At some base act, or done, or to be done,
That the recoiling2 soul, with conscious dread3,
Shrinks back into itself.”
Mason.
We return now to Pierre De la Motte, who, after remaining some weeks in the prison of D— y, was removed to take his trial in the courts of Paris, whither the Marquis de Montalt followed to prosecute4 the charge. Madame De la Motte accompanied her husband to the prison of the Chatelet. His mind sunk under the weight of his misfortunes; nor could all the efforts of his wife rouse him from the t\orpidity of despair which a consideration of his circumstances occasioned. Should he be even acquitted5 of the charge brought against him by the Marquis, (which was very unlikely) he was now in the scene of his former crimes, and the moment that should liberate7 him from the walls of his prison would probably deliver him again into the hands of offended justice.
The prosecution8 of the Marquis was too well founded, and its object of a nature too serious, not to justify9 the terror of La Motte. Soon after the latter had settled at the Abbey of St. Clair, the small stock of money which the emergency of his circumstances had left him being nearly exhausted10, his mind became corroded11 with the most cruel anxiety concerning the means of his future subsistence. As he was one evening riding alone in a remote part of the forest, musing12 on his distressed14 circumstances, and meditating15 plans to relieve the exigencies16 which he saw approaching, he perceived among the trees at some distance a chevalier on horseback, who was riding deliberately17 along, and seemed wholly unattended. A thought darted18 across the mind of La Motte that he might be spared the evils which threatened him by robbing this stranger. His former practices had passed the boundary of honesty — fraud was in some degree familiar to him — and the thought was not dismissed. He hesitated — every moment of hesitation19 increased the power of temptation — the opportunity was such as might never occur again. He looked round, and as far as the trees opened saw no person but the chevalier, who seemed by his air to be a man of distinction. Summoning all his courage, La Motte rode forward and attacked him. The Marquis de Montalt, for it was him, was unarmed, but knowing that his attendants were not far off, he refused to yield. While they were struggling for victory, La Motte saw several horsemen enter the extremity21 of the avenue, and, rendered desperate by opposition22 and delay, he drew from his pocket a pistol, (which an apprehension23 of banditti made him usually carry when he rode to a distance from the Abbey) and fired at the Marquis, who staggered and fell senseless to the ground. La Motte had time to tear from his coat a brilliant star, some diamond rings from his fingers, and to rifle his pockets, before his attendants came up. Instead of pursuing the robber, they all, in their first confusion, flew to assist their lord, and La Motte escaped.
He stopped before he reached the Abbey at a little ruin, the tomb formerly24 mentioned, to examine his booty. It consisted of a purse containing seventy louis d’ors; of a diamond star, three rings of great value, and a miniature set with brilliants of the Marquis himself, which he had intended as a present for his favourite mistress. To La Motte, who but a few hours before had seen himself nearly destitute25, the view of this treasure excited an almost ungovernable transport; but it was soon checked when he remembered the means he had employed to obtain it, and that he had paid for the wealth he contemplated26 the price of blood. Naturally violent in his passions, this reflection sunk him from the summit of exultation27 to the abyss of despondency. He considered himself a murderer, and startled as one awakened28 from a dream, would have given half the world, had it been his, to have been as poor, and, comparatively, as guiltless as a few preceding hours had seen him. On examining the portrait he discovered the resemblance, and believing that his hand had deprived the original of life, he gazed upon the picture with unutterable anguish31. To the horrors of remorse32 succeeded the perplexities of fear. Apprehensive33 of he knew not what, he lingered at the tomb, where he at length deposited his treasure, believing that if his offence should awaken29 justice, the Abbey might be searched, and these jewels betray him. From Madame La Motte it was easy to conceal34 his increase of wealth; for as he had never made her acquainted with the exact state of his finances, she had not suspected the extreme poverty which menaced him, and as they continued to live as usual, she believed that their expences were drawn35 from the usual supply. But it was not so easy to disguise the workings of remorse and horror: his manner became gloomy and reserved, and his frequent visits to the tomb, where he went partly to examine his treasure, but chiefly to indulge in the dreadful pleasure of contemplating36 the picture of the Marquis, excited curiosity. In the solitude37 