 | CHAPTER XXI. Ormond, or, The secret witness |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
Such was the wild series of Martinette's adventures.
Each incident fastened on the memory
of Constance, and gave birth to numberless
reflections. Her prospect of mankind seemed to
be enlarged, on a sudden, to double its ancient
dimensions. Ormond's narratives had carried her
beyond the Missisippi, and into the deserts of Siberia.
He had recounted the perils of a Russian
war, and painted the manners of Mongals and
Naudowessies. Her new friend had led her back
to the civilized world, and pourtrayed the other
half of the species. Men, in their two forms, of
savage and refined, had been scrutinized by these
observers, and what was wanting in the delineations
of the one, was liberally supplied by the
other.
Eleven years, in the life of Martinette, was
unrelated. Her conversation suggested the opition
that this interval had been spent in France.
It was obvious to suppose, that a woman, thus
fearless and sagacious, had not been inactive at a
period like the present, which called forth talents
and courage, without distinction of sex, and had
been particularly distinguished by female enterprize
and heroism. Her name easily led to the
suspicion of concurrence with the subverters of
flight from the merciless tribunals of the faction
that now reigned, would explain present appearances.
Martinette brought to their next interview, an
air of uncommon exultation. On this being remarked,
she communicated the tidings of the fall
of the sanguinary tyranny of Robespierre. Her
eyes sparkled, and every feature was pregnant
with delight, while she unfolded, with her accustomed
energy, the particulars of this tremendous
revolution. The blood, which it occasioned to
flow, was mentioned without any symptoms of
disgust or horror.
Constance ventured to ask, if this incident was
likely to influence her own condition.
Yes. It will open the way for my return.
Then you think of returning to a scene of so
much danger?
Danger, my girl? It is my element. I am an
adorer of liberty, and liberty without peril can
never exist.
But so much blood shed, and injustice! Does
not your heart shrink from the view of a scene of
massacre and tumult, such as Paris has lately exhibited
and will probably continue to exhibit?
Thou talkest, Constance, in a way scarcely
worthy of thy good sense. Have I not been three
years in a camp? What are bleeding wounds
and mangled corpses, when accustomed to the
daily sight of them for years? Am I not a lover
of liberty, and must I not exult in the fall of tyrants,
and regret only that my hand had no share
in their destruction?
But a woman—how can the heart of women be
inured to the shedding of blood?
Have women, I beseech thee, no capacity to
reason and infer? Are they less open than men to
when liberty demanded the victim. If thou wert
with me at Paris, I could shew thee a fusil of two
barrels, which is precious beyond any other relique,
merely because it enabled me to kill thirteen
officers at Jemappe. Two of these were
emigrant nobles, whom I knew and loved before
the revolution, but the cause they had since espoused,
cancelled their claims to mercy.
What, said the startled Constance, have you
fought in the ranks?
Certainly. Hundreds of my sex have done the
same. Some were impelled by the enthusiasm of
love, and some by a mere passion for war; some
by the contagion of example; and some, with
whom I myself must be ranked, by a generous
devotion to liberty. Brunswick and Saxe Coburg,
had to contend with whole regiments of
women: Regiments they would have formed, if
they had been collected into separate bodies.
I will tell thee a secret. Thou wouldst never
have seen Martinette de Beauvais, if Brunswick
had deferred one day longer, his orders for retreating
into Germany.
How so?
She would have died by her own hand.
What could lead to such an outrage?
The love of liberty.
I cannot comprehend how that love should
prompt you to suicide.
I will tell thee. The plan was formed and
could not miscarry. A woman was to play the
part of a banished Royalist, was to repair to the
Prussian camp, and to gain admission to the general.
This would have easily been granted to
a female and an ex-noble. There she was to assassinate
the enemy of her country, and to attest
her magnanimity by slaughtering herself. I was
the Prussians, because it precluded the necessity
of such a sacrifice.
This was related with accents and looks that
sufficiently attested its truth. Constantia shuddered
and drew back, to contemplate more deliberately
the features of her guest. Hitherto
she had read in them nothing that bespoke the
desperate courage of a martyr, and the deep designing
of an assassin. The image which her
mind had reflected, from the deportment of
this woman, was changed. The likeness which
she had feigned to herself, was no longer seen.
She felt that antipathy was preparing to displace
love. These sentiments, however, she concealed.
and suffered the conversation to proceed.
