Chapter VI

How long the wretched Gabrielle might have remained in this situation, or what might have been her dreadful fate, admits not of conjecture, had not the amiable Madame Bertrand, who had not seen her the preceding day, deemed it an act of duty and propriety to visit her as early as possible upon this. Raising the latch of the door she entered; but perceiving no one in the outer room, she advanced to the interior, where a scene of horror met her view.

Well aware of the situation of Gabrielle, with courage of true friendship, unchecked by selfish terrors at an hour like this, she hastened instantly towards her, and raising her in her arms, placed her as well as she could by the side of the bed where the unfortunate Montmorency had breathed his last. By slow degrees Gabrielle recovered, but awakened to life rather by the severest bodily pangs, than the efforts of friendship. To what did she awaken? to recollections that almost quenched, in a sea of horror, the feeble ray of returning reason; yet she did not relapse into insensibility, for increasing agony kept too dreadfully alive the sense of feeling. But of herself she thought not; it was of her father she raved--of the pangs, the pangs of the _heart_ that she had occasioned him. Madame Bertrand had covered over the face of Montmorency; Gabrielle beheld him not, and the idea of his death appeared like a frightful dream to her mind. Alarmed for her; fearing the consequences that might ensue, even to the risk of her life, should she remain where she was, and insist on contemplating the cold body of her father, the wish of the good Bertrand was to take advantage of the present distraction of her mind, to withdraw her from the chamber of death; in this she succeeded, partly by intreaty, partly by stratagem; and having brought her to her own room, induced her, without much solicitation, for the wretched girl was incapable of resistance, to repose on the bed. Steady and courageous she remained beside her, and ere long, in pain and in sorrow, the forlorn Gabrielle ushered on the world a female infant.

Every attention, every aid in the power of the most sincere and ardent friendship to bestow, was administered by the excellent Bertrand to the distressed mother, and extended to the unconscious infant. She watched by her with the most unremiting care, and left her only to facilitate the means of procuring such assistance as her situation might further render necessary. This she did through the means of her ardent admirer Boffuet, who, too happy in an opportunity of obliging her he so assiduously courted, ransacked the canton for such things as Madame Bertrand informed him she required, and desired no other reward than the permission of visiting her sometimes, during her stay at the cottage of Gabrielle.

The bodily sufferings of the unhappy Gabrielle being at an end, those of her mind increased ten-fold; she beheld the picture of the past as it was, no longer confused or distorted by transports of agony, or bewildered by distraction of idea; all was before her frightfully clear: she contemplated it in horror; and weakened nature, incapable of enduring the renewed torments of reflection, sunk under such accumulated sufferings; and fever, with raging delirium ensued, threatening to put a speedy period to the life which still feebly existed.

Five days had now elapsed since the death of Montmorency, when Madame Bertrand conceived it proper that his sad remains should be consigned to their parent earth. She consulted with Boffuet, without suggesting aught to Gabrielle upon so melancholy a subject, and agreed with him, that his burial should not be deferred beyond the following day.

From the time of her confinement, whatever Gabrielle had said of her father had been but in incoherent ravings; it seemed, as it were, impossible for her to dwell on the idea of his being no more, and retain her reason; upon this subject never had she for long been rational; and when the vague harrowing recollection of his death darted like the lightening’s flash through her chaotic brain, it became immediately followed by the wildest effusions of an horror-stricken fancy.

It happened on the morning of the day fixed for the interment of the unfortunate Montmorency, that having been tolerably calm during the night, and towards morning falling into a slumber, Madame Bertrand imagined that she might venture for a few minutes to leave her, in order to speak with Boffuet in the adjoining room, respecting some requisite arrangements; she accordingly closed the curtains round the bed, and softly stepped out of the chamber, drawing the door gently after her. This movement however, slight as it was, interrupted the light and feverish sleep of Gabrielle; she started, and opening her eyes, missed from her side her accustomed friend and guardian; at the same time she heard whispering, and some little bustle in the adjoining chamber, separated from her’s only by a thin partition, in which was, likewise, the door which Madame Bertrand had purposely not entirely closed.

