LETTER V.

A been witness!...The unfortunate M. d'Aimeri he...he only is now the object of compassion!... Ah! if Heaven thus punishes with such severity a single fault, irreparable indeed, but expiated for ten years with unceasing sorrow...what have not those unnatural parents to dread, who endeavour to harden themselves in all the atrociousness of injustice? My heart is so affected with what I have seen to-day, that I can think, I can speak of nothing else. Hear then the melancholy recital: It shall be faithful and true; and I can hardly fail of communicating to you a part of the sad impressions it has left on me. ...I came this forenoon to Madame de Valmonts: I found the whole family in the utmost consternation. They told me that Cecilia had been taken so ill in the night, that they had sent again for her physician; that she had received the last rites of the church; that, nevertheless, she was now better, and that she had just risen. When I entered her chamber, I found her seated on a sofa between her father and sister, and the physician was administering a medicine. The moment I appeared, Madame de Valmont came to me, and with an expression of satisfaction that embarrassed me, she said, She has had a dreadful crisis, but she is now better, she is surprisingly better.' At these words, I turned to the physician, as if to ask his opinion, and he gave me a look that made me tremble. My heart beat in such a manner that I was forced to sit down. At this instant, M. de Valmont was expressing his opinion: Certainly,' said he, as she has had the strength to go through the crisis of this night, we have every reason to think her quite out of danger.'...' Indeed,' added Madame de Valmont, we must look through a very gloomy medium to think otherwise.'... Ah! my dear sister,' interrupted Cecilia, how little reason' M. d'Aimeri, who till this moment had kept a deep silence, now looked on Cecilia, with eyes suffused with tears, and seizing one of her hands, Why, why,' said he, with a voice scarcely articulate, would you deprive us of every hope ?'...All the answer Čecilia could make, was to throw her arms round her father's neck, and to press him for so ne moments, in the most expressive and affecting silence. Then turning to Madame de Valmont, she enquired after young Charles, and desired to see him. He was sent for, and when he came, Cecilia made him sit down at the foot of the sofa, and observing his eyes to be red, she said, with a sigh: Charles, and you too have been weeping?'.... Charles, at these words, kissed her hand, and reclined his head on his aunt's lap, not daring to shew his face, as he still continued weeping. Cecilia perceiving her hand wet with his tears, Charles,' added she, if you were not quite so young, you would be sensible, that after a well spent life, the moment in which you now see me must be the sweetest, the happiest of all! While my body is weak and languid, my soul is quite peaceful and serene. My sensations, my ideas now are unspeakably delightful! My dear Charles, I am sure that you will be the pride, the happiness of my father, and that you will ever love him as tenderly as I do.'...As she finished these words, Charles, all in tears, rose hastily, and ran to throw himself into his grandfather's This was done in a moment, and with such a grace, such an

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exquisite expression of sensibility! M. d'Aimeri pressed him to his bosom with the most passionate tenderness, and then taking him by the hand, led him out of his daughter's chamber, in order to retire, no doubt, into his own, and there to indulge without restraint, in the melancholy sensations with which he was oppressed. A moment after, Cecilia conjures us all to go down to dinner. You may imagine that we were not long at table. Madame de Valmont still persevered in cherishing illusive hopes. For my part, I had none; for the physi❤ cian had told me, that Cecilia had not twenty-four hours to live. When we had dined, we returned to her apartment. We found her very composed; and the Curate, who had not left her, said that she appeared much better than she had been the evening before. We seated ourselves round the sofa, and presently Cecilia expressed an inclination to try whether she could not walk. Her father and the physician helped to raise her from her seat, and supported her by her arms; but scarce had she moved five or six steps, when stopping suddenly, she cried out, Oh! my father!'... At this plaintive and heart-piercing cry, M. d'Aimeri, almost distracted, took her in his arms, while she gently reclined on him, with her eyes half closed. The physician seized her hand, and feeling her pulse, made a sign to the priest, who instantly took a crucifix, and approaching Cecilia, with a loud voice, pronounced these awful words, Recommend your soul to God!'......At these words, Cecilia opened her eyes, and raising them towards Heaven, pressed the crucifix to her bosom. In this attitude, her countenance, her whole person appeared with an expression and majesty, that gave her beauty a kind of celestial charm. After an ejaculation, she suddenly fell upon her knees: Oh! my father,' said she, ́ give me your last blessing!'...M. d'Aimeri throws himself by her side, his trembling arms opening, to receive once more this beloved child. Cecilia sinks on the bosom of her unhappy father...all is now over.......... the dear saint expires.