Their discourse now turned upon the exploits
of several women, who mingled in the tumults of
the capital and and in the armies on the frontiers.
Instances were mentioned of ferocity in some,
and magnanimity in others, which almost surpassed
belief. Constance listened greedily, though
not with approbation, and acquired, at every
sentence, new desire to be acquainted with the
personal history of Matinette. On mentioning
this wish, her friend said, that she endeavoured to
amuse her exile, by composing her own memoirs,
and that, on her next visit, she would bring with
her the volume, which she would suffer Constance
to read.
A separation of a week elapsed. She felt
some impatience for the renewal of their intercourse,
and for the perusal of the volume that
had been mentioned. One evening Sarah Baxter,
whom Constance had placed in her own occasional
service, entered the room with marks of
great joy and surprize, and informed her that she
at length had discovered Miss Monrose. From
Sarah had overtaken Miss Monrose in the street,
and guided by her own curiosity, as well as by
the wish to gratify her mistress, she had followed
the stranger. To her utter astonishment the lady
had paused at Mr. Dudley's door, with a seeming
resolution to enter it, but, presently, resumed
her way. Instead of pursuing her steps further,
Sarah had stopped to communicate this intelligence
to Constance. Having delivered her news,
she hastened away, but returning, in a moment,
with a countenance of new surprize, she informed
her mistress, that on leaving the house she had
met Miss Monrose at the door, on the point of
entering. She added that the stranger had enquired
for Constance, and was now waiting
below.
Constantia took no time to reflect upon an incident
so unexpected and so strange, but proceeded
forthwith to the parlour. Martinette only
was there. It did not instantly occur to her
that this lady and Mademoiselle Monrose, might
possibly be the same. The enquiries she made
speedily removed her doubts, and it now appeared
that the woman, about whose destiny she
had formed so many conjectures, and fostered so
much anxiety, was no other than the daughter of
Roselli.
Having readily answered her questions, Martinette
enquired in her turn, into the motives of
her friend's curiosity. These were explained by
a succinct account of the transactions, to which
the deceased Baxter had been a witness. Constance
concluded, with mentioning her own reflections
on the tale, and intimating her wish to
be informed, how Martinette had extricated herself
from a situation so calamitous.
Is there any room for wonder on that head?
replied the guest. It was absurd to stay longer
in the house. Having finished the interment of
Roselli (soldier-fashion) for he was the man who
suffered his foolish regrets to destroy him, I forsook
the house. Roselli was by no means poor,
but he could not consent to live at ease, or to live
at all, while his country endured such horrible
oppressions, and when so many of his friends had
perished. I complied with his humour, because
it could not be changed, and I revered him too
much to desert him.
But whither, said Constance, could you seek
shelter at a time like that? The city was desolate,
and a wandering female could scarcely be
received under any roof. All inhabited houses
were closed at that hour, and the fear of intection
would have shut them against you, if they
had not been already so.
Hast thou forgotten that there were at that
time, at least ten thousand French in this city,
fugitives from Marat and from St. Domingo?
That they lived in utter fearlessness of the reigning
disease: sung and loitered in the public
walks, and prattled at their doors, with all their
customary unconcern? Supposest thou that there
were none among these, who would receive a
country woman, even if her name had not been
Martinette de Beauvais? Thy fancy has depicted
strange things, but believe me, that, without
a farthing and without a name, I should not have
incurred the slightest inconvenience. The death
of Roselli I foresaw, because it was gradual in
its approach, and was sought by him as a good.
My grief, therefore, was exhausted before it
came, and I rejoiced at his death, because it was
the close of all his sorrows. The rueful pictures
by Baxter, existed only in his own fancy.
Martinette pleaded an engagement, and took
her leave, professing to have come merely to
leave with her the promised manuscript. This
interview, though short, was productive of many
reflections, on the deceitfulness of appearances,
and on the variety of maxims by which the conduct
of human beings is regulated. She was accustomed
to impart all her thoughts and relate
every new incident to her father. With this
view she now hied to his apartment. This hour
it was her custom, when disengaged, always to
spend with him.
She found Mr. Dudley busy in revolving a
scheme, which various circumstances had suggested
and gradually conducted to maturity. No
period of his life had been equally delightful,
with that portion of his youth which he had spent
in Italy. The climate, the language, the manners
of the people, and the sources of intellectual
gratification, in painting and music, were congenial
to his taste. He had reluctantly forsaken
these enchanting seats, at the summons of his father,
but, on his return to his native country, had
encountered nothing but ignominy and pain.
