The Count list’ned to all this Discourse with a World of Uneasiness and Impatience; and tho’ at the first he fancy’d he remember’d the Voice, and had Reason enough from the beginning, especially when the Agnus Dei was mention’d, to believe it cou’d be no other than himself, whom the Lady had so passionately describ’d; yet he had not Confidence to appear till she had nam’d him; but then, no consideration was of force to make him neglect this opportunity of undeceiving her; his good Sense, as well as good Nature, kept him from that Vanity, too many of his Sex imitate the weaker in, of being pleas’d that it was in his Power to create Pains, which it was not in his Power, so devoted as he was, to Ease.
He stept from his Retirement as softly as he cou’d, because he was loath to alarm them with any Noise, ’till they shou’d discover who it was that made it, which they might easily do, in his advancing toward them never so little, that part of the Bower being much lighter than that where he had stood; but with his over-caution in sliding his Feet along, to prevent being heard, one of them tangled in the Corner of the Carpet, which happened not to lie very smooth, and not being sensible presently what it was that Embarrass’d him: He fell with part of his Body cross the Lady, and his Head in Brione’s Lap, who was sitting on the Ground by her. The Manner of his Fall was lucky enough, for it hinder’d either of them from rising, and running to alarm the Family, as certainly in such a fright they wou’d have done, if his Weight had not detain’d them; they both gave a great Shriek, but the House being at a good distance, they cou’d not easily be heard; and he immediately recovering himself, beg’d Pardon for the Terror he had occasion’d them; and addressing to the Lady, who at first was dying with her Fears, and now with Consternation: D’elmont, Madam, said he, cou’d not have had the Assurance to appear before you, after hearing those undeserv’d Praises your Excess of Goodness has been pleas’d to bestow upon him, but that his Soul wou’d have reproach’d him of the highest Ingratitude, in permitting you to continue longer in an Error, which may involve you in the greatest of Misfortunes, at least I am----As he was speaking, three or four Servants with Lights came running from the House; and the Lady, tho’ in more Confusion than can be well exprest, had yet Presence of Mind enough to bid the Count retire to the place where he had stood before, while she and Brione went out of the Summer-house to learn the Cause of this Interruption: Madam, cry’d one of the Servants, as soon as he saw her, the Officers of Justice are within; who being rais’d by an Alarm of Murther, come to beg your Ladyships Permission to search your Garden, being, as they say, inform’d that the Offender made his Escape over this Wall. ’Tis very improbable, reply’d the Lady, for I have been here a considerable Time, and have neither heard the least Noise, nor seen any Body: However they may search, and satisfy themselves----go you, and tell them so. Then turning to the Count, when she had dismiss’d her Servants; My Lord, said she Trembling, I know not what strange Adventure brought you here to Night, or whether you are the Person for whom the Search is made; but am sensible, if you are found here, it will be equally injurious to your Safety, and my Reputation; I have a Back-door, thro’ which you may pass in Security: But, if you have Honour, (continu’d she) Sighing, Gratitude, or good Nature, you will let me see you to morrow Night. Madam, (reply’d he,) assure your self that there are not many things I more earnestly desire than an opportunity to convince you, how sensibly I am touch’d with your Favours, and how much I regret my want of Power to---you, (interrupted she,) can want nothing but the Will to make me the happiest of my Sex---but this is no Time for you to Give, or me to Receive any Proofs of that Return which I expect----Once more I conjure you to be here to morrow Night at Twelve, where the Faithful Brione shall attend to admit you. Farewell---be punctual and sincere--’Tis all I ask---when I am not, (answer’d he,) may all my Hopes forsake me. By this time they were come to the Door, which Brione, opening softly, let him out, and shut it again immediately.
The Count took care to Remark the place that he might know it again, resolving nothing more than to make good his Promise at the appointed Hour, but cou’d not help being extreamly troubled, when he consider’d how unwelcome his Sincerity wou’d be, and the Confusion he must give the Lady, when instead of those Raptures the Violence of her mistaken Passion made her hope, she shou’d meet with only cold Civility, and the killing History of the Pre-engagement of his Heart. In these and the like melancholly Reflections he spent the Night; and when Morning came, receiv’d the severest Augmentation of them, which Fate cou’d load him with.