After this melancholy relation, you will not expect any other particulars. It may be sufficient to observe, that M. d'Aimeri is inconsol able for the death of his blessed daughter. His grief can be felt, can be imagined only, by the parental heart. I obliged him to come that very evening with me to B****, with Madame de Valmont and young Charles; and when he is more in a situation to listen to our friendly advice, we will persuade him to travel with his grandson. This may prove that salutary diversion of his grief, which, with the balmy aid of time, is all the remedy that. can cure his wounded mind....Adieu, ny dear friend: write to me immediately. You know that I am not lightly affected by such scenes. You know to what an excess my friends are dear to me, when I see them suffering and unhappy. Ima gine then how deeply I am distressed, and how consolatory, how necessary will be your letters!

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LETTER VI.

AM going my dear Baron, to give you the particulars of an event, which I think so very extraordinary, that I cannot postpone it a single moment; especially as M. d'Aimeri makes a principal figure in

my history. Your friendship for him would alone have been sufficient to inspire the warmest attention to his concerns; but, exclusive of this, his great merits, and severe misfortunes, have united to claim the most tender sympathy, and my lasting friendship. I can imagine how great your curisoity must be; and I now proceed to gratify it....I heard with great satisfaction, that M. d'Aimeri had set out on his travels, with his son Charles, and that I might shortly expect to see him here. He arrived about eight or ten days ago; and after the affecting history you had given me of his misfortune, I could not but engage apartments for him, at the house of one of my most intimate friends. I paid my respects to him the same evening. A slight inaisposition confined him for a few days to his chamber; but he was soon so well recovered as to walk out, and to visit whatever was curious in the city. . In the course of these visits, he heard much of the villa of M. d'Anglures, that singular and benevolent character whom I have already mentioned. His curiosity, in course, was greatly excited; and as I am very intimate with this gentleman, I readily promised to introduce him. I set out the next day after dinner, with M. d'Aineri and Charles in the same carriage. When we arrived at this delightful spot, we were told that M. d'Anglures was gone to take a walk in the fields, but that he would return soon. In the mean time we were admitted into his apartments. About half an hour after, perceiving that M. d'Aimeri was too deeply engaged in the cabinet of Natural History, to be easily diverted from it, I offered to conduct young Charles into the gardens, which were the admiration of every one. We had scarce left the house, when a servant came to inform us, that M. d'Anglures was returned, and would attend us instantly. He soon appeared. The moment he cast his e seyes upon Charles, I observed a sudden alteration in his countenance. He seemed to behold him with an air, in which astonishment and tenderness were equally blended; and after some pause, he exclaimed, Great God! what a likeness !...Then turning away his head, he wiped his eyes, that were all suffused with tears. Afterwards taking Charles by the hand, Forgive,' said he, my curiosity, but...how old are you.... Fifteen and a half,' answered Charles... Oh! Heavens ! resumed M. d'Anglures, her very voice! Ah! Sir,' he continued, addressing himself to me, Who is this young gentleman? What is his name?... The Chevalier de Valmont...I had no sooner pronounced these words, than M. d'Anglures caught Charles in his arms, and pressed him to his bosom, with a transport, which would have enabled me to divine the cause, if I had known any thing of the history of this extraordinary man; but being absolutely unacquainted with it, I con templated this unexpected scene with inexpressible surprise, when M.. d'Anglures, again turning to me, said, this very day you shall know the cause of the situation in which you now behold me; you shall be acquainted with my whole history; and I am certain you will pity me.... But with whom does this amiable boy travel? Is it with his Governor ?... No,' I answered, with his grandfather.'... His grandfather!' returned M. d'Anglures, with a frantic air.... Yes, M. d'Aimeri'... What interrupted he, M. d'Aimeri here! M. d'Aimeri in this house!'...He uttered these words: with such a vehement, yet faultering voice, that the fury of anger was so visible in his eyes, that were still bedewed with tears, that I could be at no loss to understand, that if he had found in Charles a dear and affecting object, he had