She listened eagerly, and heard Madame Bertrand say, in a low voice, accompanied by a sigh, “Poor Montmorency; alas! what now must be the fate of the daughter thou hast left, of her who was thy pride?” The heart of the wretched Gabrielle beat hard against her breast, her cheek flushed with the wild crimson of agony, when she distinguished the voice of Boffuet, in reply, “Poor Montmorency, say I too; he disdained us all when he was alive; but he is now no more, and his pride must be forgotten.” Gabrielle heard no more; the scene that was passing in the next room was now fully revealed to her; nerving horror lent her bodily strength, she sprang from the bed to the door, and rushed into the room, despair and madness painted in her countenance. Madame Bertrand, in dismay, turned towards her, and sought to force her back; while Boffuet, standing before the pale corpse of Montmorency, endeavoured to hide it from her view. Gabrielle spoke not, but she resisted the efforts of Madame Bertrand with an immoveable strength. Her hands were clasped together in agony; her eyes started from their sockets; and in defiance of every intreaty or attempt to restrain her, she made her way towards the bed, where she stood gazing, with a wild and steady stare, on the livid features of her father, majestic even in death,--on those features which so fully conveyed the idea, that _he_ never could survive a stain upon his honor,--on those features which bespoke a courage and a pride to be conquered only by disgrace!

At length, in a low voice, she murmured, bending over his body--“Oh! God, is it even so?--my father--what a wreck!”--Her hands, before clasped, were now twisted together--her whole frame became convulsed; yet in the midst of these dreadful workings of nature, her eyes still strained upon the harrowing object before her, as some conscience-stricken wretch gazes on the goary phantom of his disturbed imagination.--A deathy film spread itself over her sight--surrounding objects became misty and confused--all appeared a fearful scene of visionary horror, too dreadful to be real,--completely overpowered, every nerve relaxed, she fell prostrate on the bed upon the unconscious form that lay stretched before her.--In that state the terrified Bertrand conveyed her in her arms to bed, exerting a strength of which her energetic friendship alone made her capable.

In a situation so dangerous as that of Gabrielle, it may readily be conceived there was every probability that the scene she had undergone must in its consequences become fatal to her. Thus however it did not prove; those only who have survived the most dreadful sufferings, and overcome the most imminent dangers, know what human nature is capable of sustaining; certain it was, that though for long even after the violence of her mental paroxysms had subsided, and the malady of her body yielded to the strength and goodness of her constitution, her recovery remained more than doubtful; and when some slight portion of returning convalescence enabled her to quit, for a few hours in the day, her bed, her appearance bore every symptom of alarming atrophy, threatening soon to terminate her miserable existence. Yet still she lived, and time and nature triumphed over the ills of mortality.

Meantime her infant daughter increased daily in strength and beauty; the good Bertrand, almost despairing to preserve the mother, had attended with indefatigable and most assiduous care the child. Her plain and benevolent heart, which knew only what the best feelings, and what unsophisticated virtue, without the aid of philosophical refinement, teaches us to practise, did not calculate whether by essaying to rear the infant, and preserve its life, she did not perhaps commit an error, by reserving it for incalculable evils, and unforeseen misfortunes. She only considered that a tender and helpless human being was in question, that if it perished a life would be lost, and if it were preserved a life would be saved.--Upon these genuine and simple suggestions of nature she acted, and the babe more than repaid her beneficent care, in the pleasure it gave her to find it effectual.

