on the following morning early, I returned to town with the judge. I then wrote to Lionel, making known to him as much as was necessary, under pledge of secrecy, and stating my wish that he should follow up my brother’s acquaintance, and the next time that he came over, persuade him to accompany him, but that he was not to say any thing to him relative to my being his sister, on any account whatever.Young Selwyn called the same day that I came from Kew, with the piece of music which was missing. I made no remarks upon the fact, that the music might have been delivered to me by his sister, because I felt assured that it contained a note more musical than any in the score; I gave it to Caroline, and a few days afterwards, observing that she was pale and restless, I obtained permission for her to go out with me for the day. Mr Selwyn happened to call a few minutes after our arrival at Madame Gironac’s, and that frequently occurred for nearly two months, when the time arrived that she was to be removed from the school.The reader will, of course, perceive that I was assisting this affair as much as I could. I admit it; and I did so out of gratitude to Mr Selwyn’s father, for his kindness to me. I knew Caroline to be a good girl, and well suited to Mr Selwyn; I knew that she must eventually have a very large fortune; and, provided that her father and mother would not be reconciled to their daughter after the marriage, that Mr Selwyn had the means, by his practice, of supporting her comfortably without their assistance. I considered that I did a kindness to Caroline and to Mr Selwyn, and therefore did not hesitate; besides, I had other ideas on the subject, which eventually turned out as I expected, and proved that I was right.On the last day of September, Caroline slipped out, and followed me to Madame Gironac’s; Mr Selwyn was ready with the licence. We walked to church, the ceremony was performed, and Mr Selwyn took his bride down to his father’s house at Kew. The old judge was somewhat prepared for the event, and received her very graciously. Mrs Selwyn and his sisters were partial to Caroline, and followed the example of the judge. Nothing could pass off more quietly or more pleasantly. For reasons which I did not explain, I requested Mr Selwyn, for the present, not to make known his marriage to Caroline’s parents, as I considered it would be attended with great and certain advantage; and he promised me that he would not only be silent upon the subject, but that all his family should be equally so.If Mrs Bradshaw required two bottles of eau-de-Cologne and water to support her when she heard of the elopement of Adèle Chabot, I leave the reader to imagine how many she required, when an heiress entrusted to her charge had been guilty of a similar act.As Caroline had not left with me, I was not implicated, and the affair was most inscrutable. She had never been seen walking, or known to correspond with any young man. I suggested to Mrs Bradshaw that it was the fear of her father removing her from her protection which had induced her to run away, and that most probably she had gone to her aunt Bathurst’s. Upon this hint, she wrote to Mr Stanhope, acquainting him with his daughter’s disappearance, and giving it as her opinion that she had gone to her aunt’s, being very unwilling to return home. Mr Stanhope was furious; he immediately drove to Madame Bathurst’s, whom he had not seen for a long time, and demanded his daughter. Madame Bathurst declared that she knew nothing about her. Mr Stanhope expressed his disbelief, and they parted in high words.A few days afterwards, the Colonel and Adèle came to town, the three months acceded to her wishes having expired; and now I must relate what I did not know till some days afterwards, when I saw Adèle, and who had the narrative from her husband.It appeared, that as soon as the Colonel arrived in London, still persuaded that he had married Caroline Stanhope, and not Adèle Chabot, without stating his intention to her, he went to Grosvenor Square, and requested to see Mr Stanhope. This was about a fortnight after Caroline’s elopement with Mr Selwyn. He was admitted, and found Mr and Mrs Stanhope in the drawing-room. He had sent up his card, and Mr Stanhope received him with great hauteur.“What may your pleasure be with me, sir?” (looking at the card). “Colonel Jervis, I think you call yourself?”Now, Colonel Jervis was a man well known about town, and, in his own opinion, not to know him argued yourself unknown; he was, therefore, not a little angry at this reception, and being a really well-bred man, was also much startled with the vulgarity of both parties.“My name, Mr Stanhope, as you are pleased to observe,” said the Colonel, with hauteur, “is Jervis, and my business with you is relative to your daughter.”“My daughter, sir?”“Our daughter! Why, you don’t mean to tell us thatyouhave run away with our daughter?” screamed Mrs Stanhope.“Yes, madam, such is the fact; she is now my wife, and I trust that she is not married beneath herself.”“A Colonel!—a paltry Colonel!—a match for my daughter! Why, with her fortune she might have married a Duke,” screamed Mrs Stanhope. “I’ll never speak to the wretch again. A Colonel, indeed! I suppose a Militia-Colonel. I daresay you are only a Captain, after all. Well, take her to barracks, and to barracks yourself. You may leave the house. Not a penny—no, not a penny do you get. Does he, Stanhope?”“Not one half a farthing,” replied Mr Stanhope, pompously. “Go, sir; Mrs Stanhope’s sentiments are mine.”The Colonel, who was in a towering passion at the treatment he received, now started up, and said, “Sir and Madam, you appear to me not to understand the usages of good society, and I positively declare, that had I been aware of the insufferable vulgarity of her parents, nothing would have induced me to marry the daughter. I tell you this, because I care nothing for you. You are on the stilts at present, but I shall soon bring you to your senses; for know, Sir and Madam, although I did elope with and married your daughter, the marriage is not legal, as she was married under a false name, and that was her own act—not mine. You may, therefore, prepare to receive your daughter back, when I think fit to send her—disgraced and dishonoured; and then try if you can match her with a Duke. I leave you to digest this piece of information, and now wish you good-morning. You have my address, when you feel inclined to apologise, and do me the justice which I shall expect before a legal marriage takes place.”So saying, the Colonel left the house; and it would be difficult to say which of the three parties was in the greatest rage.The Colonel, who had become sincerely attached to Adèle, who had well profited by the time which she had gained, returned home in no very pleasant humour. Throwing himself down on the sofa, he said to her in a moody way, “I’ll be candid with you, my dear; if I had seen your father and mother before I married you, nothing would have persuaded me to have made you my wife. When a man marries, I consider connexion and fortune to be the two greatest points to be obtained, but such animals as your father and mother I never beheld. Good Heaven! that I should be allied to such people!”“May I ask you, dearest, to whom you refer, and what is the meaning of all this? My father and mother! Why, Colonel, my father was killed at the attack of Montmartre, and my mother died before him.”“Then who and what are you,” cried the Colonel, jumping up; “are you not Caroline Stanhope?”“I thank Heaven I am not. I have always told you that I was Adèle Chabot, and no other person. You must admit that. My father and mother were no vulgar people, dearest husband, and my family is as good as most in France. Come over with me to Paris, and you will then see who my relatives and connexions are. I am poor, I grant, but recollect that the revolution exiled many wealthy families, and mine among the rest, although we were permitted eventually to return to France. What can have induced you to fall into this error, and still persist (notwithstanding my assertions to the contrary), that I am the daughter of those vulgar upstarts, who are proverbial for their want of manners, and who are not admitted into hardly any society, rich as they are supposed to be?”The Colonel looked all amazement.“I’m sorry you are disappointed, dearest,” continued Adèle, “if you are so. I am sorry that I’m not Caroline Stanhope with a large fortune, but if I do not bring you a fortune, by economy I will save you one. Let me only see that you are not deprived of your usual pleasures and luxuries, and I care not what I do or how I live. You will find no exacting wife in me, dearest, troubling you for expenses you cannot afford. I will live but to please you, and if I do not succeed, I will die—if you wish to be rid of me.”Adèle resumed her caresses with the tears running down her cheeks, for she loved her husband dearly, and felt what she said.The Colonel could not resist her: he put his arms round her and said, “Do not cry, Adèle, I believe you, and, moreover, I feel that I love you. I am thankful that I have not married Caroline Stanhope, for I presume she cannot be very different from her parents. I admit that I have been deceiving myself, and that I have deceived myself into a better little wife than I deserve, perhaps. I really am glad of my escape. I would not have been connected with those people for the universe. We will do as you say: we will go to France for a short time, and you shall introduce me to your relations.”Before the next morning, Adèle had gained the victory. The Colonel felt that he had deceived himself, that he might be laughed at, and that the best that could be done was to go to Paris and announce from thence his marriage in the papers. He had a sufficiency to live upon, to command luxury as well as comforts, and on the whole he was now satisfied, that a handsome and strongly-attached wife, who brought him no fortune, was preferable to a marriage of mere interest. I may as well here observe, that Adèle played her cards so well, that the Colonel was a happy and contented man. She kept her promise, and he found with her management that he had more money than a married man required, and he blessed the day in which he had married by mistake. And now to return to the Stanhopes.Although they were too angry at the time to pay much heed to the Colonel’s parting threats, yet when they had cooled, and had time for reflection, Mr and Mrs Stanhope were much distressed at the intelligence that their daughter was not legally married. For some days, they remained quiet, at last they thought it advisable to come to terms to save their daughter’s honour. But during this delay on their part, Adèle had called upon me, and introduced her husband and made me acquainted with all that had passed. They stated their intention of proceeding to Paris immediately, and although I knew that Adèle’s relations were of good family, yet I thought an introduction to Madame d’Albret would be of service to her. I therefore gave her one, and it proved most serviceable, for the Colonel found himself in the first society in Paris, and his wife was well received and much admired. When, therefore, Mr Stanhope made up his mind to call upon the Colonel at the address of the hotel where they had put up, he found they had left, and nobody knew where they had gone. This was a severe blow, and Mr and Mrs Stanhope were in a state of the utmost uncertainty and suspense. Now was the time for Mr Selwyn to come forward, and I despatched a note to him, requesting him to come to town. I put him in possession of Adèle’s history, her marriage with the Colonel, and all the particulars with which the reader is acquainted, and I pointed out to him how he should act when he called upon Mr Stanhope, which I advised him to do immediately. He followed my advice, and thus described what passed on his return.