The Romance of the Forest, Ann Radcliffe [reader novel txt] 📗

the heart of Madame La Motte, and she resolved, at all events, to obtain some certainty upon the subject of her suspicions.

She now condescended to a meanness, which she had before despised, and ordered Peter to watch the steps of his master, in order to discover, if possible, the place of his visitation! So much did passion win upon her judgement, by time and indulgence, that she sometimes ventured even to doubt the integrity of Adeline, and afterwards proceeded to believe it possible that the object of La Motte’s rambles might be an assignation with her. What suggested this conjecture was, that Adeline frequently took long walks alone in the forest, and sometimes was absent from the abbey for many hours. This circumstance, which Madame La Motte had at first attributed to Adeline’s fondness for the picturesque beauties of nature, now operated forcibly upon her imagination, and she could view it in no other light, than as affording an opportunity for secret conversation with her husband.

Peter obeyed the orders of his mistress with alacrity, for they were warmly seconded by his own curiosity. All his endeavours were, however, fruitless; he never dared to follow La Motte near enough to observe the place of his last retreat. Her impatience thus heightened by delay, and her passion stimulated by difficulty, Madame La Motte now resolved to apply to her husband for an explanation of his conduct.

After some consideration, concerning the manner most likely to succeed with him, she went to La Motte, but when she entered the room where he sat, forgetting all her concerted address, she fell at his feet, and was, for some moments, lost in tears. Surprized at her attitude and distress, he inquired the occasion of it, and was answered, that it was caused by his own conduct. “My conduct! What part of it, pray?” inquired he.

“Your reserve, your secret sorrow, and frequent absence from the abbey.”

“Is it then so wonderful, that a man, who has lost almost every thing, should sometimes lament his misfortunes? or so criminal to attempt concealing his grief, that he must be blamed for it by those, whom he would save from the pain of sharing it?”

Having uttered these words, he quitted the room, leaving Madame La Motte lost in surprize, but somewhat relieved from the pressure of her former suspicions. Still, however, she pursued Adeline with an eye of scrutiny; and the mask of kindness would sometimes fall off, and discover the features of distrust. Adeline, without exactly knowing why, felt less at ease and less happy in her presence than formerly; her spirits drooped, and she would often, when alone, weep at the forlornness of her condition. Formerly, her remembrance of past sufferings was lost in the friendship of Madame La Motte; now, though her behaviour was too guarded to betray any striking instance of unkindness, there was something in her manner which chilled the hopes of Adeline, unable as she was to analyse it. But a circumstance, which soon occurred, suspended, for a while, the jealousy of Madame La Motte, and roused her husband from his state of gloomy stupefaction.

Peter, having been one day to Auboine, for the weekly supply of provisions, returned with intelligence that awakened in La Motte new apprehension and anxiety.

“Oh, Sir! I’ve heard something that has astonished me, as well it may,” cried Peter, “and so it will you, when you come to know it. As I was standing in the blacksmith’s shop, while the smith was driving a nail into the horse’s shoe (by the bye, the horse lost it in an odd way, I’ll tell you, Sir, how it was)” Ñ

“Nay, prithee leave it till another time, and go on with your story.”

“Why then, Sir, as I was standing in the blacksmith’s shop, comes in a man with a pipe in his mouth, and a large pouch of tobacco in his hand” Ñ “Well Ñ what has the pipe to do with the story?”

“Nay, Sir, you put me out; I can’t go on, unless you let me tell it my own way. As I was saying Ñ with a pipe in his mouth Ñ I think I was there, your Honour!”

“Yes, yes.”

“He sets himself down on the bench, and, taking the pipe from his mouth, says to the blacksmith Ñ Neighbour, do you know any body of the name of La Motte hereabouts? Ñ Bless your Honour, I turned all of a cold sweat in a minute! Ñ Is not your Honour well, shall I fetch you any thing?”

“No Ñ but be short in your narrative.”

“La Motte! La Motte! said the blacksmith, I think I’ve heard the name.” Ñ “Have you?” said I, you’re cunning then, for there’s no such person hereabouts, to my knowledge.”

“Fool! Ñ why did you say that?”

“Because I did not want them to know your Honour was here; and if I had not managed very cleverly, they would have found me out. There is no such person, hereabouts, to my knowledge, says I,” Ñ “Indeed! says the blacksmith, you know more of the neighbourhood than I do then.” Ñ Aye, says the man with the pipe, that’s very true. How came you to know so much of the neighbourhood? I came here twenty-six years ago, come next St. Michael, and you know more than I do. How came you to know so much?”