Gabrielle, in process of time, became enabled to quit her bed altogether, next to inhale the mountain breeze, and next to enjoy it while taking gentle exercise. Still however, though now perfectly sane in mind as well as body, a melancholy gloom oppressed her. Since the fatal funeral day of the unfortunate Montmorency, she had never been seen to smile; and the afflicted Bertrand, though willing to cherish hope, sometimes was compelled to fear, that this unvarying depression would end ultimately in confirmed and moping madness. To avert this dreadful result, she exerted every effort to rouse and call forth her feelings, “Come my dear Gabrielle, would she say, look at our child, speak to it--kiss it--see how it smiles upon you.” But at this the unhappy Gabrielle would mournfully shake her head, while she gazed sadly upon its innocent countenance. At other times, when she seemed totally absorbed, and her tender friend feared with increased anxiety for her intellects, she would endeavour to affect her even, by presenting to her mind the most painful images.

“My dear friend,” then would she say to her, “why this incessant melancholy? consider, that though your father no longer lives, your sufferings have more than expiated the uneasiness you may have given him.---- Heaven has accepted the atonement, and when heaven forgives, it becomes impious to persevere in a grief that implies a doubt of, or ingratitude for its mercy.”--At these words Gabrielle would exclaim, “Ah, cruel Bertrand, what tell you me of heaven’s forgiveness--dare you outrage the great God, in supposing that he could ever forgive such crimes as mine?--Am I not a wretch?--have I not sinned against the purity of virtue?--did I not disgrace my honorable father?--did I not destroy him by so doing?--have I not brought his grey hairs in sorrow to the grave?--did he not fondly cherish me--and I repaid him by breaking his heart?--What tell you me then of heaven’s forgiveness? No, no; horror be my portion, no grief, no remorse, can blot out at the bar of holy heaven guilt and crimes like mine.” In speaking thus she would burst into a passion of tears, she would weep long and copiously, and her mind becoming thus in a degree relieved from the vent given to her feelings, she would for some time afterwards appear less gloomy and despairing.

One morning that Madame Bertrand had been out, with the little Agnes, for so had she named her, she found on her return, that Gabrielle was not in the room where they usually sat, and she proceeded to seek her in her chamber; she was not there either; and as she was retiring, she perceived that the door which led into the chamber that had been her father’s, and which for long had remained unopened, appeared now not perfectly closed.--Somewhat surprised, she approached and gently pushed it, when by the side of the bed on which the high soul’d Montmorency had breathed his last, she beheld his daughter kneeling, her face hidden on the coverlid.--She drew near her; deeply affected, and slightly touching her shoulder, she said “Wherefore thus; my dearest Gabrielle? suffer me to lead you hence.”

Gabrielle raised her face from the bed--its expression was neither wild nor desperate, but it was paler then death, and bedewed with tears.--“My dear friend--my kind Bertrand,” she said in a calm and solemn voice, without rising from her knees, “this is my birth day; the fevered and lamented being who expired on this bed, kept this day ever with a little feast, and with fond rejoicing.--He would with a tearful eye of love gaze upon me--retrace the days of my childhood, and bless the Almighty that he possessed such a daughter!”--Stifled sobs compelled her to pause for a moment, and she resumed--“he is now no more--this day, therefore, I shall pass in sorrow and mourning; _I_ too shall retrace the days of my childhood--the tender love he bore me, the tender care he lavished on me--how he cherished and protected me, and the reward I gave him!--All this will I remember, to new point the pangs of my remorse--to increase my sufferings, and shew me how unworthy I am of the forgiveness of heaven.---- When midnight has passed, and not before, will I quit this room, where that dear father died, and retire to my own; therefore, dear Bertrand, attempt not to oppose me, for my resolution is fixed.”

“But dearest Gabrielle,” cried Madame Bertrand, while the tears coursed down her cheeks, “such incessant suffering will kill you.”

“How _he_ suffered who died on that bed, Bertrand,” with affecting solemnity, answered Gabrielle, pointing to the bed--“his sufferings killed him;--I inflicted those sufferings--and yet live;--oh, just God, chastise me; heap pain and misfortune on my head;--let me not go unpunished for my dreadful crimes;--so shall I know that, great as they are, thou hast not wholly forgotten me; for if thou hast not, thou must in thy justice punish me.”

“Oh! forbear, my friend,” cried Madame Bertrand, “you rive my heart.”

