You seem discomposed, my dear; what has disturbed you?
Not in the least—I was only thinking, that with such agreeable talents and such an excellent heart, it was a pity the Marquis should—
What? my dear, said Madame with impatience. That the Marquis should—should suffer this abbey to fall into ruins, replied La Motte.
Is that all? said Madame with disappointment.—That is all, upon my honour, said La Motte, and left the room.
Adeline's spirits, no longer supported by the animated conversation of the Marquis, sunk into languor, and when he departed she walked pensively into the forest. She followed a little romantic path that wound along the margin of the stream and was overhung with deep shades. The tranquillity of the scenes which autumn now touched with her sweetest tints, softened her mind to a tender kind of melancholy; and she suffered a tear, which she knew not wherefore had stolen into her eye, to tremble there unchecked. She came to a little lonely recess formed by high trees; the wind sighed mournfully among the branches, and as it waved their lofty heads scattered their leaves to the ground. She seated herself on a bank beneath, and indulged the melancholy reflections that pressed on her mind.
O! could I dive into futurity and behold the events which await me! said she; I should perhaps, by constant contemplation, be enabled to meet them with fortitude. An orphan in this wide world—thrown upon the friendship of strangers for comfort, and upon their bounty for the very means of existence, what but evil have I to expect? Alas, my father! how could you thus abandon your child—how leave her to the storms of life—to sink, perhaps, beneath them? alas, I have no friend!
She was interrupted by a rustling among the fallen leaves; she turned her head, and perceiving the Marquis's young friend, arose to depart. Pardon this intrusion, said he, your voice attracted me hither, and your words detained me: my offence, however, brings with it its own punishment; having learned your sorrows—how can I help feeling them myself? would that my sympathy or my suffering could rescue you from them!—He hesitated.—Would that I could deserve the title of your friend, and be thought worthy of it by yourself!
The confusion of Adeline's thoughts could scarcely permit her to reply; she trembled, and gently withdrew her hand, which he had taken while he spoke. You have perhaps heard, Sir, more than is true: I am indeed not happy; but a moment of dejection has made me unjust, and I am less unfortunate than I have represented. When I said I had no friend, I was ungrateful to the kindness of Monsieur and Madame La Motte, who have been more than friends—have been as parents to me.
If so, I honour them, cried Theodore with warmth; and if I did not feel it to be presumption, I would ask why you are unhappy?—But—he paused. Adeline, raising her eyes, saw him gazing upon her with intense and eager anxiety, and her looks were again fixed upon the ground. I have pained you, said Theodore, by an improper request. Can you forgive me, and also when I add, that it was an interest in your welfare which urged my inquiry?
Forgiveness, Sir, it is unnecessary to ask; I am certainly obliged by the compassion you express. But the evening is cold, if you please we will walk towards the abbey. As they moved on, Theodore was for some time silent. At length, It was but lately that I solicited your pardon, said he, and I shall now perhaps have need of it again; but you will do me the justice to believe that I have a strong and indeed a pressing reason to inquire how nearly you are related to Monsieur La Motte.