“With that he put his pipe in his mouth, and gave a whiff full in my face. Lord! your Honour, I trembled from head to foot. Nay, as for that matter, says I, I don’t know more than other people, but I’m sure I never heard of such a man as that.” Ñ Pray, says the blacksmith, staring me full in the face, an’t you the man that was inquiring some time since about Saint Clair’s Abbey?” Ñ “Well, what of that? says I, what does that prove?” Ñ “Why, they say, somebody lives in the abbey now, said the man, turning to the other; and, for aught I know, it may be this same La Motte.” Ñ “Aye, or for aught I know either, says the man with the pipe, getting up from the bench, and you know more of this than you’ll own. I’ll lay my life on’t, this Monsieur La Motte lives at the abbey.” Ñ “Aye, says I, you are out there, for he does not live at the abbey now.”

“Confound your folly!” cried La Motte, “but be quick Ñ how did the matter end?”

“My master does not live there now, said I. Ñ Oh! oh! said the man with the pipe; he is your master, then? And pray how long has he left the abbey Ñ and where does he live now?” Hold, said I, not so fast Ñ I know when to speak and when to hold my tongue Ñ but who has been inquiring for him?”

“What! he expected somebody to inquire for him? says the man.” Ñ No, says I, he did not, but if he did, what does that prove? Ñ that argues nothing.” With that, he looked at the blacksmith, and they went out of the shop together, leaving my horse’s shoe undone. But I never minded that, for the moment they were gone, I mounted and rode away as fast as I could. But in my fright, your Honour, I forgot to take the round about way, and so came straight home.”

La Motte, extremely shocked at Peter’s intelligence, made no other reply than by cursing his folly, and immediately went in search of Madame, who was walking with Adeline on the banks of the river. La Motte was too much agitated to soften his information by preface. “We are discovered!” said he, “the King’s officers have been inquiring for me at Auboine, and Peter has blundered upon my ruin.” He then informed her of what Peter had related, and bade her prepare to quit the abbey.

“But whither can we fly?” said Madame La Motte, scarcely able to support herself. “Any where!” said he, “to stay here is certain destruction. We must take refuge in Switzerland, I think. If any part of France would have concealed me, surely it had been this!”

“Alas, how are we perfecuted!” rejoined Madame. “This spot is scarcely made comfortable, before we are obliged to leave it, and go we know not whither.”

“I wish we may not yet know whither,” replied La Motte, “that is the least evil that threatens us. Let us escape a prison, and I care not whither we go. But return to the abbey immediately, and pack up what moveables you can.” A flood of tears came to the relief of Madame La Motte, and she hung upon Adeline’s arm, silent and trembling. Adeline, though she had no comfort to bestow, endeavoured to command her feelings and appear composed. Come,” said La Motte, “we waste time; let us lament hereafter, but at present prepare for flight. Exert a little of that fortitude, which is so necessary for our preservation. Adeline does not weep, yet her state is as wretched as your own, for I know not how long I shall be able to protect her.”

Notwithstanding her terror, this reproof touched the pride of Madame La Motte, who dried her tears, but disdained to reply, and looked at Adeline with a strong expression of displeasure. As they moved silently toward the abbey, Adeline asked La Motte if he was sure they were the king’s officers, who inquired for him. “I cannot, doubt it,” he replied, “who else could possibly inquire for me? Besides, the behaviour of the man, who mentioned my name, puts the matter beyond a question.”

“Perhaps not,” said Madame La Motte: “let us wait till morning ere we set off. We may then find it will be unnecessary to go.”

“We may, indeed; the king’s officers would probably by that time have told us as much.” La Motte went to give orders to Peter. “Set off in an hour,” said Peter, “Lord bless you, master! only consider the coach wheel; it would take me a day at least to mend it, for your Honour knows I never mended one in my life.”

This was a circumstance which La Motte had entirely overlooked. When they settled at the abbey, Peter had at first been too busy in repairing the apartments, to remember the carriage, and afterwards, believing it would not quickly be wanted, he had neglected to do it. La Motte’s temper now entirely forsook him, and with many execrations he ordered Peter to go to work immediately: but on searching for the materials formerly bought, they were no where to be found, and Peter at length remembered, though he was prudent enough to conceal this circumstance that he had used the nails in repairing the abbey.

It was now, therefore, impossible to quit the forest that night, and La Motte had only to consider the most probable plan of concealment, should the officers of justice visit the ruin before the morning; a circumstance, which the thoughtlessness of Peter in returning from Auboine, by the straight way, made not unlikely.

At first, indeed, it occurred to him, that, though his family could not be removed, he might himself take one of the horses, and escape from the forest before night. But he thought there would still be some danger of detection in the towns through which he must pass, and he could not well bear the idea of leaving his family unprotected, without knowing when he could return to them, or whither he could direct them to follow him. La Motte was not a man of very vigorous resolution, and he was, perhaps, rather more willing to suffer in company than alone.

After much consideration, he recollected the trap-door of the closet belonging to the chambers above. It was invisible to the eye, and,