“I sent up my card to Mr and Mrs Stanhope, and was received almost as politely as the Colonel. I made no remark, but taking a chair, which was not offered to me, I said, ‘You have my card, Mr Stanhope, I must, in addition to my name, inform you that I am a barrister, and that my father is Judge Selwyn, who now sits on the King’s Bench. You probably have met him in the circles in which you visit, although you are not acquainted with him. Your sister, Madame Bathurst, we have the pleasure of knowing.’“This introduction made them look more civil, for a Judge was with them somebody.“‘My object in coming here is to speak to you relative to your daughter.’“‘Do you come from the Colonel, then?’ said Mrs Stanhope, sharply.“‘No, madam. I have no acquaintance with the Colonel.’“‘Then how do you know my daughter, sir?’“‘I had the pleasure of meeting her at my father’s. She stayed a short time with my family at our country seat at Kew.’“‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Mrs Stanhope, ‘well I had no idea of that. I’m sure the Judge was very kind; but, sir, you know that my daughter has married very unfortunately.’“‘That she has married, madam, I am aware, but I trust not unfortunately.’“‘Why, sir, she has married a colonel,—a fellow who came here and told us it was no marriage at all!’“‘It is to rectify that mistake, madam, which has induced me to call. The Colonel, madam, did hear that your daughter was at Mrs Bradshaw’s establishment, and wished to carry her off, supposing that she was a very rich prize, but, madam, he made a slight mistake—instead of your daughter, he has run away and married the French teacher, who has not a sixpence. He has now found out his mistake, and is off to Paris to hide himself from the laughter of the town.’“This intelligence was the cause of much mirth and glee to Mr and Mrs Stanhope; the latter actually cried with delight, and I took care to join heartily in the merriment. As soon as it had subsided, Mrs Stanhope said—“‘But Mr Selwyn, you said that my daughter was married. How is that?’“‘Why, madam, the fact is, that your daughter’s affections were engaged at the time of this elopement of the Colonel’s, and it was her intention to make known to you that such was the case, presuming that you would not refuse to sanction her marriage; but, when the elopement took place, and it was even reported that she had run away, her position became very awkward, and the more so, as some people declared (as the Colonel asserted), that she was not legally married. On consulting with the gentleman of her choice, it was argued thus: If Miss Stanhope goes back to her father’s house after this report that she is not legally married, it will be supposed that the Colonel, finding that he was disappointed in his views, had returned her dishonoured upon her parents’ hands, and no subsequent marriage would remove the impression. It was therefore considered advisable, both on her parents’ account and on her own, that she also should elope, and then it would be easily explained that it was somebody else who had eloped with the Colonel, and that Miss Stanhope had married in a secret way. Miss Stanhope, therefore, was properly married in church before respectable witnesses, and conducted immediately afterwards by her husband to his father’s house, who approved of what was done, as now no reflection can be made, either upon Miss Stanhope or her respectable parents.’“‘Well, let us all know the person to whom she is married.’“‘To myself, madam, and your daughter is now at Judge Selwyn’s, where she has been ever since her marriage, with my mother and sisters. My father would have accompanied me, to explain all this, but the fact is, that his lordship is now so much occupied that he could not. He will, however, be happy to see Mr Stanhope, who is an idle man, either at his town house, or at his country seat. I trust, madam, as I have the honour to be your son-in-law, you will permit me to kiss your hand?’“‘Caroline may have done worse, my dear,’ said the lady to her husband, who was still wavering. ‘Mr Selwyn may be a judge himself, or he may be a Lord Chancellor, recollect that. Mr Selwyn you are welcome, and I shall be most happy to see his lordship, and my husband shall call upon him when we know when he will be at leisure. Oh! that Colonel, but he’s rightly served, a French teacher. Ha, ha, ha!’ and Mrs Stanhope’s mirth was communicated to her husband, who now held out his hand to me in a most patronising manner.“‘Well, sir, I give you joy. I believe you have saved my daughter’s character, and my dear,’ added he, very pompously, ‘we must do something for the young people.’“‘I trust, sir, I bear your forgiveness to Caroline.’“‘Yes, you do, Mr Selwyn,’ said the lady. ‘Bring her here as soon as you please. Oh that Colonel! ha, ha, ha! and it is capital. A French teacher. Ha, ha, ha.’”Such was the winding up of this second marriage. Had not Mr and Mrs Stanhope been much subdued by the intelligence received from the Colonel of the marriage being illegal, and had they not also been much gratified at the mistake of the Colonel, things might not have gone off so pleasantly. I have only to add, that Mr Stanhope, who appeared to obey his wife in every thing, called upon the Judge, and their interview was very amicable. Mr Stanhope, upon the Judge stating that his son had sufficient income, immediately became profuse, and settled 2000 pounds per annum upon his daughter, during his life, with a promise of much more eventually. Caroline was graciously received by her mother, and presented with some splendid diamonds. The Judge told me that he knew the part I had taken in the affair, and shook his finger at me.Thus ended this affair, and Madame Gironac, when she heard how busy I had been in the two elopements, said, “Ah, Valerie, you begin by marrying other people. You will end in finding a husband for yourself.”“That is quite another thing, madam,” I replied. “I have no objection in assisting other people to their wishes, but it does not follow that therefore I am to seek for myself what I do not wish.”“Valerie, I am a prophetess. You will be married some time next year. Mark my words.”“I will not forget them, and at the end of the year we shall see who is right, and who is wrong.”After all this bustle and turmoil, there was a calm, which lasted the whole winter. I followed up my usual avocations. I had as many pupils as I could attend to, and saved money fast. The winter passed away, and in the spring I expected Lionel with my brother Auguste. I looked forward to seeing my brother with great impatience; not a day that he was out of my thoughts. I was most anxious to hear of my father, my brothers, and sisters, and every particular connected with the family; even my mother was an object of interest, although not of regard, but I had forgiven all others who had ill-treated me, and I felt that I forgave and forgot, if she would behave as a mother towards me. I had received kind letters from Madame d’Albret and Adèle; the letters of the latter were most amusing. Madame Bathurst had called upon me several times. I was at peace with all the world and with myself. At last, I received a letter from Lionel, stating that he was coming over in a few days; that he had great difficulty in persuading my brother to come with him, as he could not afford the expense out of his own means, and did not like to lie under such an obligation. At last, he had been over-ruled, and was coming with him.“Then I shall see you again, dear Auguste!” thought I; “you who always loved me, always protected me and took my part, and who so lamented my supposed death;” and my thoughts turned to the time when he and I were with my grandmother in the palace, and our early days were passed over in review. “My poor grandmother, how I loved you! and how you deserved to be loved!” And then I calculated what I might have been, had I been left with my grandmother, and had inherited her small property; and, on reflection, I decided that I was better off now than I probably should have been, and that all was for the best. I thought of the future, and whether it was likely I ever should marry, and I decided that I never would, but that if I ever returned to my family, I would assist my sisters, and try to make them happy.“Yes,” thought I, “marry I never will—that isdecided—nothing shall ever induce me.”My reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, who, apologising to me, stated that he had come to seek Monsieur Gironac.I replied that he was not at home, and probably it would be half an hour before he returned to dinner.“With your leave, mademoiselle,” said he, gracefully bowing, “I will wait till he returns. I will not, however, trespass upon your time, if it is disagreeable; perhaps the servant will accommodate me with a chair elsewhere?”I requested that he would be seated, as there was no fire in any other room, and he took a chair. He was a Frenchman, speaking good English, but he soon discovered that I was his countrywoman, and the conversation was carried on in French. He informed me that he was the Comte de Chavannes. But I must describe him. He was rather small in stature, but elegantly made; his features were, if anything, effeminate, but very handsome; they would have been handsome in a woman. The effeminacy, was, however, relieved by a pair of moustaches, soft, silky, and curling. His manners were peculiarly fascinating, and his conversation lively and full of point. I was much pleased with him during the half hour that we were together, during which we had kept up the conversation with much spirit. The arrival of Monsieur Gironac put an end to ourtête-à-tête, and having arranged his business with him, which was relative to some flute-music which the Comte wished to be published, after a few minutes more conversation, he took his leave.