It was scarce full Day when a Servant came into his Chamber to acquaint him, that a young Gentleman, a Stranger, desir’d to be admitted, and seem’d so impatient till he was, That, said the Fellow, not knowing of what Consequence his Business may be, I thought it better to Risque your Lordship’s Displeasure for this early Disturbance, than by dismissing him, fill you with an unsatisfy’d Curiosity. The Count was far from being Angry, and commanded that the Gentleman should be brought up, which Order being immediately obey’d, and the Servant withdrawn out of Respect: Putting his Head out of the Bed, he was surpriz’d with the Appearance of one of the most beautiful Chevaliers he had ever beheld, and in whose Face, he imagin’d he trac’d some Features not Unknown to him. Pardon, me Sir, said he, throwing the Curtains more back than they were before, that I receive the Honour you do me, in this manner---but being ignorant of your Name, Quality, the Reason of your desire to see me, or any thing but your Impatience to do so, in gratifying that, I fear, I have injur’d the Respect, which I believe, is due, and which, I am sure, my Heart is inclinable to pay to you. Visits, like mine, reply’d the Stranger, require but little Ceremony, and I shall easily remit that Respect you talk of, while I am unknown to you, provided you will give me one Mark of it, that I shall ask of you, when you do. There are very few, reply’d D’elmont, that I cou’d refuse to one, whose Aspect Promises to deserve so many. First then, cry’d the other pretty warmly, I demand a Sister of you, and not only her, but a Reparation of her Honour, which can be done no otherwise than by your Blood. It is impossible to represent the Count’s astonishment at these Words, but conscious of his Innocence in any such Affair: I shou’d be sorry Seignior, said he cooly, that Precipitation should hurry you to do any Action you wou’d afterwards Repent; you must certainly be mistaken in the Person to whom you are talking--Yet, if I were rash like you, what fatal Consequences might ensue; but there is something in your Countenance which engages me to wish a more friendly Interview than what you speak of: Therefore wou’d persuade you to consider calmly, and you will soon find, and acknowledge your Mistake; and, to further that Reflection, I assure you, that I am so far from Conversing with any Lady, in the Manner you seem to hint, that I scarcely know the Name, or Face of any one.---Nay, more, I give you my Word, to which I joyn my Honour, that, as I never have, I never will make the least Pretensions of that kind to any Woman during the Time of my Residence here. This poor Evasion, reply’d the Stranger with a Countenance all inflam’d, ill suits a Man of Honour.---This is no Roman, no, Italian Bono-Roba, who I mean----but French like you----like both of us.----And if your Ingratitude had not made it necessary for your Peace, to erace all Memory of Monsieur Frankville, you wou’d before now, by the near resemblance I bear to him, have known me for his Son, and that ’tis Melliora’s---the fond---the lost---the ruin’d Melliora’s Cause which calls for Vengeance from her Brother’s Arm! Never was any Soul agitated with more violent Emotions, than that of Count D’elmont at these Words. Doubt, Grief, Resentment, and Amazement, made such a Confusion in his Thoughts, that he was unable for some Moments to answer this cruel Accusation; and when he did, the Brother of Melliora said he with a deep Sigh, wou’d certainly have been, next to her self, the most welcome Person upon Earth to me; and my Joy to have Embrac’d him as the dearest of my Friends, at least have equall’d the Surprize I am in, to find him without Cause, my Enemy.---But, Sir, if such a Favour may be granted to an unwilling Foe, I wou’d desire to know, Why you joyn Ruin to your Sisters Name? Oh! Give me Patience Heaven, cry’d young Frankville more enrag’d; is this a Question fit for you to ask, or me to Answer? Is not her Honour Tainted---Fame betray’d.---Her self a Vagabond, and her House abus’d, and all by you; the unfaithful Guardian of her injur’d Innocence?---And can you ask the Cause?