Motte, roused from his reverie, inquired what was the matter: but before he could receive an answer he seemed to have forgotten that he had asked the question. Adeline may give you her own account, said Madame La Motte. I have not deserved this, said Adeline rising; but since my presence is displeasing, I will retire.
She moved towards the door; when Louis, who was pacing the room in apparent agitation, gently took her hand, saying, Here is some unhappy mistake – and would have led her to the seat: but her spirits were too much depressed to endure longer restraint; and, withdrawing her hand, Suffer me to go, said she; if there is any mistake, I am unable to explain it. Saying this, she quitted the room. Louis followed her with his eyes to the door; when turning to his mother, Surely, Madam, said he, you are to blame: my life on it she deserves your warmest tenderness.
You are very eloquent in her cause, Sir, said Madame, may I presume to ask what interested you thus in her favour.
Her own amiable manners, rejoined Louis, which no one can observe without esteeming them.
But you may presume too much on your own observations; it is possible these amiable manners may deceive you.
Your pardon Madam; I may, without presumption, affirm they cannot deceive me.
You have, no doubt, good reasons for this assertion, and I perceive, by your admiration of this artless innocence, she has succeeded in her design of entrapping your heart.
Without designing it, she has won my admiration, which would not have been the case, had she been capable of the conduct you mention.
Madame La Motte was going to reply, but was prevented by her husband, who, again roused from his reverie, inquired into the cause of dispute. Away with this ridiculous behaviour, said he in a voice of displeasure; Adeline has omitted some household duty, I suppose; and an offence so heinous deserves severe punishment, no doubt: but let me be no more disturbed with your petty quarrels; if you must be tyrannical, Madam, indulge your humour in private.
Saying this, he abruptly quitted the room; and Louis immediately following, Madame was left to her own unpleasant reflections. Her ill-humour proceeded from the usual cause. She had heard of Adeline's walk; and La Motte having gone forth into the forest at an early hour, her imagination, heated by the broodings of jealousy, suggested that they had appointed a meeting. This was confirmed to her by the entrance of Adeline, quickly followed by La Motte; and her perceptions thus jaundiced by passion, neither the presence of her son, nor her usual attention to good manners, had been able to restrain her emotions. The behaviour of Adeline in the late scene she considered as a refined piece of art, and the indifference of La Motte as affected. So true is it that:
… Trifles, light as air,
Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs of Holy Writ;
and so ingenious was she 'to twist the true cause the wrong way.'
Adeline had retired to her chamber to weep. When her first agitations were subsided, she took an ample view of her conduct; and perceiving nothing of which she could accuse herself, she became more satisfied, deriving her best comfort from the integrity of her intentions. In the moment of accusation, innocence may sometimes be oppressed with the punishment due only to guilt; but reflection dissolves the illusion of terror, and brings to the aching bosom the consolations of virtue.
When La Motte quitted the room, he had gone into the forest; which Louis observing, he followed and joined him, with an intention of touching upon the subject of his melancholy. It is a fine morning, Sir, said Louis; if you will give me leave, I will walk with you. La Motte, though dissatisfied, did not object; and after they had proceeded some way, he changed the course of his walk, striking into a path contrary to that which Louis had observed him take on the foregoing day.
Louis remarked that the avenue they had quitted was more shady, and therefore more pleasant. La Motte not seeming to notice this remark, It leads to a singular spot, continued he, which I discovered yesterday. La Motte raised his head: Louis proceeded to describe the tomb, and the adventure he had met with. During this relation, La Motte regarded him with attention, while his own countenance suffered various changes. When he had concluded, You were very daring, said La Motte, to examine that place, particularly when you ventured down the passage: I would advise you to be more cautious how you penetrate the depths of this forest. I myself have not ventured beyond a certain boundary and am therefore uninformed what inhabitants it may harbour. Your account has alarmed me, continued he; for if banditti are in the neighbourhood, I am not safe from their depredations: – 'tis true, I have but little to lose, except my life.
And the lives of your family, rejoined Louis. – Of course, said La Motte.
It would be well to have more certainty upon that head, rejoined Louis; I am considering how we may obtain it.
'Tis useless to consider that, said La Motte; the inquiry itself brings danger with it; your life would perhaps be paid for the indulgence of your curiosity; our only chance of safety is by endeavouring to remain undiscovered. Let us move towards the abbey.
Louis knew not what to think, but said no more upon the subject. La Motte soon after relapsed into a fit of musing; and his son now took occasion to lament that depression of spirits which he had lately observed in him. Rather lament the cause of it, said La Motte with a sigh. That I do most sincerely, whatever it may be. May I venture to inquire, Sir, what is this cause?
Are then my misfortunes so little known to you, rejoined La Motte, as to make that question necessary? Am I not driven from my home, from my friends, and almost from my country? And shall it be asked why I am afflicted? Louis felt the justice of this reproof, and was a moment silent. That you are afflicted, Sir, does not excite my surprise, resumed he; it would indeed be strange, were you not.
What then does excite your surprise?
The air of cheerfulness you wore when I first came hither.
You lately lamented that I was afflicted, said La Motte, and now seem not very well pleased that I once was cheerful. What is the meaning of this?
You much mistake me, said his son; nothing could give me so much satisfaction as to see that cheerfulness renewed; the same cause of sorrow existed at that time, yet you was then cheerful.
That I was then cheerful, said La Motte, you might, without flattery, have attributed to yourself; your presence revived me, and I was relieved at the same time from a load of apprehensions.
Why then, as the same cause exists, are you not still cheerful?
And why do you not recollect that it is your father you thus speak to?
I do, Sir, and nothing but anxiety for my father could have urged me thus far: it is with inexpressible concern I perceive you have some secret cause of uneasiness; reveal it, Sir, to those who claim a share in all your affliction, and suffer them, by participation to soften its severity. Louis looked up, and observed the countenance of his father pale as death: his lips trembled while he spoke. Your penetration, however, you may rely upon it, has, in the present instance, deceived you: I have no subject of distress, but what you are already acquainted with, and I desire this conversation may never be renewed.
If it is your desire, of course I obey, said Louis; but, pardon me, Sir, if —
I will not pardon you, Sir, interrupted La Motte; let the discourse end here. Saying this, he quickened his steps; and Louis, not daring to pursue, walked quietly on till he reached the abbey.
Adeline passed the greatest part of the day alone in her chamber, where, having examined her conduct, she endeavoured to fortify her heart against the unmerited displeasure
