“Gentlemen,” said she, after a silence of some minutes, “I would request a favour of you. You have a right to know on whom you confer an obligation; I will not, therefore, stifle a confession which covers me with shame; but permit me to comprise it in as few words as possible.
“I was born in Strasbourg, of respectable parents; their names I must at present conceal. My father still lives, and deserves not to be involved in my infamy. If you grant my request, you shall be informed of my family name. A villain made himself master of my affections, and to follow him I quitted my father’s house. Yet, though my passions overpowered my virtue, I sunk not into that degeneracy of vice but too commonly the lot of women who make the first false step. I loved my seducer, dearly loved him! I was true to his bed: this baby, and the youth who warned you, my lord baron, of your lady’s danger, are the pledges of our affection. Even at this moment I lament his loss, though ’Tis to him that I owe all the miseries of my existence.
“He was of noble birth, but he had squandered away his paternal inheritance. His relations considered him as a disgrace to their name, and utterly discarded him. His excesses drew upon him the indignation of the police. He was obliged to fly from Strasbourg; and saw no other resource from beggary than an union with the banditti who infested the neighbouring forest, and whose troop was chiefly composed of young men of family in the same predicament with himself. I was determined not to forsake him. I followed him to the cavern of the brigands, and shared with him the misery inseparable from a life of pillage. But though I was aware that our existence was supported by plunder, I knew not all the horrible circumstances attached to my lover’s profession: these he concealed from me with the utmost care. He was conscious that my sentiments were not sufficiently depraved to look without horror upon assassination. He supposed, and with justice, that I should fly with detestation from the embraces of a murderer. Eight years of possession had not abated his love for me; and he cautiously removed from my knowledge every circumstance which might lead me to suspect the crimes in which he but too often participated. He succeeded perfectly. It was not till after my seducer’s death that I discovered his hands to have been stained with the blood of innocence.
“One fatal night he was brought back to the cavern, covered with wounds: he received them in attacking an English traveller, whom his companions immediately sacrificed to their resentment. He had only time to entreat my pardon for all the sorrows which he had caused me: he pressed my hand to his lips, and expired. My grief was inexpressible. As soon as its violence abated, I resolved to return to Strasbourg, to throw myself, with my two children, at my father’s feet, and implore his forgiveness, though I little hoped to obtain it. What was my consternation when informed, that no one entrusted with the secret of their retreat was ever permitted to quit the troop of the banditti; that I must give up all hopes of ever rejoining society, and consent instantly to accept one of their band for my husband! My prayers and remonstrances were vain. They cast lots to decide to whose possession I should fall. I became the property of the infamous Baptiste. A robber, who had once been a monk, pronounced over us a burlesque rather than a religious ceremony: I and my children were delivered into the hands of my new husband, and he conveyed us immediately to his home.
“He assured me that he had long entertained for me the most ardent regard; but that friendship for my deceased lover had obliged him to stifle his desires. He endeavoured to reconcile me to my fate, and for some time treated me with respect and gentleness. At length, finding that my aversion rather increased than diminished, he obtained those favours by violence which I persisted to refuse him. No resource remained for me but to bear my sorrows with patience; I was conscious that I deserved them but too well. Flight was forbidden. My children were in the power of Baptiste; and he had sworn, that if I attempted to escape, their lives should pay for it. I had had too many opportunities of witnessing the barbarity of his nature, to doubt his fulfilling his oath to the very letter. Sad experience had convinced me of the horrors of my situation. My first lover had carefully concealed them from me; Baptiste rather rejoiced in opening my eyes to the cruelties of his profession, and strove to familiarise me with blood and slaughter.
“My nature was licentious and warm, but not cruel: my conduct had been imprudent, but my heart was not unprincipled. Judge, then, what I must have felt at being a continual witness of crimes the most horrible and revolting! Judge how I must have grieved at being united to a man, who received the unsuspecting guest with an air of openness and hospitality, at the very moment that he meditated his destruction! Chagrin and discontent preyed upon my constitution; the few charms bestowed on me by nature withered away, and the dejection of my countenance denoted the sufferings of my heart. I was tempted a thousand times to put an end to my existence; but the remembrance of my children held my hand. I trembled to leave my dear boys in my tyrant’s power, and trembled yet more for their virtue than their lives. The second was still too young to benefit by my instructions; but in the heart of my eldest I laboured unceasingly to plant those principles which might enable him to avoid the crimes of his parents. He listened to me with docility, or rather with eagerness. Even at his early age, he shewed that he was not calculated for the society of villains; and the only comfort which I enjoyed among my sorrows, was to witness the dawning virtues of my Theodore.