of the forest, where no variety of objects occurred to renovate38 his ideas, the horrible one of having committed murder was ever present to him. — When the Marquis arrived at the Abbey, the astonishment39 and terror of La Motte, for at first he scarce knew whether he beheld40 the shadow or the substance of a human form, were quickly succeeded by apprehension of the punishment due to the crime he had really committed. When his distress13 had prevailed on the Marquis to retire, he informed him that he was by birth a chevalier: he then touched upon such parts of his misfortunes as he thought would excite pity, expressed such abhorrence41 of his guilt30, and voluntarily uttered such a solemn promise of returning the jewels he had yet in his possession, for he had ventured to dispose only of a small part, that the Marquis at length listened to him with some degree of compassion42. This favourable43 sentiment, seconded by a selfish motive44, induced the Marquis to compromise with La Motte. Of quick and inflammable passions, he had observed the beauty of Adeline with an eye of no common regard, and he resolved to spare the life of La Motte upon no other condition than the sacrifice of this unfortunate girl. La Motte had neither resolution or virtue45 sufficient to reject the terms — the jewels were restored, and he consented to betray the innocent Adeline. But as he was too well acquainted with her heart to believe that she would easily be won to the practice of vice46, and as he still felt a degree of pity and tenderness for her, he endeavoured to prevail on the Marquis to forbear precipitate47 measures, and to attempt gradually to undermine her principles by seducing48 her affections. He approved and adopted this plan: the failure of his first scheme induced him to employ the strategems he afterwards pursued, and thus to multiply the misfortunes of Adeline.
Such were the circumstances which had brought La Motte to his present deplorable situation. The day of trial was now come, and he was led from prison into the court, where the Marquis appeared as his accuser. When the charge was delivered, La Motte, as is usual, pleaded not guilty, and the Advocate Nemours, who had undertaken to plead for him, afterwards endeavoured to make it appear that the accusation49, on the part of the Marquis de Montalt, was false and malicious50. To this purpose he mentioned the circumstance of the latter having attempted to persuade his client to the murder of Adeline: he farther urged that the Marquis had lived in habits of intimacy52 with La Motte for several months immediately preceding his arrest, and that it was not till he had disappointed the designs of his accuser, by conveying beyond his reach the unhappy object of his vengeance53, that the Marquis had thought proper to charge La Motte with the crime for which he stood indicted54. Nemours urged the improbability of one man’s keeping up a friendly intercourse55 with another from whom he had suffered the double injury of assault and robbery; yet it was certain that the Marquis had observed a frequent intercourse with La Motte for some months following the time specified56 for the commission of the crime. If the Marquis intended to prosecute, why was it not immediately after his discovery of La Motte? and if not then, what had influenced him to prosecute at so distant a period?
To this nothing was replied on the part of the Marquis; for as his conduct on this point had been subservient57 to his designs on Adeline, he could not justify it but by exposing schemes which would betray the darkness of his character, and invalidate his cause. He, therefore, contented58 himself with producing several of his servants as witnesses of the assault and robbery, who swore without scruple59 to the person of La Motte, though not one of them had seen him otherwise than through the gloom of evening and riding off at full speed. On a cross examination most of them contradicted each other; their evidence was of course rejected; but as the Marquis had yet two other witnessess to produce, whose arrival at Paris had been hourly expected, the event of the trial was postponed60, and the court adjourned61.
La Motte was re-conducted to his prison under the same pressure of despondency with which he had quitted it. As he walked through one of the avenues he passed a man who stood by to let him proceed, and who regarded him with a fixed62 and earnest eye. La Motte thought he had seen him before; but the imperfect view he caught of his features through the duskiness of the place made him uncertain as to this, and his mind was’ in too perturbed63 a state to suffer him to feel an interest on the subject. When he was gone the stranger inquired of the keeper of the prison who La Motte was; on being told, and receiving answers to some farther questions he put, he desired he might be admitted to speak with him. The request, as the man was only a debtor64, was granted; but as the doors were now shut for the night, the interview was deferred65 till the morrow.
