her? 'I fear so,' replied he; 'but you know Mr Weimar's observations with respect to the obscurity of her birth are founded on truth, I would by no means encourage a dangerous intimacy between them, which might be productive of misery to both; 'tis for that reason I should wish her to leave Paris whilst the liking which I think mutual is in its infancy.' During the conversation of her generous friends the unhappy Matilda gave herself up to extreme sorrow. If Mr Weimar chose to exert his right over her, she saw no one to whom she could appeal for redress; but determined as she now was never to become his wife, she was sensible she had little chance of becoming the wife of any other man; to engage her benefactors in disputes and controversies with him was equally repugnant to her inclinations, and without his consent it would be in vain to think of accompanying her friends, as he might pursue her every where. She knew she had many obligations to him, but she could not return them in the way he was desirous of, which must make her miserable, and of course give no happiness to him. 'What then,' cried she, weeping, 'am I to do? there is no alternative but Mr Weimar or a convent; the latter is my preferable choice, and if he persists to-morrow in exerting the authority he claims over me, I will fly to that for protection.'
Having now made up her mind, she dropt asleep, but her slumbers were broken and disturbed; and in about three hours she returned to her friends, very little refreshed, but was much gratified by their peculiar tenderness and attention, and an increased respect in their manner proved they wished to restore her self consequence, and make her at ease with herself.
This is true benevolence; 'tis the mode of confering favours that either obliges or wounds a feeling heart. Many people are generous, but they forget how painful it is to ask favors, and think it quite sufficient if they give, let the manner of giving be ever so ungracious, and their superiority ever so ostentatiously displayed. Not so the Marquis and his lady - they endeavoured to persuade her, they were the persons obliged by her acceptance of their little civilities, and entered into all her concerns with the affection and anxiety of her nearest relatives.
Matilda's grateful heart overflowed; speech indeed was not lent her, but her tears, her expressive looks forcibly conveyed the language she could not utter.
In the meantime Mademoiselle De Fontelle was not idle; scarce a person the Marchioness was acquainted with, but knew she had taken a girl under her protection, who had robbed and run away from her uncle, with a young handsome footman; and during two days circulation of the story Miss Weimar was detected by her uncle in several low intrigues, which he kindly forgave, 'till quite abandoned and incorrigible, she had taken away all his gold and jewels, and came to Paris with this fellow, whom the Marchioness herself had taken into the house.
'Ciel,' cries one, shrugging her shoulders, 'a pretty story indeed; this is the discreet, the admirable Marchioness De Melfort, held up as a pattern to all the women in Paris.' 'Yes, I thought she was a wonder,' said another; 'abundance of art, to be sure she has; for I'll answer for it, this intrigue with a footman is not the first by many; but, poor woman, her charms are in their wane now, so the man is a substitute for the master.' 'What,' cries a third, 'has the Marchioness herself an intrigue? Lord, didn't you hear that? why this girl is only a cover to her own amusements.' 'Well,' said a fourth, 'I saw both the other night at Madame De Bouville's, and I am sure they are both ugly enough, notwithstanding the men made such a fuss about them.'
'Twas thus the scandal of Mademoiselle's fabricating was increased and magnified among their generous and charitable acquaintance: like Sir Peter Teale's wound, it was in all parts of his body, and by a variety of murderous weapons, when the poor man was unconscious of having received any himself, and could scarce obtain credit when he appeared in perfect health: so unwilling is the good-natured world to give up a story that is to the disadvantage of others. It was in vain the Countess De Bouville, her son and daughter, Madame De Nancy and her sister, attempted to stop the scandalous tales; like lightning it flew from house to house, and every one who had no character to lose, and others of suspected reputation only rejoiced to level an amiable respectable woman with themselves.
The Count De Bouville was distracted; he flew from a set of envious wretches to the Marquis De Melfort's; when he entered the room he met the eyes of the lovely dejected Matilda, with such an expression of grief and softness in them, that it pierced his heart: she blushed, and withdrew them, with a sigh she could not suppress. The Marquis had left the room, the Marchioness was holding her young friend's hand with an affectionate tender air.
