Edgar Allan Poe - 60 Gothic Classics

They proceeded to the house, and the carriages drawing up, the party was collected together. Matilda contrived to accompany the Marquis, his Lady, and Mrs Courtney. The two latter kept up a sprightly conversation with the Marquis, and but once or twice broke in upon her reveries; yet she appeared easy and cheerful; in truth, the delight of being dear to the amiable Count, and a consciousness of having performed her duty, gave that peace and serenity to her mind which never fails of communicating itself to the countenance.

On their arrival in Harley-street the party separated, and the Count was compelled to accept an invitation from Lord Delby, to reside with him. 'The Marquis,' said his Lordship, 'has his family party, but I am alone, and therefore you will do me particular honor and pleasure in complying with my wishes.'

As the Count could not reside with the Marquis, this was certainly the next best situation, for his Lordship was himself too fond of the 'family party' to be long absent from them; he therefore gladly accompanied him to Cavendish-square.

They had been now near a fortnight in town, enjoying its variety of amusements, and preparing for their journey to Scarborough, which was now to take place in four days. The birth-day being arrived, the Marquis, his Lady, and the Count proposed paying their compliments at court, with Lord Delby: the Count had been previously presented. The Countess (still known even by the Count only as Madame Le Roche) Mrs Courtney, and Matilda, contented themselves with attending the ball, at night, in the Lord Chamberlain's box. They were accordingly accommodated with an excellent situation, and were extremely charmed with the beauty and splendor of the British court.

Matilda's eyes were so intently fixed on the Royal Family, she had scarce thought of looking round her, until some audible whispers in French reached her ear; turning her head quickly, her eyes met those of Mademoiselle De Fontelle. A stranger to the malice of that young lady, she bowed with a smile, being rather too distant to speak; the lady gave her a look of contempt, and speaking low to the person next her; before Matilda could recover from her surprise and confusion, she observed three or four persons look full at her, with scorn and disdain strongly marked in their features. Shocked beyond measure at this to her unaccountable behaviour, she turned sick and faint, was obliged to have recourse to her salts, and heard a laughing whisper on one side of her, whilst the Countess on the other was eagerly enquiring the cause of her illness. Her salts, and natural dignity of mind soon enabled her to recover. She evaded the curiosity of her friend, by complaining of the heat, and declaring herself better. She then turned her head towards Fontelle and her companions; she viewed them with a steady air of the highest contempt and indifference, 'till even the eyes of that malicious girl fell under hers, and she was evidently confused. Matilda then returned to the amusements below her, and, though her mind was not easy, she appeared to enjoy uncommon satisfaction.

When the Royal Family had withdrawn, and they were about to quit their seats, they perceived Lord Delby and the Count making way to assist them in getting out. The latter had no eyes but for Matilda, 'till a sudden exclamation, and his name, caught his ear in the moment he had presented his hand to her; quickly turning, he saw Mademoiselle De Fontelle and her aunt Madame Le Brune. Surprised and vexed, he darted at them a look of scorn, and with an air of the highest respect and attention, assisted Matilda into the room, joined her friends, and they were safely conveyed through the crowd to their carriage, -Lord Delby and himself following in theirs.

When they alighted in Harley-street, Matilda, who had suppressed her feelings in the ball-room, and had been likewise deeply affected by the Count's attentions, scarcely entered the drawing room before she fainted: every one was alarmed, but the Count as distracted; his behaviour discovered the secrets of his heart to all the company, and when she recovered, she saw him on his knees, holding one of her hands, whilst his air of distraction was but too expressive of his feelings; she withdrew her hand, and he arose; she apologized to the company, and imputed her disorder to the heat of the room, and the sudden chill she felt in getting out of the carriage. Her friends, glad to see her recovered, enquired no further, but the Count drew the Marquis out of the room, and in much agitation, cried out, 'That persecuting fiend, in a female form, is the cause of her illness.' 'Who do you mean?' demanded the Marquis. 'Who should I mean,' answered he, warmly, 'but that malicious Fontelle; I saw her not far from Matilda, and I dare say she insulted her; but, by heavens! if she propagates her infamous falsehoods here, she shall repent it, however she may trust to my honor.'

The Marquis was a little surprised at this sally, but without appearing to observe it, said, 'You know, Count, we shall leave town three days hence, and consequently be out of her malice. I wonder what brought her to England.' 'Spite and envy,' replied he; 'but does the amiable girl know how much Mademoiselle De Fontelle is her enemy?' 'No certainly,' answered the Marquis; 'you do not suppose we would wound her feelings, by repeating the disagreeable reports spread among our acquaintance at Paris.' 'I am glad of it,' said the Count, 'yet I cannot but think the other affronted her.' 'We shall know to-morrow, but let us return and eat our supper now.'

They went down to the supper-room, and were much pleased in beholding Matilda cheerful and perfectly well.

When the company separated, and she was retired to her apartment, she gave way to her own reflections; she could not otherwise account for the impertinence of Mademoiselle De Fontelle, but by supposing she was acquainted with her birth; 'Ah!' said she, 'I doubt not but Mr Weimar published it at Paris, from motives of revenge and she, who as a relation to the Marchioness, received a thousand civilities, is now despised as an imposter; an orphan, and a dependent on charity; nay, even my benefactors may suffer in the opinion of their friends for introducing me! Good heavens!' cried she, 'why should I continue in the world -why assume a character and appearance I have no pretensions to? What blameable pride, what meanness, in accepting gifts which draw upon me contempt and derision -I will no longer support it.'

Tormented all night by the distress of her situation, she arose unrefreshed, pale, feeble and agitated.

The Marchioness, alarmed at her appearance, insisted upon sending for a physician; the Marquis was going to pull the bell. 'Stay, my dear friends,' cried she, 'I beseech you; 'tis my mind, not my body, that is disordered, and you only have the power to heal it.' 'Speak your wishes, my dear child,' said the Marchioness; 'be assured, if in our power, you may command the grant of them.' 'On that promise, my dearest benefactress, your poor Matilda founds her hopes of peace.' She then repeated the affronts of the preceding evening, and her own conjectures upon it. 'I am humbled, my dearest madam, as all false pretenders ought to be,' added she: 'I can no longer support the upbraidings of my heart; a false pride, a despicable vanity induced me to lay hold of your sentiments in my favour, which, after the discovery of my original meanness, I ought to have blushed at your condescension, and sought some humble situation, or retired to a convent, where, unknowing and unknown, I might have pursued the lowly path Providence seems to have pointed out for me. I have been punished for my presumption and duplicity -it has made me look into myself; doubtless, out of this family, every one beholds me with the scorn and contempt I have justly incurred from Mademoiselle De Fontelle, and all who know my doubtful origin. O, my beloved friends,' cried she, wringing her hands, tears running down her cheeks, 'save me from future insults, save me from self-reproach! complete your generosity and goodness, and let me retire to a convent. My poor endeavours to amuse you as a companion are no longer necessary; the Countess is restored to you, and I have only been a source of vexation and trouble ever since the hour you first condescended to receive me; -a convent is the only asylum I ought to wish for, and there only I can find rest.' Here she stopt, overwhelmed with the most painful emotions.