La Motte found Madame in his room, where she had been waiting for some hours to hear the event of the trial. They now wished more earnestly then ever to see their son; but they were, as he had suspected, ignorant of his change of quarters, owing to the letters which he had, as usual, addressed to them under an assumed name, remaining at the post-house of Auboin. This circumstance occasioned Madame La Motte to address her letters to the place of her son’s late residence, and he had thus continued ignorant of his father’s misfortunes and removal. Madame La Motte, surprized at receiving no answers to her letters, sent off another, containing an account of the trial as far as it had proceeded, and a request that her son would obtain leave of absence, and set out for Paris instantly. As she was still ignorant of the failure of her letters, and had it been otherwise, would not have known whither to have sent them, she directed this as usual.
Mean while his approaching fate was never absent for a moment from the mind of La Motte, which, feeble by nature, and still more enervated67 by habits of indulgence, refused to support him at this dreadful period.
While these scenes were passing at Paris, La Luc arrived there without any accident after performing a journey, during which he had been supported almost entirely68 by the spirit of his resolution. He hastened to throw himself at the feet of the sovereign, and such was the excess of his feeling on presenting the petition which was to decide the fate of his son, that he could only look silently up, and then fainted. The king received the paper, and giving orders for the unhappy father to be taken care of, passed on. He was carried back to his hotel, where he awaited the event of this his final effort.
Adeline, mean while, continued at Vaceau in a state of anxiety too powerful for her long-agitated69 frame, and the illness in consequence of this, confined her almost wholly to her chamber70. Sometimes she ventured to flatter herself with a hope that the journy of La Luc would be successful: but these short and illusive71 intervals73 of comfort served only to heighten, by contrast, the despondency that succeeded, and in the alternate extremes of feeling the experienced a state more torturing than that produced either by the sharp sting of unexpected calamity74, or the sullen75 pain of settled despair.
When she was well enough she came down to the parlour to converse76 with Louis, who brought her frequent accounts of Theodore, and who passed every moment he could snatch from the duty of his profession in endeavours to support and console his afflicted77 friends. Adeline and Theodore, both looked to him for the little comfort allotted79 them, for he brought them intelligence of each other, and whenever he appeared a transient melancholy80 kind of pleasure played round their hearts. He could not conceal from Theodore Adeline’s indisposition, since it was necessary to account for her not indulging the earnest wish he repeatedly expressed to see her again. To Adeline he spoke81 chiefly of the fortitude82 and resignation of his friend, not however forgetting to mention the tender affection he constantly expressed for her. Accustomed to derive83 her sole consolation84 from the presence of Louis, and to observe his unwearied friendship towards him whom she so truly loved, she found her esteem85 for him ripen86 into gratitude87, and her regard daily increase.
The fortitude with which he had said Theodore supported his calamities88 was somewhat exaggerated. He could not sufficiently89 forget those ties which bound him to life to meet his fate with firmness; but though the paroxysms of grief were acute and frequent, he sought, and often attained90 in the presence of his friends, a manly92 composure. From the event of his father’s journey he hoped little, yet that little was sufficient to keep his mind in the torture of suspence till the issue should appear.
On the day preceding that fixed for the execution of the sentence La Luc reached Vaceau. Adeline was at her chamber window when the carriage drew up to the inn; she saw him alight, and with feeble steps, supported by Peter, enter the house. From the languor93 of his air she drew no favourable omen6, and, almost sinking under the violence of her emotion, she went to meet him. Clara was already with her father when Adeline entered the room. She approached him, but, dreading94 to receive from his lips a confirmation95 of the misfortune his countenance96 seemed to indicate, she looked expressively97 at him and sat down, unable to speak the question she would have asked. He held out his hand to her in silence, sunk back in his chair, and seemed to be fainting under oppression of heart. His manner confirmed all her fears; at this dreadful conviction her senses failed her, and she sat motionless and stupified.
