60 Gothic Classics. Эдгар Аллан По

by the parents, if he is ever so old, ugly, or little known; the restraint laid upon them is so strict, and their conduct so narrowly observed, that to enjoy liberty they marry; from hence proceeds that levity for which the married ladies in France are so remarkable, and which has given rise to an almost general censure, which they do not always deserve: for those who have studied the characters and manners of the French ladies declare, there is more the semblance than reality of vice in them; and though many are profligate, like some of their neighbouring kingdom, who apparently carry more modesty and reserve in their outward deportments; yet there are very many amiable French women, who, under their national gaiety of heart and freedom of manners, are most truly respectable in every situation in life. But the old aunt of Mademoiselle De Fontelle was not one of these, nor had she instilled any such sentiments of respectability in her niece, consequently the young lady ventured to the utmost bounds custom or courtesy would allow: she no sooner saw Miss Weimar than she dreaded and hated her; being a stranger, beautiful and engaging, she obtained universal admiration; but when she observed the decided preference and selection of Mademoiselle De Bouville for her companion, she was outrageous. The Count was soon expected home; he would doubtless be attracted by this hateful stranger - the idea was dreadful, and from that moment she was the declared enemy of Miss Weimar, though resolved to cultivate the most violent intimacy with her; consequently when the party broke up, she advanced and solicited the young lady's acquaintance, in the politest manner possible.

      When the company had left the rooms Matilda thanked the Marchioness for the pleasure she had procured her, in the introduction to such charming young women as Mesdemoiselles De Bouville and De Bancre. 'There was another lady, said she, 'who paid me much attention, and invited my acquaintance.' 'Yes,' answered the Marchioness, 'Mademoiselle de Fontelle; but beware of her, my dear Matilda she is far from being a desirable intimate - I neither like her nor her aunt, Madame de Roch; but I know not how it is, one meets with them every where, and cannot avoid seeing them sometimes in public, but they are never of my private parties, therefore let common civility only pass between you.'

      The young lady promised to observe her advice, and they separated to their respective apartments.

      On Matilda's table lay a letter, which the servant placed there, not to disturb her whilst in company. She hastily broke it open; it was from Joseph: he related the incident respecting the horse, mentioned the gentleman's enquiries, and described his person. It was her uncle. She was terrified and shocked beyond measure, she sunk into a chair, and burst into a flood of tears: 'Good heavens!' said she, 'if he should trace me here yet so many days before him, I think I may be safe; Bertha was not in the secret, and Joseph I can, I know, depend upon not to betray me.' Under the most painful reflections, she retired to rest, but sleep forsook her pillow; the dread of falling again into the power of a man so abandoned gave her the most poignant affliction 'O, that we were in England,' said she, 'I should then, I think, be safe from his pursuit.'

      She past a restless night, and in the morning met her friends, with a pale countenance and uneasy mind.

      'My dear child,' exclaimed the Marchioness, 'what is the matter, are you ill?' Matilda gave her Joseph's letter, and expressed her fears of being found in Paris by her uncle. Her friends requested she would compose her mind. The Marquis assured her of his protection. 'You are not well enough, my love, to go out or see company this morning; we will retire to my dressing-room, and to amuse you from thinking of your own troubles, I will enter upon the story of my unfortunate sister, as far as I know it, for great part is involved in mystery, and she has taken, she says, the most sacred oaths never to divulge the rest, without permission of another person. My father, Baron Stielberg, inherited from his ancestors, a respectable name, a great share of family pride, and very small possessions, which by wars, and a struggle to keep up the family consequence, had been diminished greatly within the last fifty years. He had no son, a source of eternal regret to him, and two daughters, whom he determined should marry advantageously or not at all. Our mother died when I was about ten, and my sister eight years of age. We were placed in a convent for six years, at the expiration of which time we were sent for home. Our father seemed satisfied with our improvements. We had the good fortune to please, and it was the fashion to admire us. In a few months after our return to the world the Marquis De Melfort, who was on his travels, stopt at Vienna; we met at an assembly, and a mutual approbation took place; he was introduced to my father; and, in short, not to be tedious, his addresses were allowed, for though my father would have prefered a German nobleman; yet the amiable character of the Marquis, his very large fortune, and an earnest desire to see me settled in his life time, prevailed on him to accede to the advantageous proposals made for me, and in a short time I became the happy wife of one of the best of men. We remained near six months at Vienna, but the Marquis beginning to express a wish of returning to Paris, having been absent above two years. I requested my father would permit my sister to accompany me; but to this he peremptorily objected. I took leave of my friends and my country with tears and reluctance. The dear Victoria was ready to expire - it was our first separation, and we had lived in the most perfect harmony with each other: she was my father's favourite and therefore he did not feel that grief on my leaving him, which might have been expected. I had a consolation - I accompanied a beloved husband, and was received by his friends with the most flattering attention. My sister and I constantly corresponded. In about eight months after my residence at Paris she wrote me, that at an assembly she had met with one of the most amiable men in the world, a Chevalier De Montreville, a gentleman of a noble family, but small fortune, secretary to the French ambassador. The manner in which she described this young man, convinced me she liked him: I was sorry for it, I knew he never would be countenanced by my father. She also added, that Count Wolfenbach was her very shadow - that she detested him, notwithstanding his immense fortune and prodigious stock of love. In my answer, I cautioned her against indulging a partiality for the Chevalier, as I well knew my father never would approve of it. A short time after I received a very melancholy letter. "Pity me, my dear sister, for I am miserable - I cannot deny my attachment to the most deserving of men: he has been rejected with contempt by my father, and yesterday I was commanded to receive Count Wolfenbach as my destined husband! I hate, I detest him - he is morose, savage, sneering, revengeful - Alas! what am I saying? this man may be my husband O, my dear sister, death is far preferable to that situation."

      'These expressions filled me with extreme grief; my generous husband wrote my father immediately; he besought him not to sacrifice his child, - that if the want of fortune was his only objection to the Chevalier, he would gladly remove that deficiency, and he had both interest and inclination to procure him a handsome establishment: that from the affection he bore me and my sister, it was his earnest desire to see her happy, if at the expence of one third of his fortune.'

      'To this letter we received no answer within the expected time. I grew very uneasy, I wrote again to my sister. It was more than a month before I received any return. I have it now in my pocket book': the Marchioness took it out, and read as follows.

      'COUNTESS OF WOLFENBACH, TO THE MARCHIONESS

      'MY DEAREST SISTER,

       'Just recovered from the jaws of death, the lost unhappy Victoria acknowledges the receipt of your kind letter: alas! the contents have almost broken a heart already exhausted by grief and despair. I have been a wife five weeks, near a month I was confined to my bed; but if I can, I will be methodical in the relation of what has befallen me. The letter your generous and respectable husband wrote, unfortunately was delivered by the servant in the same moment with one from the Chevalier. My father believed you acted in concert. Never shall I forget the fury of his countenance. "This insolent Frenchman wants to degrade me into a dependence on him, and marry my daughter to his beggarly countryman." "Ah! my father," cried I, "do not judge so unkindly of my excellent brother, his views are for our general happiness." "And that," said he, interrupting me furiously, "can be accomplished without his interference; the Count has a noble fortune, high birth, a title, and is a German - not another word," added he, seeing me about to speak, "not a single objection; on Monday next you become his wife - see that you obey without the least reluctance." Saying this, he left the room, and in a few minutes afterwards I fell senseless from my seat. How long I continued thus, I know not, but on my recovery I found myself on my bed, and Therese with me; she was bathing me with her tears. "Thank heaven, my dear young lady, you are alive still! O, what a dismal day for me to see you thus.'