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recollected in his grandfather a detested enemy.' I hope,' said I, that you understand the rights of hospitality, and that your conduct will not lessen the exalted opinion I entertain of your wisdom and virtue.'... Ah!' cried he, if you knew...He then seemed in a reverie for some moments, when fixing his eyes on Charles, his rage, so far from subsiding, appeared to kindle afresh. Charles, who till then was motionless with astonishment, now broke silence: Sir,' said he do you know my grandfather, and can you have any cause of complaint against him? If you have, I am ready in his name, to give you all the satisfaction you require'...... Generous boy! interrupted M. d'Anglures embracing him. I repeat it,' said Charles, do you know my grandfather?...M. d'Anglures hesitated a moment, and then assuming a milder and more tranquil air, he answered, Your grandfather does not know me, as you will soon perceive; but by a strange fatality, his name recals the most painful events to my recollection. I desire to see him instantly. Wait for us in the garden.'...' No, no,' interrupted Charles, with great impetuosity, you shall not see him but in my presence'... Young gentleman,' returned M. d'Anglures, I forgive this unbecoming mistrust, on account of the respectable cause that excites it. But know, I consent that Count de Roseville shall attend as a witness to our interview. Recollect too that I am in my own house, and that were it true that your grandfather is my enemy, he should here find an inviolable asylum....M. d'Anglures,' said I, is perfectly right; and I think that M. d'Aimeri himself would be much displeased at the expressions that have escaped you. Stay here then, and in a quarter of an hour we will return.'... After this reproof we left Charles, who, however, was not exempt from great anxiety. For my part, surprised and confounded by all that I had just heard, I waited with some apprehension, and with extreme curiosity, for the unravelling of this extraordinary adventure. I had not the courage to question M. d'Anglures, who, on entering the house said, Go, my dear Count, and look for M. d'Aimeri; but give me your honour, that you will not mention what has passed.'...I promised obedience to this injunction.... Well then,' he resumed, wait till I send for you.'...He left me without giving me the opportunity of answering him. I found M. d'Aimeri still in the gallery of Natural History, and so deeply engaged, that he did not perceive I was returned without his grandson. In about ten: minutes, a servant came to inform us, that M. d'Anglures waited for us in his apartment. This invitation excited in us an uneasiness, which M. d'Aimeri, however, was still too absent to remark. I took his arm, and we followed the servant, who, having led us through many apartments, shewed us a door, gave us the key of it, and retired. I immediately opened this mysterious door, and entered first. I thought that I had known the whole house, which I had been over a hundred times; but I saw with astonishment, that this apartment, equally singular and magnificent, was absolutely unknown to me. The walls and floor were of a white and dazzling marble; and at the end opposite the door, four grand pillars of porphyry, supported an elegant canopy of silver tissue, ornamented with silver fringe, and curtains of gauze. These, being quite drawn, concealed the inside of the pavilion; but the mo ment M. d'Aimeri appeared, they were drawn up, and we discovered M. d'Anglures, who, in a dreadful voice, thus addressed him, Lift up thy eyes, barbarian, and contemplate thy work.'...