La Luc and Clara were too much occupied by their own distress to observe her situation; after some time she breathed a heavy sigh, and burst into tears. Relieved by weeping, her spirits gradually returned, and she at length said to La Luc, “It is unnecessary, Sir, to ask the success of your journey; yet, when you can bear to mention the subject, I wish” —
La Luc waved his hand — “Alas!” said he, “I have nothing to tell but what you already guess too well. My poor Theodore!” — His voice was convulsed with sorrow, and some moments of unutterable anguish followed.
Adeline was the first who recovered sufficient recollection to notice the extreme languor of La Luc, and attend to his support. She ordered him refreshments98, and entreated99 he would retire to his bed and suffer her to send for a phycian; adding, that the fatigue101 he had suffered made repose102 absolutely necessary. Would that I could find it, my dear “child,” said he; “it is not in this world that I must look for it, but in a better, and that better, I trust, I shall soon attain91. But where is our good friend, Louis La Motte? He must lead me to my son.” — Grief again interrupted his utterance103, and the entrance of Louis was a very seasonable relief to them all. Their tears explained the question he would have asked; La Luc immediately inquired for his son, and thanking Louis for all his kindness to him, desired to be conducted to the prison. Louis endeavoured to persuade him to defer66 his visit till the morning, and Adeline and Clara joined their entreaties104 with his, but La Luc determined105 to go that night. — “His time is short,” said he; “a few hours and I shall see him no more, at least in this world; let me not neglect these precious moments. Adeline! I had promised my poor boy that he should see you once more; you are not now equal to the meeting. I will try to reconcile him to the disappointment; but if I fail, and you are better in the morning, I know you will exert yourself to sustain the interview.” — Adeline looked impatient, and attempted to speak. La Luc rose to depart, but could only reach the door of the room, where, faint and feeble, he sat down in a chair. “I must submit to necessity,” said he; “I find I am not able to go farther to-night. Go to him, La Motte, and tell him I am somewhat disordered by my journey, but that I will be with him early in the morning. Do not flatter him with a hope; prepare him for the worst.” — There was a pause of silence; La Luc at length recovering himself, desired Clara would order his bed to be got ready, and she willingly obeyed. When he withdrew, Adeline told Louis, what was indeed unnecessary, the event of La Luc’s journey. “I own,” continued she, “that I had sometimes suffered myself to hope, and I now feel this calamity with double force. I fear too that M. La Luc will sink under its pressure; he is much altered for the worse since he set out for Paris. Tell me your opinion sincerely.”
The change was so obvious, that Louis could not deny it, but he endeavoured to sooth her apprehension by ascribing this alteration106, in a great measure, to the temporary fatigue of travelling. Adeline declared her resolution of accompanying La Luc to take leave of Theodore in the morning. “I know not how I shall support the interview,” said she; “but to see him once more is a duty I owe both to him and myself. The remembrance of having neglected to give him this last proof of affection would pursue me with incessant107 remorse.”
After some farther conversation on this subject Louis withdrew to the prison, ruminating108 on the best means of imparting to his friend the fatal intelligence he had to communicate. Theodore received it with more composure than he had expected; but he asked, with impatience109, why he did not see his father and Adeline, and on being informed that indisposition withheld110 them, his imagination seized on the worst possibility, and suggested that his father was dead. It was a considerable time before Louis could convince him of the contrary, and that Adeline was not dangerously ill; when, however, he was assured that he should see them in the morning, he became more tranquil111. He desired his friend would not leave him that night. “These are the last hours we can pass together,” added he; “I cannot sleep! Stay with me and lighten their heavy moments. I have need of comfort, Louis. Young as I am, and held by such strong attachments112, I cannot quit the world with resignation. I know not how to credit those stories we hear of philosophic113 fortitude; wisdom cannot teach us cheerfully to resign a good, and life in my circumstances is surely such.”
