Edgar Allan Poe - 60 Gothic Classics

He entered the room with an air of kindness and complacency took her hand and kissed it. 'Let me flatter myself, dearest Matilda,' said he, 'that you are in better health and disposition than when I left you yesterday. I have passed many uneasy hours lately, indeed I may say truly, from the day you was committed to my care, every hour of my life has been spent in anxiety on your account.' 'Do not, Sir,' said she, 'for heaven's sake, do not crush me with the weight of obligations I owe you: a poor forlorn being, without family or friends, as you have justly told me, is entitled to no one's consideration; I am therefore beyond all possibility of return at present; indebted to you for every thing, for the life I enjoy, hard is the task upon me to refuse any thing you request, but as this meeting is to decide once for all, pardon me if I say I cannot marry you, but this deference I owe to your fatherly care of me, I solemnly declare, that unless the authors of my being claim my first reverence, I never will encourage any man without your permission; this, Sir, is all I can, or ever will promise in your favour.' 'Ungrateful girl!' cried he, raising his voice, 'and is this all, this all you owe to a man who preserved your life, and bestowed his time and fortune to make you what you are?' 'Oh! that I had died,' cried Matilda, in an agony, 'rather than to live and be thus upbraided for favours I never can return; but my mind tells me you will one day be repaid for all; - yes, I have a pre-sentiment I am no base-born unworthy offspring; one day, Sir, I may yet have the power to prove my sense of the obligations you reproach me with, and it will be the happiest moment of my life.' She had spoken with such vehemence as precluded interruption; he was surprised; 'You are warm, Matilda,' said he, very calmly. 'I cannot help it, Sir, you have made me desperate; I will seek peace and quietness in a convent. You will not permit me to accompany the Marchioness,' said she, softening, and tears running down her cheeks, 'and I think I owe you that respect not to go without your leave; therefore I have no other asylum but a convent to hope for.' 'Have I not a house, Matilda?' 'Yes, Sir; I might have resided in my uncle's house, but I cannot, with propriety, in yours, when I have no such claim to boast of.' She arose and rang the bell; 'Desire the Marquis and his lady to favour me with their company.' When the servant retired, 'You are then determined, madam?' 'I am, Sir.' 'Then so am I, and you may take the consequence.'

Her friends now entered; after they were seated Matilda spoke, 'I took the liberty to request your presence, that you might be witness to my declaration for the last time, That I never will be the wife of Mr Weimar, nor without his consent, unless commanded by my parents, (alas! how unlikely at present that hope) never to marry any other man. It would be the joy of my heart to have been permitted to accept the honor of the protection you have offered me, but as I fear that cannot be, I will retire into a convent, 'tis the only place of refuge for a poor unfortunate, friendless being, without family, friends, or even a name.' She wept aloud, pronouncing those last words. The Marchioness sympathized with her, and addressing Mr Weimar, 'Come, Sir,' said she, 'let me prevail on you to accede to our request, we ask it as a favor; permit Miss Matilda to be in our care for six months; I engage my honor she shall return by that time free from every engagement.' He made no answer.

'Shall I entreat the favor of a few words in private, Sir,' said the Marquis. They arose and left the room. Within a short time they returned. Mr Weimar, advancing to Matilda, 'I have consented to oblige you, too ungrateful girl; I permit you to remain with the Marchioness, but conditionally, that you write me constantly every occurrence, nor presume to enter into any engagement without my acquiescence.' 'To these conditions,' cried she, her eyes sparkling with joy, 'I most cheerfully subscribe.' He looked full of resentment at her, but taking a polite leave, declined an invitation to stay dinner, and hastily withdrew. The moment he left the room Matilda arose, and throwing her arms round the Marchioness, her grateful heart overflowing into tears, 'Oh! my dearest, my generous protectress, how shall I ever return your goodness?' 'By loving me, my precious girl, as affectionately as I do you,' answered she, embracing her. Observing the Marquis seeming musing, 'May I ask, my Lord, what occupies your thoughts?' 'Yes,' replied he; 'it is fit you should know; to be plain then, I don't like Mr Weimar; I suspect he means to deceive us.' 'Good God,' cried Matilda, alarmed, 'how is that possible?' 'Be it as it may,' answered the Marquis, 'we will guard against any sinister design; let our young friend retire this night to some place of safety.' 'You do not surely apprehend he will apply for a lettre de cachet?' said the Marchioness. 'I should not be surprised at it,' returned he. 'Then,' said she, 'we will set off instantly on our journey; Louison and Antoine can attend us; Marianne shall take care of all our baggage here, and follow us, with Pierre, in a day or two, or come with you.' ' 'Tis a hasty, and rather an inconvenient scheme,' said he, 'but I have no other to offer at present.' 'O, what trouble I occasion to my friends,' cried Matilda. 'Go to your apartment, set about packing, my dear girl; we must take a few necessaries with us, and set off immediately after dinner.' She obeyed. The Marquis set about the arrangements for their journey, and promised to follow in four or five days.

Poor Joseph and Albert deplored their fate, in being too old to accompany the ladies, and were the only domestics left in the house, who knew to what place they were going.

Every thing being settled in a few hours, it was given out in the family, they were going into the country for a short time; even Marianne and Pierre knew no more for the present; and the ladies, attended by Louison and Antoine, set off, with all expedition: fortunately, Antoine had been in England once before, with a former master; he was therefore acquainted with the roads and accommodations, and consequently extremely useful.

The Marquis found the following day he had been right in his conjectures. Two men came to his hotel, armed with authority, to demand a lady commonly known by the name of Matilda Weimar, with a description of her person, then under the protection of the Marquis De Melfort. The Marquis was not at home; the men were informed the young lady was gone, with their mistress, into the country. They searched the house, and being disappointed, waited till the Marquis returned; he gave them the same information, and drew up a paper, signifying, that having taken the young lady under his protection, by the consent of Mr Weimar, who called himself her guardian, she had accompanied the Marchioness on a visit to some friends; that he pledged his honor for her safety, also to answer any charges that could be brought against her. With this declaration the men departed and returned no more; but a person was observed to watch the house for some days after.

The Marquis made no secret to the Bouville family of the past transactions, and though they felt great regret for the loss of their friends, they acknowledged the event had justified their prudence in the steps they had taken.

The Count felt more than he dared express, yet tried to subdue his feelings, from a consciousness of their impropriety to be indulged. His sister was to be married the following week to Monsieur De Clermont, and her establishment engrossed much of his time and attention.

The Marquis very soon arranged all his affairs, and within five days after the ladies left Paris, he followed them.

The Marchioness and her friend pursued their route, arrived at Calais, and crossed over to Dover, without meeting a single accident; here they determined to rest, and wait for the Marquis. They were exceedingly fatigued with the expedition they had used, and were glad to sit down comfortably.