----No, rather rise this Moment, and if you are a Man, who dare maintain the ill you have done, defend it with your Sword; not with vain Words and Womanish Excuses: All the other Passions which had warr’d within D’elmont’s Breast, now gave way to Indignation: Rash young Man, said he, jumping hastily out of the Bed, and beginning to put his Cloaths on: Your Father wou’d not thus have us’d me; nor, did he Live, cou’d blame me, for vindicating as I ought my wounded Honour----That I do Love your Sister, is as True, as that you have wrong’d me---Basely wrong’d me. But that her Virtue suffers by that Love, is false! And I must write the Man that speaks it, Lyar, tho’ in her Brother’s Heart. Many other violent Expressions to the same Effect, pass’d between them, while the Count was dressing himself, for he wou’d suffer no Servant to come in, to be Witness of his Disorder. But the steady Resolution with which he had attested his Innocence, and that inexpressible sweetness of Deportment, equally Charming to both Sexes, and which, not even Anger cou’d render less graceful, extreamly cool’d the Heat Frankville had been in a little before, and he in secret, began to recede very much from the ill Opinion he had conceiv’d, tho’ the greatness of his Spirit kept him from acknowledging he had been in an Error; ’till chancing to cast his Eyes on a Table which stood in the Chamber, he saw the hilt of the broken Sword which D’elmont had brought home the Night before, lying on it; he took it up, and having first look’d on it with some Confusion in his Countenance. My Lord, said he, turning to the Count, I conjure you, before we proceed further, to acquaint me truely, how this came into your Possession, Tho’ D’elmont had as great a Courage, when any laudable Occasion appear’d to call it forth, as any Man that ever liv’d, yet his natural Disposition had such an uncommon Sweetness in it, as no Provocation cou’d sowre; it was always a much greater Pleasure to him to Forgive than Punish Injuries; and if at any time he was Angry, he was never Rude, or Unjust. The little starts of Passion, Frankville’s rash Behaviour had occasion’d, all dissolv’d in his more accustomary Softness, when he perceiv’d the other growing Calm. And answering to his Question, with the most obliging Accent in the World: It was my good Fortune, (said he) to be instrumental last Night, in the Rescue of a Gentleman who appear’d to have much Bravery, and being Attack’d by odds, behav’d himself in such a Manner, as wou’d have made him stand but little in need of my Assistance, if his Sword had been equal to the Arm which held it; but the breaking of that, gave me the Glory of not being unserviceable to him. After the Skirmish was over, I took it up, hoping it might be the means sometime or other of my discovering who the Person was, who wore it; not out of Vanity of receiving Thanks for the little I have done, but that I shou’d be glad of the Friendship of a Person, who seems so worthy my Esteem. Oh far! (cry’d Frankville, with a Tone and Gesture quite alter’d,) infinitely far from it--It was my self whom you preserv’d; that very Man whose Life you but last Night so generously redeem’d, with the hazard of your own, comes now prepar’d to make the first use of it against you---Is it possible that you can be so heavenly good to Pardon my wild Passions Heat? Let this be witness, with what Joy I do, answer’d the Count, tenderly Embracing him, which the other eagerly returning; they continu’d lock’d in each others Arms for a considerable Time, neither of them being able to say more, than---And was it Frankville I Preserv’d!----And was it to D’elmont I owe my Life!
After this mutual Demonstration of a perfect Reconcilement was over: See here, my Lord, said Frankville, giving a Paper to the Count, the occasion of my Rashness, and let my just concern for a Sisters Honour, be at least some little Mittigation of my Temerity, in accosting your Lordship in so rude a Manner. D’elmont made no Answer, but looking hastily over the Paper found it contain’d these Words.
To Monsieur Frankville.
While your Sisters Dishonour was known but to few, and the injurious Destroyer of it, out of the reach of your Revenge; I thought it would ill become the Friendship I have always profess’d to your Family, to disquiet you with the Knowledge of a Misfortune, which it was no way in your Power to Redress.
But Count D’elmont, having by the Solicitation of his Friends, and the remembrance of some slight Services, obtain’d a Pardon from the KING, for the Murder of his Wife; has since taken but little care to conceal the Reasons which induc’d him to that barbarous Action; and all Paris is now sensible that he made that unhappy Lady’s Life a Sacrifice to the more attractive Beauties of Melliora, in bloody Recompence for the Sacrifice she had before made him of her Virtue.
In short, the Noble Family of the Frankvilles is for ever dishonour’d by this Unfaithful Guardian; and all who wish you well, rejoice to hear that his ill Genius has led him to a place which, if he knew you were at, certainly Prudence wou’d make him of all others most avoid; for none believes you will so far degenerate from the Spirit of your Ancestors, as to permit him to go unpunish’d.