The night was passed in embarrassed conversation; sometimes interrupted by long fits of silence, and sometimes by the paroxysms of despair; and the morning of that day which was to lead Theodore to death at length dawned through the grates of his prison.
La Luc mean while passed a sleepless115 and dreadful night. He prayed for fortitude and resignation both for himself and Theodore; but the pangs116 of nature were powerful in his heart, and not to be subdued118. The idea of his lamented119 wife, and of what she would have suffered had she lived to witness the ignominious120 death which awaited her son, frequently occurred to him.
It seemed as if a destiny had hung over the life of Theodore, for it is probable that the king might have granted the petition of the unhappy father, had it not happened that the Marquis de Montalt was present at court when the paper was presented. The appearance and singular distress of the petitioner121 had interested the monarch122, and, instead of putting by the paper, he opened it. As he threw his eyes over it, observing that the criminal was of the Marquis de Montalt’s regiment123: he turned to him and inquired the nature of the offence for which the culprit was about to suffer. The answer was such as might have been expected from the Marquis, and the king was convinced that Theodore was not a proper object of mercy.
But to return to La Luc, who was called, according to his order, at a very early hour. Having passed some time in prayer, he went down to the parlour, where Louis, punctual to the moment, already waited to conduct him to the prison. He appeared calm and collected, but his countenace was impressed with a fixed despair that sensibly affected124 his young friend. While they waited for Adeline he spoke little, and seemed struggling to attain the fortitude necessary to support him through the approaching scene. Adeline not appearing, he at length sent to hasten her, and was told she had been ill, but was recovering. She had indeed passed a night of such agitation125, that her frame had sunk under it, and she was now endeavouring to recover strength and composure sufficient to sustain her in this dreadful hour. Every moment that brought her nearer to it had increased her emotion, and the apprehension of being prevented seeing Theodore had alone enabled her to struggle against the united pressure of illness and grief.
She now, with Clara, joined La Luc, who advanced as they entered the room, and took a hand of each in silence. After some moments he proposed to go, and they stepped into a carriage which conveyed them to the gates of the prison. The crowd had already began to assemble there, and a confused murmur126 arose as the carriage moved forward; it was a grievous sight to the friends of Theodore. Louis supported Adeline when she alighted, she was scarcely able to walk, and with trembling steps she followed La Luc, whom the keeper led towards that part of the prison where his son was confined. It was now eight o’clock, the sentence was not to be executed till twelve, but a guard of soldiers was already placed in the court, and as this unhappy party passed along the narrow avenues they were met by several officers who had been to take a last farewell of Theodore. As they ascended127 the stairs that led to his apartment, La Luc’s ear caught the clink of chains, and heard him walking above with a quick irregular step. The unhappy father, overcome by the moment which now pressed upon him, stopped, and was obliged to support himself by the bannister. Louis fearing the consequence of his grief might be fatal, shattered as his frame already was, would have gone for assistance, but he made a sign to him to stay. “I am better;” said La Luc, “O God! support me through this hour!” and in a few minutes he was able to proceed.
As the warder unlocked the door, the harsh grating of the key shocked Adeline but in the next moment she was in the presence of Theodore, who sprung to meet her, and caught her in his arms before she sunk to the ground. As her head reclined on his shoulder, he again viewed that countenance so dear to him, which had so often lighted rapture129 in his heart, and which though pale and inanimate as it now was, awakened him to momentary130 delight. When at length she unclosed her eyes, she fixed them in long and mournful gaze upon Theodore, who pressing her to his heart could answer her only with a smile of mingled131 tenderness and despair; the tears he endeavoured to restrain trembled in his eyes, and he forgot for a time every thing but Adeline. La Luc, who had seated himself at the foot of the bed, seemed unconscious of what passed around him, and entirely absorbed in his own grief; but Clara, as she clapsed the hand of her brother, and hung weeping on his arm, expressed aloud all the anguish of her heart, and at length recalled the attention of Adeline, who in a voice scarcely audible entreated she would spare her father. Her words roused Theodore, and supporting Adeline to a chair, he turned to La Luc. “My dear child!” said La Luc, grasping his hand and bursting into tears, “My dear child!” They wept together. After a long interval72 of silence, he said, “I thought I could have supported this hour, but I am old and feeble. God knows my efforts for resignation, my faith in his goodness!”