“Such was my situation when the perfidy of Don Alphonso’s postillion conducted him to the cottage. His youth, air, and manners interested me most forcibly in his behalf. The absence of my husband’s sons gave me an opportunity which I had long wished to find, and I resolved to risque every thing to preserve the stranger. The vigilance of Baptiste prevented me from warning Don Alphonso of his danger. I knew that my betraying the secret would be immediately punished with death; and however embittered was my life by calamities, I wanted courage to sacrifice it for the sake of preserving that of another person. My only hope rested upon procuring succour from Strasbourg. At this I resolved to try; and should an opportunity offer of warning Don Alphonso of his danger unobserved, I was determined to seize it with avidity. By Baptiste’s orders I went up stairs to make the stranger’s bed: I spread upon it sheets in which a traveller had been murdered but a few nights before, and which still were stained with blood. I hoped that these marks would not escape the vigilance of our guest, and that he would collect from them the designs of my perfidious husband. Neither was this the only step which I took to preserve the stranger. Theodore was confined to his bed by illness. I stole into his room unobserved by my tyrant, communicated to him my project, and he entered into it with eagerness. He rose in spite of his malady, and dressed himself with all speed. I fastened one of the sheets round his arms, and lowered him from the window. He flew to the stable, took Claude’s horse, and hastened to Strasbourg. Had he been accosted by the banditti, he was to have declared himself sent upon a message by Baptiste, but fortunately he reached the town without meeting any obstacle. Immediately upon his arrival at Strasbourg, he entreated assistance from the magistrate: his story passed from mouth to mouth, and at length came to the knowledge of my lord the baron. Anxious for the safety of his lady, who he knew would be upon the road that evening, it struck him that she might have fallen into the power of the robbers. He accompanied Theodore, who guided the soldiers towards the cottage, and arrived just in time to save us from falling once more into the hands of our enemies.”
Here I interrupted Marguerite to enquire why the sleepy potion had been presented to me. She said, that Baptiste supposed me to have arms about me, and wished to incapacitate me from making resistance: it was a precaution which he always took, since, as the travellers had no hopes of escaping, despair would have incited them to sell their lives dearly.
The baron then desired Marguerite to inform him what were her present plans. I joined him in declaring my readiness to shew my gratitude to her for the preservation of my life.
“Disgusted with a world,” she replied, “in which I have met with nothing but misfortunes, my only wish is to retire into a convent. But first I must provide for my children. I find that my mother is no more—probably driven to an untimely grave by my desertion. My father is still living. He is not an hard man. Perhaps, gentlemen, in spite of my ingratitude and imprudence, your intercessions may induce him to forgive me, and to take charge of his unfortunate grandsons. If you obtain this boon for me, you will repay my services a thousand-fold.”
Both the baron and myself assured Marguerite, that we would spare no pains to obtain her pardon: and that, even should her father be inflexible, she need be under no apprehensions respecting the fate of her children. I engaged myself to provide for Theodore, and the baron promised to take the youngest under his protection. The grateful mother thanked us with tears for what she called generosity, but which in fact was no more than a proper sense of our obligations to her. She then left the room to put her little boy to bed, whom fatigue and sleep had completely overpowered.
The baroness, on recovering, and being informed from what dangers I had rescued her, set no bounds to the expressions of her gratitude. She was joined so warmly by her husband in pressing me to accompany them to their castle in Bavaria, that I found it impossible to resist their entreaties. During a week which we passed at Strasbourg, the interests of Marguerite were not forgotten. In our application to her father we succeeded as amply as we could wish. The good old man had lost his wife. He had no children but this unfortunate daughter, of whom he had