“Now there’s a man that I would select for your husband, Valerie,” said Monsieur Gironac, after the Comte had left. “Is he not a very agreeable fellow?”“Yes he is,” I replied, “he is very entertaining and very well-bred. Who is he?”“His history is told in few words,” replied Monsieur Gironac. “His father emigrated with the Bourbons; but, unlike most of those who emigrated, he neither turned music-teacher, dancing-master, hair-dresser, nor teacher of the French language. He had a little money, and he embarked in commerce. He went as super-cargo, and then as travelling partner in a house to America, the Havannah, and the West Indies; and, after having crossed the Atlantic about twenty times in the course of the late war, he amassed a fortune of about 40,000 pounds. At the restoration, he went to Paris, resumed his title, which he had laid aside during his commercial course, was well received by Louis XVIII, and made a Colonel of the Legion of Honour. He returned to this country to settle his affairs, previous to going down to Brittany, and died suddenly, leaving the young man you have just seen, who is his only son and heir, alone on the wide world, and with a good fortune as soon as he came of age. At the time of his father’s death, he was still at school. Now he is twenty-four years old, and has been for three years in possession of the property, which is still in the English funds. He appears to like England better than France, for most of his time is passed in London. He is very talented, very musical, composes well, and is altogether a most agreeable young man, and fit for the husband of Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf. Now you have the whole history, the marriage is yet to take place.”“Your last observation is correct; or rather it is not, for the marriage will never take place.”“Mais, que voulez-vous Mademoiselle?” cried Monsieur Gironac, “must we send for the angel Gabriel for you?”“No,” replied I, “he is not a marrying man any more than I am a marrying woman. Is it not sufficient that I admit your Count to be very agreeable?—that won’t content you. You want me to marry a man whom I have seen for one half hour. Are you reasonable, Monsieur Gironac?”“He has rank, wealth, good looks, talent, and polished manners; and you admit that you do not dislike him; what would you have more?”“He is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him.”“Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf, you areune enfant. I will no longer trouble myself with looking out for a husband for you. You shall die a sour old maid,” and Monsieur Gironac left the room, pretending to be in a passion.A few days after the meeting with Count de Chavannes, Lionel made his appearance. My heart beat quick as I welcomed him.“He is here,” said he, anticipating my question, “but I called just to know when we should come, and whether I was to say any thing to him before he came.”“No, no, tell him nothing—bring him here directly—how long will it be before you return?”“Not half an hour; I am at my old lodgings in Suffolk Street, so good-bye for the present,” and Lionel walked away again.Monsieur and Madame Gironac were both out, and would not return for an hour or two. I thought the half hour would never pass, but it did at last, and they knocked at the door. Lionel entered, followed by my brother Auguste. I was surprised at his having grown so tall and handsome.“Madame Gironac is not at home, mademoiselle,” said Lionel.“No, Monsieur Lionel.”“Allow me to present to you Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf, a lieutenant in the service of his Majesty the King of the French.”Auguste bowed, and, as I returned the salute, looked earnestly at me and started.“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” said he, coming up to me, and speaking in a tremulous voice, “but—yes, you must be Valerie.”“Yes, dear Auguste,” cried I, opening my arms.He rushed to me and covered me with kisses, and then staggering to a chair, sat down and wept. So did I, and so did Lionel, for sympathy and company.“Why did you conceal this from me, Lionel?” said he after a time; “see how you have unmanned me.”“I only obeyed orders, Auguste,” replied Lionel; “but, now that I have executed my commission, I will leave you together, for you must have much to say to each other. I will join you at dinner-time.”Lionel went out and left us together; we renewed our embraces, and after we were more composed, entered into explanations. I told him my history in as few words as possible, promising to enter into details afterwards, and then I inquired about the family. Auguste replied, “I will begin from the time of your disappearance. No one certainly had any suspicion of Madame d’Albret having spirited you away; indeed, she was, as you know, constantly at the barracks till my father left, and expressed her conviction that you had destroyed yourself. The outcry against your mother was universal; she dared not show herself, and your father was in a state to excite compassion. Four or five times a day did he take his melancholy walk down to the Morgue to ascertain if your body was found. He became so melancholy, morose, and irritable, that people were afraid lest he would destroy himself. He never went home to your mother but there was a scene of reproaches on his part, and defence on hers, that was a scandal to the barracks. All her power over him ceased from that time, and has ceased for ever since, and perhaps you know that he has retired.”“How should I know, Auguste?”“Yes; he could not bear to look the other officers in the face; he told me that he considered himself, from his weakness and folly, to have been the murderer of his child, that he felt himself despicable, and could not longer remain with the regiment. As soon as the regiment arrived at Lyons, he sent in his retirement, and has ever since been living at Pau, in the south of France, upon his half-pay and the other property which he possesses.”“My poor father!” exclaimed I, bursting into tears.“As for me, you know that I obtained leave to quit the regiment, and have ever since been in the 51st of the line. I have obtained my grade of lieutenant. I have seen my father but once since I parted with him at Paris. He is much altered, and his hair is grey.”“Is he comfortable where he is, Auguste?”“Yes, Valerie; I think that he did wisely, for it was ruinous travelling about with so many children. He is comfortable, and, I believe, as happy as he can be. Oh, if he did but know that you were alive, it would add ten years to his life.”“He shall know it, my dear Auguste,” exclaimed I, as the tears coursed down my cheeks. “I feel now that I was very selfish in consenting to Madame d’Albret’s proposal, but I was hardly in my senses at the time.”“I cannot wonder at your taking the step, nor can I blame you. Your life was one of torture, and it was torture to others to see what you underwent.”“I pity my father, for weak as he was, the punishment has been too severe.”“But you will make him happy now, and he will rejoice in his old days.”“And now, Auguste, tell me about Nicolas—he never liked me, but I forgive him—how is he?”“He is, I believe, well; but he has left his home.”“Left home!”“You know how kind your mother was to him—I may say, how she doted upon him. Well, one day he announced his intention of going to Italy, with a friend he had picked up, who belonged to Naples. His mother was frantic at the idea, but he actually laughed at her, and behaved in a very unfeeling manner. Your mother was cut to the heart, and has never got over it; but, Valerie, the children who are spoiled by indulgence, always turn out the most ungrateful.”“Have you heard of him since?”“Yes; he wrote to me, telling me that he was leading an orchestra in some small town, and advancing rapidly—you know his talent for music—but not one line has he ever written to his mother.”“Ah, me!” sighed I, “and that is all the return she has for her indulgence to him. Now tell me about Clara.”“She is well married, and lives at Tours: her husband is anemployé, but I don’t exactly know what.”“And Sophie and Elisée?”“Are both well, and promise to grow up fine girls, but not so handsome as you are, Valerie. It was the wonderful improvement in your person that made me doubt for a moment when I first saw you.”“And dear little Pierre, that I used to pinch that I might get out of the house, poor fellow?”“Is a fine boy, and makes his father very melancholy, and his mother very angry, by talking about you.”“And now, Auguste, one more question. On what terms are my father and mother, and how does she conduct herself?”“My father treats her with ceremony and politeness, but not with affection. She has tried every means to resume her empire over him, but finds it impossible, and she has now turneddévote. They sleep in separate rooms, and he is very harsh and severe to her at times, when the fit comes on him. Indeed, Valerie, if you sought revenge, which I know you do not do, you have had sufficient, for her brow is wrinkled with care and mortification.”“But do you think she is sorry for what she has done?”“I regret to say I do not. I think she is sorry for the consequences, but that her animosity against you would be greater than ever if she knew that you were alive, and if you were again in her power she would wreak double vengeance. Many things have occurred to confirm me in this belief. You have overthrown her power, which she never will forgive; and, as for her religion, I have no faith in that.”“It is then as I feared, Auguste; and if I make known my existence to my father, it must be concealed from my mother.”“I agree with you that it will be best; for there is no saying to what point the vengeance of an unnatural mother may be carried. But let us quit this subject, for the present at least, and now tell me more about yourself.”“I will—but there is Lionel’s knock: so I must defer it till another opportunity. Dear Auguste, give me one more kiss, while we are alone.”
