The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 106: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“rice af a family who proposed to visit Switzerland, and thence pass into Italy. <A part of their plan was to cross Mount St. Bernard. They arrived in safety at the Hospice, where they were received with the weloome which the good monks of that Alpine asylum are accustomed to show to all tra- ellers. There is a museum of curiosities at the Hospice, most of them being the sad memorials of the perished ones whose corpses have been at dif- ferent times found amidat the snows of the moun- tains. These curiosities, memorials, and relics were displayed to the family with whom the valet was travelling; and he himeelf likewise saw them. Amongst them he recognised a peculiar ring, which had belonged to the Viscount Delorme. He questioned the monks on the subject; and it ap- peared, on reference to the catalogue, that this ring, together with other valuables, were found upon the corpse of a gentleman several years back. The corpse, though completely preserved at the time, nevertheless afforded indications of having been for a considerable period previous to its dis- covery—perhaps two or three years— embedded in the snow-drift where it was eventually found. There were no papers about the person of the unfortunate individual to show who he was: but he had several articles of jewellery and a consider- able sum of money in his possession. I¢ being Impossible to establish his identity, the property thus found upon him was rendered available for the funds of the St. Bernard establishment, accord. ing to the laws of the Canton. For a long time the corpse was left exposed in the dead-house, in the hope that some passing traveller might chance to recognise it: for the dead are preserved for many years in a life-like state of freshness in that Alpine region. But at length the remains were interred; and as for the jowels, all had been converted into money with the exception of that one ring, which was kept asa means of affording some clue for accident to develope towards the identification of the deceased. It was this report which the valet, on his return to France, conveyed to the ears of the Marchioness; and it was in con- sequence thereof that she at once undertook that long and perilous journey, in compeny with Alfred Delorme, to ascertain fér their own melancholy satisfaction the truth of the details which had thus reached them.” _ * How wildly singular is this tale!” said Zoe: “itis full of the marvel of romance. Well has the poet said that truth is stranger than fic- tion |” “ Yes—wild, and strange, and yet how mournful in every one of its phases,” responded Clarine, with a profound sigh. “ You may easily suppose, my dear Zoe, that when I heard this narrative last night, I listened to it with an interest so ab- sorbing—with feelings so deeply moved——yes, and with emotions so conflicting, that I cannot describe them!” and COlarine shuddered as she spoke. “Again I say let me hasten and conclude this narrative of mine. The unfortunate Mar- chioness, on descending from Mount St. Bernard, was seized with illness at Martigny—that very Village where years beforehand the valet had been abandoned by his master. There the poor lady died. Alfred Delorme, who had long been unto her as a son, tended her in her last illnéss—that iiness which proved fatal; and he bore her re- THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. 95 mains to France, where he interred them in the family vault. He then proceeded to Fontainebleau: —and for what purpose, think you? It was to seek an interview with my father, to communica to him the fate of his sire—that fate which ha just been cleared up !—and likewise to implore on behalf of his deceased parent the forgiveness of my outraged father. Alas! I have too much reason to believe that my father was implacable; and that he swore not merely a continued hatred for the memory of the deceased, but likewise a hatred for that deceased’s son. Alfred departed in sorrow at the failure of his truly Christian pur- pose; and it was shortly afterwards that my father quitted his mansion so suddenly, taking only Marguerite and myeelf with him—and travelling to the South of France, he settled himself in this Chateau, as I explained to you yeaterday.” “ And Marguerite told you all this last night ?” said Zoe. “Then must she have been a complete confidante of your father: for your father alone could have revealed to her all that he learnt and all that took place on the occasion of that interview between himself and Alfred Delorme ?” “‘ Marguerite told me all this last night,” re- sponded Clarine: and her countenance was buried in her kerchief as she thus spoke. _ “TI presume,” continued Zoe, “ that the young Viscount experienced no trouble in obtaining pvs- session of his deceased father’s estates, and of the title thereto pertaining ?” “ Hoe experienced no difficulty,” answered Cla- rine. “ Perhaps,” resumed Zoe, “ your father so sud- denly left his own house near Fontainebleau through the apprehension that the ancestral man- sion of the Delormes might become the abode of the young Viscount, to whom he had sworn such hatred for his father’s sake; and he could not en- dure the idea of dwelling in the same neighbour- hood with one whose very name must ever remind him of his outraged friendship, his wrecked hap piness, his dishonoured and perished wife ?” “Yes,” responded Clarine: “ doubtless that was the reason. But if it were so, it was left to my conjectureo—for Marguerite epecified it not last night as the motive for my father’s conduct in leaving his home.” “And was .é¢ with M. Volney’s consent,” in- quired Lady Octavian, “that Marguerite told you all these things last night ?” | “Ob, no! no!” murmured Clarine, weeping bitterly, and half stifled with her convulsing sobs. “ My father knows not that a syllable of all this has reached my ears! And it was but yesterday, Zoe, when I sought him in his own study for the payment of the piano, that he assured me I should never understand the mysteries which enveloped him. Alas! I am very, very unhappy—— Ob, far more unhappy than you can possibly conceive ! How can I hide from my father’a knowledge m acquaintance with all these things? The ordeal Just now passed through at the breakfast-table, was terrible! I scarcely dared look my father in the face. Were he not so completely absorbed in the contemplation of his own sorrows—were he not ever looking inwardly, as it were, and secing naught outwardly—he could not fail to perceive that there is now something fearful hanging over my soul |” a | CONIC OOO <S