Theodore by a strong and sudden exertion132 assumed a composed and firm countenance, and endeavoured by every gentle argument to sooth and comfort his weeping friends. La Luc at length seemed to conquer his sufferings; drying his eyes, he said, “My son, I ought to have set you a better example, and practised the precepts133 of fortitude I have so often given you. But it is over; I know, and will perform, my duty.” Adeline breathed a heavy sigh, and continued to weep. “Be comforted, my love, we part but for a time,” said Theodore as he kissed the tears from her cheek; and uniting her hand with that of his father’s, he earnestly recommended her to his protection. “Receive her,” added he, as the most precious legacy134 I can bequeath; consider her as your child. She will console you when I am gone, she will more than supply the loss of your son.”
La Luc assured him that he did now, and should continue to, regard Adeline as his daughter. During those afflicting135 hours he endeavoured to dissipate the terrors of approaching death by inspiring his son with religious confidence. His conversation was pious136, rational and consolatory137: he spoke not from the cold dictates138 of the head, but from the feelings of a heart which had long loved and practised the pure precepts of christianity, and which now drew from them a comfort such as nothing earthly could bestow139.
“You are young, my son,” said he, and are yet innocent of any great crime; you may therefore look on death without terror, for to the guilty only is his approach dreadful. I feel that I shall not long survive you, and I trust in a merciful God that we shall meet in a state where sorrow never comes; where the Son of Righteousness shall come with healing in his wing!” As he spoke he looked up; the tears still trembled in his eyes, which beamed with meek140 yet fervent141 devotion, and his countenance glowed with the dignity of a superior being.
“Let us not neglect the awful moments,” said La Luc, rising, “let our united prayers ascend128 to Him who alone can comfort and support us!” They all knelt down, and he prayed with that simple and sublime142 eloquence143 which true piety144 inspires. When he rose he embraced his children separately, and when he came to Theodore he paused, gazed upon him with an earnest, mournful expression, and was for some time unable to speak. Theodore could not bear this; he drew his hand before his eyes, and vainly endeavoured to stifle145 the deep sobs146 which convulsed his frame. At length recovering his voice, he entreated his father would leave him. “This misery147 is too much for us all,” said he, “let us not prolong it. The time is now drawing on — leave me to compose myself. The sharpness of death consists in parting with those who are dear to us; when that is passed, death is disarmed148.”
“I will not leave you, my son,” replied La Luc, “My poor girls shall go, but for me, I will be with you in your last moments.” Theodore felt that this would be too much for them both, and urged every argument which reason could suggest to prevail with his father to relinquish149 his design. But he remained firm in his determination. “I will not suffer a selfish consideration of the pain I may endure,” said La Luc, to tempt20 me to desert my child when he will most require my support. It is my duty to attend you, and nothing shall withhold150 me.”
Theodore seized on the words of La Luc — “As you would that I should be supported in my last hour,” said he, I entreat100 that you will not be witness of it. Your presence, my dear father, would subdue117 all my fortitude — would destroy what little composure I may otherwise be able to attain. Add not to my sufferings the view of your distress, but leave me to forget, if possible, the dear parent I must quit for ever.” His tears flowed anew. La Luc continued to gaze on him in silent agony; at length he said, “Well, be it so. If indeed my presence would distress you, I will not go.” His voice was broken and interrupted. After a pause of some moments he again embraced Theodore — “We must part,” said he, “we must part, but it is only for a time — we shall soon be re-united in a higher world! — O God! thou seest my heart — thou seest all its feelings in this bitter hour!” — Grief again overcame him. He pressed Theodore in his arms; and at length, seeming to summon all his fortitude, he again said, “We must part — Oh! my son, farewell for ever in this world! — The mercy of Almighty151 God support and bless you!”