Poverty and blindness had beset his path, and it
seemed as if it were impossible to fly too far from
the scene of his disasters. His misfortunes could
not be concealed from others, and every thing
around him seemed to renew the memory of
all that he had suffered. All the events of his
youth served to entice him to Italy, while all the
incidents of his subsequent life, concurred to render
disgutsful his present abode.
His daughter's happiness was not to be forgotten.
This he imagined would be eminently promoted
by the scheme. It would open to her new
from the odious pursuit of Ormond, and by a variety
of objects and adventures, efface from her
mind any impression which his dangerous artifices
might have made upon it.
This project was now communicated to Constantia.
Every argument adapted to influence
her choice, was employed. He justly conceived
that the only obstacle to her adoption of it, related
to Ormond. He exspatiated on the dubious
character of this man, the wildness of his schemes,
and the magnitude of his errors. What could be
expected from a man, half of whose life had been
spent at the head of a band of Cassacks, spreading
devastation in the regions of the Danube, and
supporting by flagitius intrigues, the tyranny of
Catharine, and the other half in traversing inhospitable
countries, and extinguishing what remained
of clemency and justice, by intercourse
with savages?
It was admitted that his energies were great,
but misdirected, and that to restore them to the
guidance of truth, was not in itself impossible,
but it was so with relation to any power that she
possessed. Conformity would flow from their
marriage, but this conformity was not to be expected
from him. It was not his custom to abjure
any of his doctrines or recede from any of his
claims. She knew likewise the conditions of
their union. She must go with him to some corner
of the world, where his boasted system was
established. What was the road to it, he had
carefully concealed, but it was evident that it lay
beyond the precincts of civilized existence.
Whatever were her ultimate decision, it was
at least proper to delay it. Six years were yet
wanting of that period, at which only she formerly
considered marriage as proper. To all the
of Ormond superadded the weightiest. Their
correspondence might continue, but her residence
in Europe and converse with mankind, might
enlighten her judgment and qualify her for a
more rational decision.
Constantia was not uninfluenced by these reasonings.
Instead of reluctantly admitting them,
she somewhat wondered that they had not been
suggested by her own reflections. Her imagination
anticipated her entrance on that mighty scene
with emotions little less than rapturous. Her
studies had conferred a thousand ideal charms on
a theatre, where Scipio and Cæsar had performed
their parts. Her wishes were no less importunate
to gaze upon the Alps and Pyrenees, and
to vivify and chasten the images collected from
books, by comparing them with their real prototypes.
No social ties existed to hold her to America.
Her only kinsman and friend would be the companion
of her journies. This project was likewise
recommended by advantages of which she
only was qualified to judge. Sophia Westwyn
had embarked, four years previous to this date,
for England, in company with an English lady
and her husband. The arrangements that were
made forbad either of the friends to hope for a
future meeting: Yet now, by virtue of this project,
this meeting seemed no longer to be hopeless.
This burst of new ideas and new hopes on the
mind of Constance took place in the course of a
single hour. No change in her external situation
had been wrought, and yet her mind had undergone
the most signal revolution. The novelty as
well as greatness of the prospect kept her in a
any she had ever experienced. Anticipations of
intercourse with nature in her most august forms,
with men in diversified states of society, with the
posterity of Greeks and Romans, and with the
actors that were now upon the stage, and above
all with the being whom absence and the want of
other attachments, had, in some sort, contributed
to deify, made this night pass away upon the
wings of transport.
The hesitation which existed on parting with
her father, speedily gave place to an ardour impatient
of the least delay. She saw no impediments
to the immediate commencement of the
voyage. To delay it a month or even a week,
seemed to be unprofitable tardiness. In this ferment
of her thoughts, she was neither able nor
willing to sleep. In arranging the means of departure
and anticipating the events that would
successively arise, there was abundant food for
contemplation.
She marked the first dawnings of the day and
rose. She felt reluctance to break upon her father's
morning slumbers, but considered that her
motives were extremely urgent, and that the
pleasure afforded him by her zealous approbation
of his scheme, would amply compensate him for
this unseasonable intrusion on his rest. She hastened
therefore to his chamber. She entered
with blithsome steps, and softly drew aside the
curtain.
| CHAPTER XXI. Ormond, or, The secret witness | |