We must now read Adèle’s letter.
“My dear Valerie,—The die is cast, and I have now a most difficult game to play. I have risked all upon it, and the happiness of my future life is at stake. But let me narrate what has passed since I made you my confidante. Of course, you must know the day on which I was missing. On that day I walked out with him, and we were in a few minutes joined by a friend of his, whom he introduced as Major Argat. After proceeding about one hundred yards farther we arrived at a chapel, the doors of which were open, and the verger looking out, evidently expecting somebody.
“‘My dear angel,’ said the Colonel, ‘I have the licence in my pocket; I have requested the clergyman to attend, he is now in the chapel, and all is ready. My friend will be a witness, and there are others in attendance. You have said that you love me, trust yourself to me. Prove now that you are sincere, and consent at once that our hands as well as our hearts be united.’
“Oh! how I trembled. I could not speak. The words died away upon my lips. I looked at him imploringly. He led me gently, for my resistance was more in manner than in effect, and I found myself within the chapel, the verger bowing as he preceded us, and the clergyman waiting at the altar. To retreat appeared impossible; indeed I hardly felt as if I wished it, but my feelings were so excited that I burst into tears. What the clergyman may have thought of my conduct, and my being dressed so little like a bride, I know not, but the Colonel handed the licence to his friend, who took it to the clergyman while I was recovering myself. At last we went up to the altar, my head swam, and I hardly knew what was said, but I repeated the responses, and I was—a wife. When the ceremony was over, and I was attempting to rise from my knees, I fell, and was carried by the Colonel into the vestry, where I remained on a chair trembling with fear. After a time, the colonel asked me if I was well enough to sign my name to the marriage register, and he put the pen in my hand. I could not see where to sign, my eyes were swimming with tears. The clergyman guided my hand to the place, and I wrote Adèle Chabot. The knowledge what the effect of this signature might possibly have upon my husband quite overcame me, and I sank my head down upon my hands upon the table.
“‘I will send for a glass of water, sir,’ said the clergyman leaving the vestry to call the verger, or clerk, ‘the lady is fainting.’
“After he went out, I heard the Colonel and his friend speaking in low tones apart. Probably they thought that I was not in a condition to pay attention to them,—but I had too much at stake.
“‘Yes,’ replied the Colonel, ‘she has signed, as you say, but she hardly knows what she is about. Depend upon it, it is as I told you.’
“I did not hear the Major’s reply, but I did what the Colonel said.
“‘It’s all the better; the marriage will not be legal, and I can bring the parents to my own terms.’
“All doubt was now at an end. He had married me convinced, and still convinced that I was Caroline Stanhope, and not Adèle Chabot, and he had married me supposing that I was an heiress. My blood ran cold, and in a few seconds I was senseless, and should have fallen under the table had they not perceived that I was sinking, and ran to my support. The arrival of the clergyman with the water recovered me. My husband whispered to me that it was time to go, and that a carriage was at the door. I do not recollect how I left the church; the motion of the carriage first roused me up, and a flood of tears came to my relief. How strange is it, Valerie, that we should besocourageous and such cowards at the same time. Would you believe when I had collected myself, with a certain knowledge that my husband had deceived himself—a full conviction of the danger of my position when he found out his mistake, and that my future happiness was at stake—I felt glad that the deed was done, and would not have been unmarried again for the universe. As I became more composed, I felt that it was time to act. I wiped away my tears and said, as I smiled upon my husband, who held my hand in his, ‘I know that I have behaved very ill, and very foolishly, but I was so taken by surprise.’
“‘Do you think that I love you the less for showing so much feeling, my dearest?’ he replied, ‘no, no, it only makes you still more dear to me, as it convinces me what a sacrifice you have made for my sake.’
“Now, Valerie, could there be a prettier speech, or one so apparently sincere, from a newly-married man to his bride, and yet recollect what he said to his friend not a quarter of an hour before, about having my parents in his power by the marriage not being legal? I really am inclined to believe that we have two souls, a good and an evil one, continually striving for the mastery; one for this world, and the other for the next, and that the evil one will permit the good one to have its influence, provided that at the same time it has its own or an equal share in the direction of us. For instance, I believe the colonel was sincere in what he said, and really does love me, supposing me to be Caroline Stanhope, with the mundane advantages to be gained by the marriage, and that these better feelings of humanity are allowed to be exercised, and not interfered with by the adverse party, who is satisfied with its own Mammon share. But the struggle is to come when the evil spirit finds itself defrauded of its portion, and then attempts to destroy the influence of the good. He does love me now, and would have continued to love me, if disappointment will not tear up his still slightly-rooted affections. Now comes my task to cherish and protect it, till it has taken firm root, and all that woman can do shall be done. I felt that all that I required was time.
“‘Where are we going?’ said I.
“‘About twenty miles from London,’ replied my husband, ‘after which, that is to-morrow, you shall decide upon our future plans.’
“‘I care not where,’ replied I, ‘with you place is indifferent, only do not refuse me the first favour that I request of you.’
“‘Depend upon it I will not,’ replied he.
“‘It is this, dearest, take me where you will, but let it be three months before we return or come near London. You must feel my reason for making this request.’
“‘I grant it with pleasure,’ replied he, ‘for three months I am yours, and yours only. We will live for one another.’
“‘Yes, and never let us mention any thing about future prospects, but devote the three months to each other.’
“‘I understand you,’ replied the colonel, ‘and I promise you it shall be so. I will have no correspondence even—there shall be nothing to annoy you or vex you in any way.’
“‘For three months,’ said I, extending my hand.
“‘Agreed,’ said he, ‘and to tell you the truth, it would have been my own feeling, had it not been yours. When you strike iron, you should do it when it is hot, but when you have to handle it, you had better wait till it is cool; you understand me, and now the subject is dropped.’
“My husband has adhered most religiously to his word up to the present time, as you will see by the date of this letter. We are now visiting the lakes of Cumberland. Never could a spot be better situated for the furtherance of my wishes. The calm repose and silent beauty of these waters must be reflected upon the mind of any one of feeling, which the colonel certainly does not want, and when you consider that I am exerting all the art which poor woman has to please, I do hope and pray to heaven that I may succeed in entwining myself round his heart before his worldly views are destroyed by disappointment. Pray for me, dear Valerie—pray for one who loves you dearly, and who feels that the whole happiness of her life is at stake.—Yours,—
“Adèle.”
“So far all goes well, my dear Adèle,” thought I, “but we have yet to see the end. I will pray for you with all my heart, for you deserve to be happy, and none can be more fascinating than you, when you exert yourself. What is it in women that I do not feel which makes them so mad after the other sex? Instinct, certainly, for reason is against it. Well, I have no objection to help others to commit the folly, provided that I am not led into it myself.” Such were my reflections, as I closed the letter from Adèle.
A few days afterwards I received a note from Mr Selwyn, junior, informing me that his father had been made a puisne judge. What that was I did not know, except that he was a judge on the bench, of some kind. He also stated his intention of calling upon me on the next day.
“Yes,” thought I, “to receive the music from Caroline. Of course, she will return it to me when I give her a lesson to-day.”
I was right in my supposition. Caroline brought me a piece of music with a note, saying, “Here is the music belonging to Miss Selwyn, Valerie; will you take an opportunity of returning it to her? Any time will do; I presume she is in no hurry,” and Caroline coloured up, when her eyes met mine.
“To punish her,” I replied, “Oh, no, there can be no hurry; I shall be down at Kew in a fortnight or three weeks, I will take it with me then.”