After the usual compliments he enquired particularly after Matilda's health; she could not trust her voice just then to speak, the Marchioness answered, 'She is better, only a dejection on her spirits, which you must assist in removing: I was trying to persuade her to accompany me in a carriage to pay a few visits.' The Count, alarmed at the intention, replied, 'Paying visits might possibly be too fatiguing, but an airing would surely be of service.' 'Well then,' said the Marchioness, forgetful of her Lord's caution, 'you shall accompany us.' The carriage, which was in waiting, drawing up, he gladly escorted the two ladies to it, and took his seat very quietly opposite to Matilda, who had hitherto observed a profound silence. He contrived however to draw her into a little conversation, and was charmed with her good sense and sweetness of manners. The languor that pervaded her fine features, powerfully engaged the heart, and the Count could not help thinking how happy that man must be who was destined to possess so great a treasure! This reflection caused a sudden alteration in his countenance; he grew thoughtful and uneasy, when he was disturbed in his reverie by an exclamation from the Marchioness, 'Good heavens! what insolence.' 'What's the matter, madam?' 'Bless me, didn't you observe the two carriages that past, in one was Madame Remini and her two daughters, in the other Madame Le Brun, her niece, and two others of my acquaintance. As the carriage past, I bowed and kissed my hand; they one and all returned a slight bow, and laughed in each other's faces: upon my word I never saw such rudeness.' The Count who could too well account for this behaviour, was however very much vexed. 'Dear madam,' said he, 'such impertinent women are scarce worth your notice, and only deserving contempt.' 'That's true, Count,' replied she, 'and henceforth I shall treat them as they deserve.'
As neither of the parties were in high spirits, their airing was not a long one, and they returned to the house as the Marquis entered it.
After they were seated the Marchioness was expressing her wishes to be in England. 'Does Miss Weimar accompany you?' asked the Count. 'I hope so,' replied the Marchioness. The Marquis giving the Count a glance, they retired to the library, where the conversation of the morning, between Mr Weimar and Matilda, was repeated. The Count felt indignation, pity, and resentment; he was delighted with Matilda's spirit, yet most sincerely felt for her unhappy situation. 'Good God, my dear Marquis, what is to be done for this amiable girl?' 'I hope,' he replied, 'we shall prevail on him to leave her with us, - to-morrow will determine; but take it how he will, I have this day made several persons acquainted with his being the guardian of Matilda, and his offers of marriage in my presence: the circumstance of a young lady's flying from her guardian is nothing extraordinary, and will, I hope, do away the scandal that has been propagated at her expence.' 'You are very good,' returned the Count, 'and I am sure she merits the esteem of all the world.' He took his leave under such a contrariety of sentiments, and so much real concern for the unfortunate Matilda, that when he returned to his sister she was quite alarmed, and asked a thousand questions relative to her friend. When he had explained every thing, the gentle Adelaide felt equal concern, and lamented that her troubles were of a kind that placed it out of the power of their friendship to afford her any consolation or relief.
Whilst they were expressing mutual regret Mademoiselle De Fontelle was announced; she was received with a coldness that would have mortified any other person, but putting on a gay air, 'Ah! Count, so soon returned from your party; I did not expect to find you here.' 'Perhaps, madam, had I known your intended visit, I might have been elsewhere.' 'Very polite, upon my word,' said she, colouring deeply; 'your brother, my dear Bouville, has acquired the English roughness of manners, by his tour to that country.' 'I hope, madam,' replied he, significantly, 'I have acquired the sincerity of that nation, at least, to speak as I think; and as a proof of it, were you not my sister's guest, I should be free enough to say, I so much detest the fabricators of scandal, that I heartily rejoice when they are mortified by being obliged to hear the object of their envy is as much superior to them in every amiable quality of the mind, as she is in the beauty of her person, and that it