He turned away to leave the prison, but, quite worn out with grief, sunk into a chair near the door he would have opened. Theodore gazed, with a distracted countenance, alternately on his father, on Clara, and on Adeline, whom he pressed to his throbbing152 heart, and their tears flowed together. “And do I then,” cried he, “for the last time look upon that countenance! — Shall I never — never more behold153 it? — O! exquisite154 misery! Yet once again — once more,” continued he, pressing her cheek, but it was insensible and cold as marble.
Louis, who had left the room soon after La Luc arrived, that his presence might not interrupt their farewell grief, now returned. Adeline raised her head, and perceiving who entered, it again sunk on the bosom155 of Theodore.
Louis appeared much agitated. La Luc arose. “We must go,” said he: “Adeline, my love, exert yourself — Clara — my children, let us depart. — Yet one last — last embrace, and then!” — Louis advanced and took his hand; “My dear Sir, I have something to say; yet I fear to tell it.” — “What do you mean?” said La Luc, with quickness: “No new misfortune can have power to afflict78 me at this moment. Do not fear to speak.” — “I rejoice that I cannot put you to the proof,” replied Louis; “I have seen you sustain the most trying affliction with fortitude. Can you support the transports of hope?” — La Luc gazed eagerly on Louis — “Speak!” said he, in a faint voice. Adeline raised her head, and, trembling between hope and fear, looked at Louis as if she would have searched his soul. He smiled cheerfully upon her. “Is it — O! is it possible!” she exclaimed, suddenly re-animated — “He lives! He lives!” — She said no more, but ran to La Luc, who sunk fainting in his chair, while Theodore and Clara with one voice called on Louis to relieve them from the tortures of suspence.
He proceeded to inform them that he had obtained from the commanding officer a respite156 for Theodore till the king’s farther pleasure could be known, and this in consequence of a letter received that morning from his mother, Madame De la Motte, in which she mentioned some very extraordinary circumstances that had appeared in the course of a trial lately conducted at Paris, and which so materially affected the character of the Marquis de Montalt as to render it possible a pardon might be obtained for Theodore.
These words darted with the rapidity of lightning upon the hearts of his hearers. La Luc revived, and that prison so lately the scene of despair now echoed only to the voices of gratitude and gladness. La Luc, raising his clasped hands to Heaven, said, “Great God! support me in this moment as thou hast already supported me! — If my son lives, I die in peace.”
He embraced Theodore, and remembering the anguish of his last embrace, tears of thankfulness and joy flowed to the contrast. So powerful indeed was the effect of this temporary reprieve157, and of the hope it introduced, that if an absolute pardon had been obtained, it could scarcely for the moment have diffused158 a more lively joy. But when the first emotions were subsided159, the uncertainty160 of Theodore’s fate once more appeared. Adeline forbore to express this, but Clara without scruple lamented the possibility that her brother might yet be taken from them, and all their joy be turned to sorrow. A look from Adeline checked her. Joy was, however, so much the predominant feeling of the present moment, that the shade which reflection threw upon their hopes passed away like the cloud that is dispelled161 by the strength of the sun-beam; and Louis alone was pensive162 and abstracted.
When they were sufficiently composed, he informed them that the contents of Madame De la Motte’s letter obliged him to set out for Paris immediately; and that the intelligence he had to communicate intimately concerned Adeline, who would undoubtedly163 judge it necessary to go thither164 also as soon as her health would permit. He then read to his impatient auditors165 such passages in the letter as were necessary to explain his meaning; but as Madame De la Motte had omitted to mention some circumstances of importance to be understood, the following is a relation of the occurrences that had lately happened at Paris.