“But my note, thanking Mr Selwyn, will be of very long date,” replied Caroline, “and I want the other piece of music belonging to me which I left at Kew.”
“Well, Caroline, you cannot expect me to be carrying your messages and going to the chambers of a handsome young Chancery-barrister. By-the-bye, I had a note from him this morning, telling me that his father is advanced to the bench. What does that mean?”
“That his father is made a judge. Is that all he said?” replied Caroline, carelessly.
“Why, now I think of it, he said that he would call upon me to-morrow, so I can give him this music when he calls.”
At this intelligence Caroline’s face brightened up, and she went away. Mr Selwyn called the next day, and I delivered the music and the note. He informed me that he had now all his father’s private as well as Chancery business, and wished to know whether he was to consider himself my legal adviser. I replied, “Certainly; but that he could not expect the business of a teacher of music to be very profitable.”
“No, nor do I intend that it shall be, but it will be a great pleasure,” replied he, very gallantly. “I hope you have some money to put by.”
“Yes,” replied I, “I have some, but not quite enough; by the end of the year I hope to have 500 pounds.”
“I am glad that you have told me, as a profitable investment may occur before that time, and I will secure it for you.”
He asked permission to read Caroline’s note, and then said that he would find the other piece of music, and leave it at Monsieur Gironac’s in the course of a day or two—after which he took his leave. I received that evening a letter from Lionel, which had a great effect upon me. In it, he stated that at the fencing-school he had made acquaintance with a young officer, a Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf,—that he had mentioned to him that he knew a lady of his name in England; that the officer had asked him what the age of the lady might be, and he had replied.
“Strange,” said the officer; “I had a very dear sister, who was supposed to be drowned, although the body was never found. Can you tell me the baptismal name of the lady you mention?”
“It then occurred to me,” continued Lionel, “that I might be imprudent if I answered, and I therefore said that I did not know, but I thought you had been called by your friends, Annette.”
“‘Then it cannot be she,’ replied he, ‘for my sister’s name was Valerie. But she may have changed her name—describe to me her face and figure.’
“As I at once felt certain that you were the party, and was aware, that the early portion of your life was never referred to by you, I thought it advisable to put him off the scent, until I had made this communication. I therefore replied, ‘That’ (excuse me) ‘you were very plain, with a pug nose, and very short and fat.’
“‘Then it must be somebody else,’ replied the officer. ‘You made my heart beat when you first spoke about her, for I loved my sister dearly, and have never ceased to lament her loss.’
“He then talked a great deal of you, and gave me some history of your former life. I took the opportunity to ask whether your unnatural mother was alive, and he said, ‘Yes, and that your father was also alive and well.’
“I did not dare to ask more. Have I done right or wrong, my dear Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf? If wrong, I can easily repair the error. Your brother, for such I presume he is, I admire very much. He is very different from the officers of the French army in general, quite subdued, and very courteous, and there is a kind spirit in all he says, which makes me like him more. You have no idea of the feeling he showed, when he talked about you—that is, if it is you—which I cannot but feel almost certain that it is. One observation of his, I think it right to make known to you, which is, that he told me that since your supposed death, your father had never held up his head; indeed, he said that he had never seen him smile since.”
The above extract from Lionel’s letter created such a revulsion, that I was obliged to retire to my chamber to conceal my agitated feelings from Madame Gironac. I wept bitterly for some time. I thought of what my poor father must have suffered, and the regrets of poor Auguste at my supposed death; and I doubted whether I was justified in the act I had committed, by the treatment I had received from my mother. If she had caused me so much pain, was I right in having given so much to others who loved me? My poor father, he had never smiled since! Should I permit him to wear out his days in sorrowing for my loss—oh, no! I no longer felt any animosity against others who had ill-treated me. Surely, I could forgive even my mother, if not for love of her, at all events for love of my father and my brother. Yes, I would do so, I was now independent of my mother and all the family. I had nothing to fear from her; I could assist my family, if they required it.
Such were my first feelings—but then came doubts and fears. Could not my mother claim me? insist upon my living with her? prevent my earning my livelihood? or if I did employ myself, could she not take from me all my earnings? Yes, by the law of France, I thought she could. Then again, would she forgive me the three years of remorse? the three years during which she had been under the stigma of having, by her barbarity, caused her child to commit self-destruction? the three years of reproach which she must have experienced from my father’s clouded brow? Would she ever forgive me for having obtained my independence by the very talents which she would not allow me to cultivate? No, never, unless her heart was changed.
After many hours of reflection, I resolved that I would make known my existence to Auguste, and permit him to acquaint my father, under a promise of secrecy, but that I would not trust myself in France, or allow my mother to be aware of my existence, until I could ascertain what her power might be over me. But before I decided upon any thing, I made up my mind that I would make a confidant, and obtain the opinion of Judge Selwyn. By the evening’s post I wrote a note to him, requesting that he would let me know when I might have an interview.
An answer arrived the next day, stating, that Judge Selwyn would call and take me down with him to Kew, where I should sleep, and return to town with him on the following morning. This suited me very well, and, as soon as the carriage was off the stones, I said that I was now about to confide to him that portion of my life with which he was unacquainted, and ask his advice how I ought to proceed, in consequence of some intelligence lately communicated by Lionel. I then went into the whole detail, until I arrived at my being taken away from the barracks by Madame d’Albret; the remainder of my life he knew sufficient of, and I then gave him Lionel’s letter to read, and when he had done so, I stated to him what my wishes and what my fears were, and begged him to decide for me what was best to be done.
“This is an eventful history, Valerie,” said the old gentleman. “I agree with you on the propriety of making your existence known to your brother, and also to your father, who has been sufficiently punished for his cowardice. Whether your father will be able to contain his secret, I doubt very much; and from what you have told me of your mother, I should certainly not trust myself in France. I am not very well informed of the laws of the country, but it is my impression that children are there under the control of their parents until they are married. Go to France I therefore would not, unless it were as a married woman: then you will be safe. When does Lionel come over?”
“He will come at any time if I say I wish it.”
“Then let him come over, and invite your brother to come with him, then you can arrange with him. I really wish you were married, Valerie, and I wish also that my son was married; I should like to be a grandfather before I die.”
“With respect to my marrying, sir, I see little chance of that; I dislike the idea, and, in fact, it would be better to be with my mother at once, for I prefer an old tyranny to a new one.”
“It does not follow, my dear Valerie; depend upon it there are many happy marriages. Am I a tyrant in my own house? Does my wife appear to be a slave?”
“There are many happy exceptions, my dear sir,” replied I. “With respect to your son’s marrying, I think you need not despair of that; for it is my opinion that he very soon will be—but this is a secret, and I must say no more.”
“Indeed,” replied the judge, “I know of no one, and he would hardly marry without consulting me.”
“Yes, sir, I think that he will, and I shall advise him so to do—as it is necessary that nothing should be known till it is over. Trust to me, sir, that if it does take place, you will be quite satisfied with the choice which he makes; but I must have your pledge not to say one word about it. You might spoil all.”
The old judge fell back in his carriage in a reverie, which lasted some little while, and then said, “Valerie, I believe that I understand you now. If it is as I guess, I certainly agree with you that I will ask no more questions, as I should for many reasons not wish it to appear that I know any thing about it.”
Soon afterwards we arrived at Kew, and, after a pleasant visit, on the following morning early, I returned to town with the judge. I then wrote to Lionel, making known to him as much as was necessary, under pledge of secrecy, and stating my wish that he should follow up my brother’s acquaintance, and the next time that he came over, persuade him to accompany him, but that he was not to say any thing to him relative to my being his sister, on any account whatever.
Young Selwyn called the same day that I came from Kew, with the piece of music which was missing. I made no remarks upon the fact, that the music might have been delivered to me by his sister, because I felt assured that it contained a note more musical than any in the score; I gave it to Caroline, and a few days afterwards, observing that she was pale and restless, I obtained permission for her to go out with me for the day. Mr Selwyn happened to call a few minutes after our arrival at Madame Gironac’s, and that frequently occurred for nearly two months, when the time arrived that she was to be removed from the school.
The reader will, of course, perceive that I was assisting this affair as much as I could. I admit it; and I did so out of gratitude to Mr Selwyn’s father, for his kindness to me. I knew Caroline to be a good girl, and well suited to Mr Selwyn; I knew that she must eventually have a very large fortune; and, provided that her father and mother would not be reconciled to their daughter after the marriage, that Mr Selwyn had the means, by his practice, of supporting her comfortably without their assistance. I considered that I did a kindness to Caroline and to Mr Selwyn, and therefore did not hesitate; besides, I had other ideas on the subject, which eventually turned out as I expected, and proved that I was right.