“Leave me, kind Bertrand,--yet stay;--first let me kiss my child.”

The weeping Bertrand brought near the child to its penitent mother, who taking it in her arms was on the point of kissing it, but suddenly drawing back, exclaimed--“No! I who have killed my father, deserve not, on _such_ a day, the happiness of kissing my child:--Leave me, leave me! dear Bertrand, even the sight of you, with that cherub in your arms, is a pleasure greater than I merit.--Oh, God,” she added, “as I gaze on her did my father gaze on me; what if she should curse me with ingratitude, as I have cursed him!” So spoke the unhappy Gabrielle, and hiding her face on the bed, wept in the eloquence of silent woe.

Madame Bertrand readily perceived that to attempt to dissuade her from her present purpose would be both useless and distressing; she therefore, after silently contemplating her for a few moments in tender compassion, quitted with gentleness the apartment, respecting even the wild enthusiasm of her grief.

Steady to her purpose did Gabrielle remain, fasting, and solitary in the dying chamber of her father, fixed on her knees beside his lonely bed, contemplating, with deep remorse, her past guilt, and its terrible consequences; and looking to the future with nought but saddest anticipation. Oft, from extreme debility, and remaining for long in one painful position, did she feel on the point of being overcome; but determined not to relax, she hail’d sickness, pain and uneasiness, as expiations, though slight, for her offences, and resolved to die rather than abridge an instant of her prescribed time of penance.

Night drew in, and she became involved in darkness; fancy presented to her, her departed father, now as sitting with her in the days of their peace, his eyes fixed on his book, or raised only to look fondly upon her; now she beheld him walking in unsuspicious confidence with Angelo; now plunged in melancholy madness, brooding and suffering from the dreadful effects of that confidence;--now, on the bed before her, she saw him stretched in sleep, as he appeared the night previous to his death; now, starting and looking wildly round, death closed these visions of sad retrospection, and she beheld him a cold and pallid corpse; it receded from her view; now his holy phantom hovered before her, she saw it mount to heaven, and her strained eyes in fancy followed till it was lost amid the clouds.

Midnight approached; she raised her hands to the throne of mercy, and said, “Oh, my God! I ask thee not to pardon me, till bitter misfortune shall have atoned my crimes in thy sight, if atoned they may be; but I implore thee to direct my future conduct, and to chastise me in any way that, by obtaining thy pardon, may permit me, after death, to be reunited to my father, and obtain his pardon for my mortal sins.” She then arose from her knees; though her feeble frame was sinking to the earth, her heart seemed lighter, and her mind more calm, for she felt as though she had performed a sacred and indispensable duty.

Gabrielle had retraced, brooded, and wept over the past; but she had likewise imagined a plan for the future; thus, though still melancholy, she was less so than before. Such is the power of moral, over physical feeling; when the mind is ill at ease, bodily health is vain, and sickness often vanishes when that is rendered tranquil. With tottering steps she quitted the chamber of death, and entered that where the anxious Bertrand impatiently awaited her. This excellent creature, anticipating the enfeebled state to which so many hours of exhausting penance must have reduced the scarce recovered Gabrielle, had prepared a slight repast, in order to restore and refresh her.

Gabrielle perceived, on her entrance, this kind attention; and though it grieved her to disappoint her tender friend, still, faithful to the spirit of her resolution, she firmly, though with gentleness, refused the smallest refreshment, determined to conclude the day as she had commenced it, in abstinence and in prayer; for justly she argued, that when a pain is succeeded by a pleasure, the memory of the former quickly fades from the mind; therefore is its pressure but half sustained. Madame Bertrand found herself as incapable of opposing this determination as the first; her superior mind fully entered into the sacred conceptions of the repentant Gabrielle, and reasoning as she did, persuasions would, she felt, be useless and improper. She therefore accompanied her to her chamber, and assisting her to bed, followed speedily herself, as had been her custom since the illness and deranged state of Gabrielle had rendered necessary the unremitting attentions of friendship.