It may be remembered, that on the first day of his trial, La Motte, in passing from the courts to his prison, saw a person whose features, though imperfectly seen through the dusk, he thought he recollected166; and that this same person, after inquiring the name of La Motte, desired to be admitted to him. On the following day the warder complied with his request, and the surprise of La Motte may be imagined when, in the stronger light of his apartment, he distinguished167 the countenance of the man from whose hands he had formerly received Adeline.
On observing Madame De la Motte in the room, he said, he had something of consequence to impart, and desired to be left alone with the prisoner. When she was gone, he told De la Motte that he understood he was confined at the suit of the Marquis de Montalt. La Motte assented168. — “I know him for a villain169,” said the stranger boldly. — “Your case is desperate. Do you wish for life?”
“Need the question be asked!”
“Your trial, I understand, proceeds to-morrow. I am now under confinement170 in this place for debt; but if you can obtain leave for me to go with you into the courts, and a condition from the judge that what I reveal shall not criminate myself, I will make discoveries that shall confound that same Marquis; I will prove him a villain; and it shall then be judged how far his word ought to be taken against you.”
La Motte, whose interest was now strongly excited, desired he would explain himself; and the man proceeded to relate a long history of the misfortunes and consequent poverty which had tempted51 him to become subservient to the schemes of the Marquis, till he suddenly checked himself, and said, “When I obtain from the court the promise I require, I will explain myself fully114; till then I cannot say more on the subject.”
La Motte could not forbear expressing a doubt of his sincerity171, and a curiosity concerning the motive that had induced him to become the Marquis’s accuser. — As to my motive, it is a very natural one,” replied the man: it is no easy matter to receive ill usage without resenting it, particularly from a villain whom you have served.” — La Motte, for his own sake, endeavoured to check the vehemence172 with which this was uttered. “I care not who hears me,” continued the stranger, but at the same time he lowered his voice; I repeat it — the Marquis has used me ill — I have kept his secret long enough. He does not think it worth while to secure my silence, or he would relieve my necessities. I am in prison for debt, and have applied173 to him for relief: since he does not chuse to give it, let him take the consequence. I warrant he shall soon repent174 that he has provoked me, and ’tis fit he should.”
The doubts of La Motte were now dissipated; the prospect175 of life again opened upon him, and he assured Du Bosse, (which was the stranger’s name) with much warmth, that he would commission his Advocate to do all in his power to obtain leave for his appearance on the trial, and to procure176 the necessary condition. After some farther conversation they parted.
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1
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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2
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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3
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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4
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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6
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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7
liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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9
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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10
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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11
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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12
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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13
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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14
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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15
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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17
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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18
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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19
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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20
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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21
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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22
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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24
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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25
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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26
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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27
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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28
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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29
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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30
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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31
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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32
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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33
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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34
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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35
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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37
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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38
renovate
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| vt.更新，革新，刷新 | |
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39
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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40
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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41
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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42
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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43
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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44
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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45
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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46
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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47
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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48
seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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49
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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50
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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51
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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52
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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53
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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54
indicted
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| 控告，起诉( indict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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56
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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57
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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58
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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59
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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60
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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61
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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63
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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65
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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66
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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67
enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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69
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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70
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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71
illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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72
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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73
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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74
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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75
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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76
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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77
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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79
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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81
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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82
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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83
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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84
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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85
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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86
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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87
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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88
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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89
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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90
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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91
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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92
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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93
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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94
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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98
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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99
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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101
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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102
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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103
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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104
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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105
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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106
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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107
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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108
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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109
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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110
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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111
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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112
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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113
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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114
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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115
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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116
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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117
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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118
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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119
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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121
petitioner
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| n.请愿人 | |
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122
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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123
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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124
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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125
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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126
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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127
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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129
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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130
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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131
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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133
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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134
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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135
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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137
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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138
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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139
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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140
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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141
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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142
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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143
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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144
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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145
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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147
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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150
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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151
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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152
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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153
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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154
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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155
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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157
reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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158
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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159
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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160
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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161
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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164
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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165
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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166
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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168
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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170
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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171
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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172
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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173
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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174
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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175
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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176
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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