On the last day of September, Caroline slipped out, and followed me to Madame Gironac’s; Mr Selwyn was ready with the licence. We walked to church, the ceremony was performed, and Mr Selwyn took his bride down to his father’s house at Kew. The old judge was somewhat prepared for the event, and received her very graciously. Mrs Selwyn and his sisters were partial to Caroline, and followed the example of the judge. Nothing could pass off more quietly or more pleasantly. For reasons which I did not explain, I requested Mr Selwyn, for the present, not to make known his marriage to Caroline’s parents, as I considered it would be attended with great and certain advantage; and he promised me that he would not only be silent upon the subject, but that all his family should be equally so.
If Mrs Bradshaw required two bottles of eau-de-Cologne and water to support her when she heard of the elopement of Adèle Chabot, I leave the reader to imagine how many she required, when an heiress entrusted to her charge had been guilty of a similar act.
As Caroline had not left with me, I was not implicated, and the affair was most inscrutable. She had never been seen walking, or known to correspond with any young man. I suggested to Mrs Bradshaw that it was the fear of her father removing her from her protection which had induced her to run away, and that most probably she had gone to her aunt Bathurst’s. Upon this hint, she wrote to Mr Stanhope, acquainting him with his daughter’s disappearance, and giving it as her opinion that she had gone to her aunt’s, being very unwilling to return home. Mr Stanhope was furious; he immediately drove to Madame Bathurst’s, whom he had not seen for a long time, and demanded his daughter. Madame Bathurst declared that she knew nothing about her. Mr Stanhope expressed his disbelief, and they parted in high words.
A few days afterwards, the Colonel and Adèle came to town, the three months acceded to her wishes having expired; and now I must relate what I did not know till some days afterwards, when I saw Adèle, and who had the narrative from her husband.
It appeared, that as soon as the Colonel arrived in London, still persuaded that he had married Caroline Stanhope, and not Adèle Chabot, without stating his intention to her, he went to Grosvenor Square, and requested to see Mr Stanhope. This was about a fortnight after Caroline’s elopement with Mr Selwyn. He was admitted, and found Mr and Mrs Stanhope in the drawing-room. He had sent up his card, and Mr Stanhope received him with great hauteur.
“What may your pleasure be with me, sir?” (looking at the card). “Colonel Jervis, I think you call yourself?”
Now, Colonel Jervis was a man well known about town, and, in his own opinion, not to know him argued yourself unknown; he was, therefore, not a little angry at this reception, and being a really well-bred man, was also much startled with the vulgarity of both parties.
“My name, Mr Stanhope, as you are pleased to observe,” said the Colonel, with hauteur, “is Jervis, and my business with you is relative to your daughter.”
“My daughter, sir?”
“Our daughter! Why, you don’t mean to tell us thatyouhave run away with our daughter?” screamed Mrs Stanhope.
“Yes, madam, such is the fact; she is now my wife, and I trust that she is not married beneath herself.”
“A Colonel!—a paltry Colonel!—a match for my daughter! Why, with her fortune she might have married a Duke,” screamed Mrs Stanhope. “I’ll never speak to the wretch again. A Colonel, indeed! I suppose a Militia-Colonel. I daresay you are only a Captain, after all. Well, take her to barracks, and to barracks yourself. You may leave the house. Not a penny—no, not a penny do you get. Does he, Stanhope?”
“Not one half a farthing,” replied Mr Stanhope, pompously. “Go, sir; Mrs Stanhope’s sentiments are mine.”
The Colonel, who was in a towering passion at the treatment he received, now started up, and said, “Sir and Madam, you appear to me not to understand the usages of good society, and I positively declare, that had I been aware of the insufferable vulgarity of her parents, nothing would have induced me to marry the daughter. I tell you this, because I care nothing for you. You are on the stilts at present, but I shall soon bring you to your senses; for know, Sir and Madam, although I did elope with and married your daughter, the marriage is not legal, as she was married under a false name, and that was her own act—not mine. You may, therefore, prepare to receive your daughter back, when I think fit to send her—disgraced and dishonoured; and then try if you can match her with a Duke. I leave you to digest this piece of information, and now wish you good-morning. You have my address, when you feel inclined to apologise, and do me the justice which I shall expect before a legal marriage takes place.”
So saying, the Colonel left the house; and it would be difficult to say which of the three parties was in the greatest rage.
The Colonel, who had become sincerely attached to Adèle, who had well profited by the time which she had gained, returned home in no very pleasant humour. Throwing himself down on the sofa, he said to her in a moody way, “I’ll be candid with you, my dear; if I had seen your father and mother before I married you, nothing would have persuaded me to have made you my wife. When a man marries, I consider connexion and fortune to be the two greatest points to be obtained, but such animals as your father and mother I never beheld. Good Heaven! that I should be allied to such people!”
“May I ask you, dearest, to whom you refer, and what is the meaning of all this? My father and mother! Why, Colonel, my father was killed at the attack of Montmartre, and my mother died before him.”
“Then who and what are you,” cried the Colonel, jumping up; “are you not Caroline Stanhope?”
“I thank Heaven I am not. I have always told you that I was Adèle Chabot, and no other person. You must admit that. My father and mother were no vulgar people, dearest husband, and my family is as good as most in France. Come over with me to Paris, and you will then see who my relatives and connexions are. I am poor, I grant, but recollect that the revolution exiled many wealthy families, and mine among the rest, although we were permitted eventually to return to France. What can have induced you to fall into this error, and still persist (notwithstanding my assertions to the contrary), that I am the daughter of those vulgar upstarts, who are proverbial for their want of manners, and who are not admitted into hardly any society, rich as they are supposed to be?”
The Colonel looked all amazement.
“I’m sorry you are disappointed, dearest,” continued Adèle, “if you are so. I am sorry that I’m not Caroline Stanhope with a large fortune, but if I do not bring you a fortune, by economy I will save you one. Let me only see that you are not deprived of your usual pleasures and luxuries, and I care not what I do or how I live. You will find no exacting wife in me, dearest, troubling you for expenses you cannot afford. I will live but to please you, and if I do not succeed, I will die—if you wish to be rid of me.”
Adèle resumed her caresses with the tears running down her cheeks, for she loved her husband dearly, and felt what she said.
The Colonel could not resist her: he put his arms round her and said, “Do not cry, Adèle, I believe you, and, moreover, I feel that I love you. I am thankful that I have not married Caroline Stanhope, for I presume she cannot be very different from her parents. I admit that I have been deceiving myself, and that I have deceived myself into a better little wife than I deserve, perhaps. I really am glad of my escape. I would not have been connected with those people for the universe. We will do as you say: we will go to France for a short time, and you shall introduce me to your relations.”
Before the next morning, Adèle had gained the victory. The Colonel felt that he had deceived himself, that he might be laughed at, and that the best that could be done was to go to Paris and announce from thence his marriage in the papers. He had a sufficiency to live upon, to command luxury as well as comforts, and on the whole he was now satisfied, that a handsome and strongly-attached wife, who brought him no fortune, was preferable to a marriage of mere interest. I may as well here observe, that Adèle played her cards so well, that the Colonel was a happy and contented man. She kept her promise, and he found with her management that he had more money than a married man required, and he blessed the day in which he had married by mistake. And now to return to the Stanhopes.
Although they were too angry at the time to pay much heed to the Colonel’s parting threats, yet when they had cooled, and had time for reflection, Mr and Mrs Stanhope were much distressed at the intelligence that their daughter was not legally married. For some days, they remained quiet, at last they thought it advisable to come to terms to save their daughter’s honour. But during this delay on their part, Adèle had called upon me, and introduced her husband and made me acquainted with all that had passed. They stated their intention of proceeding to Paris immediately, and although I knew that Adèle’s relations were of good family, yet I thought an introduction to Madame d’Albret would be of service to her. I therefore gave her one, and it proved most serviceable, for the Colonel found himself in the first society in Paris, and his wife was well received and much admired. When, therefore, Mr Stanhope made up his mind to call upon the Colonel at the address of the hotel where they had put up, he found they had left, and nobody knew where they had gone. This was a severe blow, and Mr and Mrs Stanhope were in a state of the utmost uncertainty and suspense. Now was the time for Mr Selwyn to come forward, and I despatched a note to him, requesting him to come to town. I put him in possession of Adèle’s history, her marriage with the Colonel, and all the particulars with which the reader is acquainted, and I pointed out to him how he should act when he called upon Mr Stanhope, which I advised him to do immediately. He followed my advice, and thus described what passed on his return.
