Mon. Ah, I comprehend; you wear the habit of a soldier, sir, and my poor Silence never can abide to look upon that dress.
Flor. Indeed! that’s rather a singular antipathy for a female. May I inquire—is she a daughter of yours?
Mon. Not by blood, sir; but she is the child of misfortune, and as such may claim a parent in every heart that has itself experienced sorrow; but come, sir, take a seat, I beseech you; my alarm ceases now I know the cause of her absence. She is accustomed to wander in the woods by night when any thing disturbs her mind. She’ll return to me anon calm and passive as before: I have known it with her often thus. You look fatigued, sir; let me recommend this flask of Rhenish: pray drink, sir; it will do you good; it always does me good.
Flor. Madam, since you are so pressing, my best services to you—a very companionable sort of old gentlewoman this (aside); I protest, madam, I feel myself interested for this unfortunate under your protection; there was a wild and melancholy sweetness in her eye that touched me at our first exchange of looks with awe and pity; is her history a secret?
Mon. Oh, no—not a secret, but quite a mystery, you know nearly as much of it as I do; but since we are on the subject—another draught of wine, sir!
Flor. Madam, you will pledge me. And now for the mystery.
Mon. Well, sir, about sixteen years ago when I lived in Languedoc, for you must know I am but newly settled here, a stranger in Alsace, ay! about sixteen or seventeen years ago, there came a rumour to our village, of a wild woman, that had been caught by some peasants in the woods near Albi, following quite a savage and unchristian life; gathering fruits and berries for her food by day, and sleeping in the mossy hollows of a rock at night. She was brought round the country as a show. All the world in our parts went to look upon the prodigy, and you may be sure I made one among the crowd. Well, sir, this wild woman was the very creature you beheld but now. At that time she was in truth a piteous object; her form was meagre and wasted, and her wretched garment hung over it in filthy tatters; her fine hair fell in matted heaps, and the sun and the wind together had changed her skin like an Indian’s. Yet even in the midst of all this misery, there was a something so noble and so gentle in her air, that the moment I looked upon her, my curiosity was lost at once in pity and respect. The people by whom she was surrounded, were stunning her with coarse and vulgar questions, but never an answer did she deign to give, though some wheedled and some threatened; still ’twas to all alike: so most persons concluded she was dumb.
Flor. And a very natural conclusion it was, when a female remained silent, who had so excellent an opportunity of exercising her tongue.
Mon. Well, Sir, presently my turn came to approach her, when somehow my heart swelled quite painfully, to see the gracious image of our Maker degraded, and one’s own fellow creature treated like the brutes of the field, so, that when I touched her, my tears started unawares and fell upon her trembling hand. Would you believe it, sir? the poor desolate statue felt the trickling drops, and reason was rekindled by the warmth of pity. Suddenly her eyes, so lately dull and vacant, flashed with recovered brightness. She cast herself at my feet—clasped my knees—and cried out, in tones that might have moved a heart of rock—“Angel of compassion! save me from disgrace?” All present started as if a miracle were worked. “Will you preserve me?” cried the suppliant. I was a widowed and a childless woman; in an instant I raised the forlorn one to my arms, as a companion, as an adopted daughter. Her keepers were ignorant men, but not cruel; their hearts were softened by the scene, and they yielded their claims to my entreaties. I led the unfortune to my dwelling; from that moment, she has shared my mat and partaken of my morsel. I love her with the affection of a real parent, and were I now to lose her, I think my heart would break upon the grave that robbed it of its darling.
Flor. By heavens, I reverence your feelings! in truth ’tis a melancholy story.