“I sent up my card to Mr and Mrs Stanhope, and was received almost as politely as the Colonel. I made no remark, but taking a chair, which was not offered to me, I said, ‘You have my card, Mr Stanhope, I must, in addition to my name, inform you that I am a barrister, and that my father is Judge Selwyn, who now sits on the King’s Bench. You probably have met him in the circles in which you visit, although you are not acquainted with him. Your sister, Madame Bathurst, we have the pleasure of knowing.’
“This introduction made them look more civil, for a Judge was with them somebody.
“‘My object in coming here is to speak to you relative to your daughter.’
“‘Do you come from the Colonel, then?’ said Mrs Stanhope, sharply.
“‘No, madam. I have no acquaintance with the Colonel.’
“‘Then how do you know my daughter, sir?’
“‘I had the pleasure of meeting her at my father’s. She stayed a short time with my family at our country seat at Kew.’
“‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Mrs Stanhope, ‘well I had no idea of that. I’m sure the Judge was very kind; but, sir, you know that my daughter has married very unfortunately.’
“‘That she has married, madam, I am aware, but I trust not unfortunately.’
“‘Why, sir, she has married a colonel,—a fellow who came here and told us it was no marriage at all!’
“‘It is to rectify that mistake, madam, which has induced me to call. The Colonel, madam, did hear that your daughter was at Mrs Bradshaw’s establishment, and wished to carry her off, supposing that she was a very rich prize, but, madam, he made a slight mistake—instead of your daughter, he has run away and married the French teacher, who has not a sixpence. He has now found out his mistake, and is off to Paris to hide himself from the laughter of the town.’
“This intelligence was the cause of much mirth and glee to Mr and Mrs Stanhope; the latter actually cried with delight, and I took care to join heartily in the merriment. As soon as it had subsided, Mrs Stanhope said—
“‘But Mr Selwyn, you said that my daughter was married. How is that?’
“‘Why, madam, the fact is, that your daughter’s affections were engaged at the time of this elopement of the Colonel’s, and it was her intention to make known to you that such was the case, presuming that you would not refuse to sanction her marriage; but, when the elopement took place, and it was even reported that she had run away, her position became very awkward, and the more so, as some people declared (as the Colonel asserted), that she was not legally married. On consulting with the gentleman of her choice, it was argued thus: If Miss Stanhope goes back to her father’s house after this report that she is not legally married, it will be supposed that the Colonel, finding that he was disappointed in his views, had returned her dishonoured upon her parents’ hands, and no subsequent marriage would remove the impression. It was therefore considered advisable, both on her parents’ account and on her own, that she also should elope, and then it would be easily explained that it was somebody else who had eloped with the Colonel, and that Miss Stanhope had married in a secret way. Miss Stanhope, therefore, was properly married in church before respectable witnesses, and conducted immediately afterwards by her husband to his father’s house, who approved of what was done, as now no reflection can be made, either upon Miss Stanhope or her respectable parents.’
“‘Well, let us all know the person to whom she is married.’
“‘To myself, madam, and your daughter is now at Judge Selwyn’s, where she has been ever since her marriage, with my mother and sisters. My father would have accompanied me, to explain all this, but the fact is, that his lordship is now so much occupied that he could not. He will, however, be happy to see Mr Stanhope, who is an idle man, either at his town house, or at his country seat. I trust, madam, as I have the honour to be your son-in-law, you will permit me to kiss your hand?’
“‘Caroline may have done worse, my dear,’ said the lady to her husband, who was still wavering. ‘Mr Selwyn may be a judge himself, or he may be a Lord Chancellor, recollect that. Mr Selwyn you are welcome, and I shall be most happy to see his lordship, and my husband shall call upon him when we know when he will be at leisure. Oh! that Colonel, but he’s rightly served, a French teacher. Ha, ha, ha!’ and Mrs Stanhope’s mirth was communicated to her husband, who now held out his hand to me in a most patronising manner.
“‘Well, sir, I give you joy. I believe you have saved my daughter’s character, and my dear,’ added he, very pompously, ‘we must do something for the young people.’
“‘I trust, sir, I bear your forgiveness to Caroline.’
“‘Yes, you do, Mr Selwyn,’ said the lady. ‘Bring her here as soon as you please. Oh that Colonel! ha, ha, ha! and it is capital. A French teacher. Ha, ha, ha.’”
Such was the winding up of this second marriage. Had not Mr and Mrs Stanhope been much subdued by the intelligence received from the Colonel of the marriage being illegal, and had they not also been much gratified at the mistake of the Colonel, things might not have gone off so pleasantly. I have only to add, that Mr Stanhope, who appeared to obey his wife in every thing, called upon the Judge, and their interview was very amicable. Mr Stanhope, upon the Judge stating that his son had sufficient income, immediately became profuse, and settled 2000 pounds per annum upon his daughter, during his life, with a promise of much more eventually. Caroline was graciously received by her mother, and presented with some splendid diamonds. The Judge told me that he knew the part I had taken in the affair, and shook his finger at me.
Thus ended this affair, and Madame Gironac, when she heard how busy I had been in the two elopements, said, “Ah, Valerie, you begin by marrying other people. You will end in finding a husband for yourself.”
“That is quite another thing, madam,” I replied. “I have no objection in assisting other people to their wishes, but it does not follow that therefore I am to seek for myself what I do not wish.”
“Valerie, I am a prophetess. You will be married some time next year. Mark my words.”
“I will not forget them, and at the end of the year we shall see who is right, and who is wrong.”
After all this bustle and turmoil, there was a calm, which lasted the whole winter. I followed up my usual avocations. I had as many pupils as I could attend to, and saved money fast. The winter passed away, and in the spring I expected Lionel with my brother Auguste. I looked forward to seeing my brother with great impatience; not a day that he was out of my thoughts. I was most anxious to hear of my father, my brothers, and sisters, and every particular connected with the family; even my mother was an object of interest, although not of regard, but I had forgiven all others who had ill-treated me, and I felt that I forgave and forgot, if she would behave as a mother towards me. I had received kind letters from Madame d’Albret and Adèle; the letters of the latter were most amusing. Madame Bathurst had called upon me several times. I was at peace with all the world and with myself. At last, I received a letter from Lionel, stating that he was coming over in a few days; that he had great difficulty in persuading my brother to come with him, as he could not afford the expense out of his own means, and did not like to lie under such an obligation. At last, he had been over-ruled, and was coming with him.
“Then I shall see you again, dear Auguste!” thought I; “you who always loved me, always protected me and took my part, and who so lamented my supposed death;” and my thoughts turned to the time when he and I were with my grandmother in the palace, and our early days were passed over in review. “My poor grandmother, how I loved you! and how you deserved to be loved!” And then I calculated what I might have been, had I been left with my grandmother, and had inherited her small property; and, on reflection, I decided that I was better off now than I probably should have been, and that all was for the best. I thought of the future, and whether it was likely I ever should marry, and I decided that I never would, but that if I ever returned to my family, I would assist my sisters, and try to make them happy.
“Yes,” thought I, “marry I never will—that isdecided—nothing shall ever induce me.”
My reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, who, apologising to me, stated that he had come to seek Monsieur Gironac.
I replied that he was not at home, and probably it would be half an hour before he returned to dinner.
“With your leave, mademoiselle,” said he, gracefully bowing, “I will wait till he returns. I will not, however, trespass upon your time, if it is disagreeable; perhaps the servant will accommodate me with a chair elsewhere?”
I requested that he would be seated, as there was no fire in any other room, and he took a chair. He was a Frenchman, speaking good English, but he soon discovered that I was his countrywoman, and the conversation was carried on in French. He informed me that he was the Comte de Chavannes. But I must describe him. He was rather small in stature, but elegantly made; his features were, if anything, effeminate, but very handsome; they would have been handsome in a woman. The effeminacy, was, however, relieved by a pair of moustaches, soft, silky, and curling. His manners were peculiarly fascinating, and his conversation lively and full of point. I was much pleased with him during the half hour that we were together, during which we had kept up the conversation with much spirit. The arrival of Monsieur Gironac put an end to ourtête-à-tête, and having arranged his business with him, which was relative to some flute-music which the Comte wished to be published, after a few minutes more conversation, he took his leave.
“Now there’s a man that I would select for your husband, Valerie,” said Monsieur Gironac, after the Comte had left. “Is he not a very agreeable fellow?”
“Yes he is,” I replied, “he is very entertaining and very well-bred. Who is he?”
“His history is told in few words,” replied Monsieur Gironac. “His father emigrated with the Bourbons; but, unlike most of those who emigrated, he neither turned music-teacher, dancing-master, hair-dresser, nor teacher of the French language. He had a little money, and he embarked in commerce. He went as super-cargo, and then as travelling partner in a house to America, the Havannah, and the West Indies; and, after having crossed the Atlantic about twenty times in the course of the late war, he amassed a fortune of about 40,000 pounds. At the restoration, he went to Paris, resumed his title, which he had laid aside during his commercial course, was well received by Louis XVIII, and made a Colonel of the Legion of Honour. He returned to this country to settle his affairs, previous to going down to Brittany, and died suddenly, leaving the young man you have just seen, who is his only son and heir, alone on the wide world, and with a good fortune as soon as he came of age. At the time of his father’s death, he was still at school. Now he is twenty-four years old, and has been for three years in possession of the property, which is still in the English funds. He appears to like England better than France, for most of his time is passed in London. He is very talented, very musical, composes well, and is altogether a most agreeable young man, and fit for the husband of Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf. Now you have the whole history, the marriage is yet to take place.”
“Your last observation is correct; or rather it is not, for the marriage will never take place.”
“Mais, que voulez-vous Mademoiselle?” cried Monsieur Gironac, “must we send for the angel Gabriel for you?”
“No,” replied I, “he is not a marrying man any more than I am a marrying woman. Is it not sufficient that I admit your Count to be very agreeable?—that won’t content you. You want me to marry a man whom I have seen for one half hour. Are you reasonable, Monsieur Gironac?”
“He has rank, wealth, good looks, talent, and polished manners; and you admit that you do not dislike him; what would you have more?”
“He is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him.”
“Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf, you areune enfant. I will no longer trouble myself with looking out for a husband for you. You shall die a sour old maid,” and Monsieur Gironac left the room, pretending to be in a passion.
A few days after the meeting with Count de Chavannes, Lionel made his appearance. My heart beat quick as I welcomed him.
“He is here,” said he, anticipating my question, “but I called just to know when we should come, and whether I was to say any thing to him before he came.”
“No, no, tell him nothing—bring him here directly—how long will it be before you return?”
“Not half an hour; I am at my old lodgings in Suffolk Street, so good-bye for the present,” and Lionel walked away again.
Monsieur and Madame Gironac were both out, and would not return for an hour or two. I thought the half hour would never pass, but it did at last, and they knocked at the door. Lionel entered, followed by my brother Auguste. I was surprised at his having grown so tall and handsome.
“Madame Gironac is not at home, mademoiselle,” said Lionel.
“No, Monsieur Lionel.”
“Allow me to present to you Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf, a lieutenant in the service of his Majesty the King of the French.”
Auguste bowed, and, as I returned the salute, looked earnestly at me and started.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” said he, coming up to me, and speaking in a tremulous voice, “but—yes, you must be Valerie.”
“Yes, dear Auguste,” cried I, opening my arms.
He rushed to me and covered me with kisses, and then staggering to a chair, sat down and wept. So did I, and so did Lionel, for sympathy and company.
“Why did you conceal this from me, Lionel?” said he after a time; “see how you have unmanned me.”
“I only obeyed orders, Auguste,” replied Lionel; “but, now that I have executed my commission, I will leave you together, for you must have much to say to each other. I will join you at dinner-time.”
Lionel went out and left us together; we renewed our embraces, and after we were more composed, entered into explanations. I told him my history in as few words as possible, promising to enter into details afterwards, and then I inquired about the family. Auguste replied, “I will begin from the time of your disappearance. No one certainly had any suspicion of Madame d’Albret having spirited you away; indeed, she was, as you know, constantly at the barracks till my father left, and expressed her conviction that you had destroyed yourself. The outcry against your mother was universal; she dared not show herself, and your father was in a state to excite compassion. Four or five times a day did he take his melancholy walk down to the Morgue to ascertain if your body was found. He became so melancholy, morose, and irritable, that people were afraid lest he would destroy himself. He never went home to your mother but there was a scene of reproaches on his part, and defence on hers, that was a scandal to the barracks. All her power over him ceased from that time, and has ceased for ever since, and perhaps you know that he has retired.”
“How should I know, Auguste?”
“Yes; he could not bear to look the other officers in the face; he told me that he considered himself, from his weakness and folly, to have been the murderer of his child, that he felt himself despicable, and could not longer remain with the regiment. As soon as the regiment arrived at Lyons, he sent in his retirement, and has ever since been living at Pau, in the south of France, upon his half-pay and the other property which he possesses.”
“My poor father!” exclaimed I, bursting into tears.
“As for me, you know that I obtained leave to quit the regiment, and have ever since been in the 51st of the line. I have obtained my grade of lieutenant. I have seen my father but once since I parted with him at Paris. He is much altered, and his hair is grey.”
“Is he comfortable where he is, Auguste?”
“Yes, Valerie; I think that he did wisely, for it was ruinous travelling about with so many children. He is comfortable, and, I believe, as happy as he can be. Oh, if he did but know that you were alive, it would add ten years to his life.”
“He shall know it, my dear Auguste,” exclaimed I, as the tears coursed down my cheeks. “I feel now that I was very selfish in consenting to Madame d’Albret’s proposal, but I was hardly in my senses at the time.”
“I cannot wonder at your taking the step, nor can I blame you. Your life was one of torture, and it was torture to others to see what you underwent.”
“I pity my father, for weak as he was, the punishment has been too severe.”
“But you will make him happy now, and he will rejoice in his old days.”
“And now, Auguste, tell me about Nicolas—he never liked me, but I forgive him—how is he?”
“He is, I believe, well; but he has left his home.”
“Left home!”
“You know how kind your mother was to him—I may say, how she doted upon him. Well, one day he announced his intention of going to Italy, with a friend he had picked up, who belonged to Naples. His mother was frantic at the idea, but he actually laughed at her, and behaved in a very unfeeling manner. Your mother was cut to the heart, and has never got over it; but, Valerie, the children who are spoiled by indulgence, always turn out the most ungrateful.”
“Have you heard of him since?”
“Yes; he wrote to me, telling me that he was leading an orchestra in some small town, and advancing rapidly—you know his talent for music—but not one line has he ever written to his mother.”
“Ah, me!” sighed I, “and that is all the return she has for her indulgence to him. Now tell me about Clara.”
“She is well married, and lives at Tours: her husband is anemployé, but I don’t exactly know what.”
“And Sophie and Elisée?”
“Are both well, and promise to grow up fine girls, but not so handsome as you are, Valerie. It was the wonderful improvement in your person that made me doubt for a moment when I first saw you.”
“And dear little Pierre, that I used to pinch that I might get out of the house, poor fellow?”
“Is a fine boy, and makes his father very melancholy, and his mother very angry, by talking about you.”
“And now, Auguste, one more question. On what terms are my father and mother, and how does she conduct herself?”
“My father treats her with ceremony and politeness, but not with affection. She has tried every means to resume her empire over him, but finds it impossible, and she has now turneddévote. They sleep in separate rooms, and he is very harsh and severe to her at times, when the fit comes on him. Indeed, Valerie, if you sought revenge, which I know you do not do, you have had sufficient, for her brow is wrinkled with care and mortification.”
“But do you think she is sorry for what she has done?”
“I regret to say I do not. I think she is sorry for the consequences, but that her animosity against you would be greater than ever if she knew that you were alive, and if you were again in her power she would wreak double vengeance. Many things have occurred to confirm me in this belief. You have overthrown her power, which she never will forgive; and, as for her religion, I have no faith in that.”
“It is then as I feared, Auguste; and if I make known my existence to my father, it must be concealed from my mother.”
“I agree with you that it will be best; for there is no saying to what point the vengeance of an unnatural mother may be carried. But let us quit this subject, for the present at least, and now tell me more about yourself.”
“I will—but there is Lionel’s knock: so I must defer it till another opportunity. Dear Auguste, give me one more kiss, while we are alone.”