Tales from the German, Comprising specimens from the most celebrated authors

Beauty of form exerts its magic only so far as we conceive it to be the sign of a noble soul, but loses all its power, nay, inspires us with horror, when it is the cloak of crime. Let the artist paint Sin beautiful on the threshold of hell, and it will be a thousand times more terrible when that which is dearest to man is but the tool of his wickedness.

I could no longer think of Madame Bertollon without detestation. She was a poisoner, and all that Larette had hastily told me was confirmed in Montpellier; while a number of various circumstances threw still greater light on her murderous deed.

All Montpellier was in agitation at this extraordinary occurrence. Bertollon's gradual recovery, which was accomplished by the skill of the physicians, caused the most lively joy in every house. I no more left the bed of my beloved friend, whom I honoured as a father and a brother.

"Oh, Bertollon!" I exclaimed one day, "You are saved. How miserable I should have been had you died! My grief would not long have allowed me to survive your death. You are my only friend, the only one in the world; you are my benefactor, my guardian angel. I am always ready to die for you. And is it possible that a woman, such a tender timid creature, a woman endowed with, such heavenly charms, a woman whose eyes and mouth preached virtue so sweetly, could be so atrocious?"

"Do you still love her, Alamontade," said Bertollon, pressing my hand.

"Love her? The very thought is revolting to me. I never loved her; it was only trifling vanity and a delusion of the senses that I once in my infatuation called love. I have never loved her. A secret power always drove my heart from her. How should I love one who intended to murder you? I curse every hour I spent in her society; and repent the attentions I lavished on her. Ah! I knew her not."

By this time the trial had commenced. The most celebrated counsel in Montpellier, M. Menard, came forward of his own accord to the family of the accused, and offered to be her defender. Menard had never lost a suit. The charm of his eloquence conquered all; where he could not convince reason he knew how to entangle it inextricably by doubts, and to excite against it all the feelings of the heart. Whenever he spoke in the court it was crowded with spectators, who often came from distant parts to hear him. He undertook with success even the worst cause, if he could expect from it a rich reward.

"I desire nothing," said Bertollon, "but an eternal separation from the poisoner, and I require no other punishment for her than the failure of her attempt. Her own conscience and public contempt are a sufficient sting to her. I know Menard is my personal enemy. He was once my rival, and I foresee that by his artifices he will so confound and dazzle the judges and people, that my infamous wife will extricate herself triumphantly."

"That he shall not do!" I exclaimed with vehemence. "Pray Bertollon entrust me with your case, though I am but a beginner, and have never spoken in a court of law. Confide in me and the justness of your cause. Indeed, it does not grieve me to appear before the tribunal against a lady whom I once called my friend, and who loaded me with treacherous favours. You are my brother and benefactor, your cause is sacred."

Bertollon smiled, expressing at the same time his doubts as to my being a match for my adversary's tact. At length, however, he agreed to my wish of making his suit the first trial of my ability, but was apparently apprehensive.

"Be easy, dear Bertollon," said I, "friendship will inspire and exalt me if I should seem to sink under Menard's superior powers, and notwithstanding all his subtlety he will not be able to get over the facts which his client too hastily confessed."

From time immemorial no trial had excited greater interest than this, which was rendered so conspicuous, both by the atrocity of its cause, and the respectability of the parties concerned. And what a part I undertook! No one knew the relation in which I had stood to Madame Bertollon. No one imagined that I had once clasped the accused to my heart in a moment of extatic rapture; no one knew that her illicit affection for me had perhaps given her hand the first direction towards mixing the poisonous draught.

All this was still a secret, and was to remain so until Menard's art should threaten victory over me. Then only this last mine was to explode against him.

When it was reported in Montpellier that I was Bertollon's advocate, success was given to my opponent beforehand. After sufficient investigation, and the examination of witnesses, Menard and I were called to the bar. This powerful speaker seemed only to mock me. He almost evinced contempt, at appearing against a young man who had recently been his pupil, and was now going to make his debût. He spoke with such power that he affected me most deeply, and almost inspired me for the cause of the accused.

The trial had been prolonged by Menard's manoeuvres for six months, when I had hoped to conquer in a few weeks. Menard was always followed by the applause of the people on leaving the court; and it appeared that I wasted my energies in rendering his victory more difficult, only to increase his laurels.

The beauty of the accused had gained for her party all the young men of the town, and her former beneficence engaged for her the poorer class of the people. I had to contend against Menard, against the secret predilection of innumerable hearts prejudiced in her favour, and the remembrance of the virtues which Madame Bertollon had once displayed.

The more, however, my cause seemed hopeless, the more my courage rose. An unusual energy animated me, and Menard himself began to respect or fear me the more I drove him back from his first conquests. His party diminished in proportion, as he was forced to acknowledge the truth of facts which he had before rendered doubtful and uncertain. Soon I heard my praise in public; soon a small number of partisans surrounded me: soon the applause of the people was increased, the more Madame Bertollon appeared guilty, and her beauty and virtues were eclipsed and darkened by the remembrance of so black a deed.

Pleasing as this incense was to me, it delighted me less than Clementine's quiet approval. Madame Bertollon was related to the family De Sonnes. When it was known that I undertook Bertollon's cause, Clementine often appeared at the window shaking her head sadly, and making menacing signs. I thought I understood her, and shrugged my shoulders, but was not deterred from performing a duty so sacred.

As my name became more known and lauded in Montpellier, she became more friendly. She appeared to forget her relationship to Madame Bertollon in my success. Yes! I saw myself loved by the angel I adored. No mortal could be happier than I. Our dumb correspondence had now lasted for years.

But I turn to that fatal trial which now took the most serious turn for the accused. Madame Bertollon seeing every fact and witness in league against her, could do nothing but strongly deny her intention of poisoning her husband, though appearances rendered her guilty. I now insisted on interrogating her more closely respecting her object in buying the poison a week previous to the deed. To this she gave evasive answers, and entangled herself in contradictions. It was evident that she feared discovering the reason. All the entreaties of her relations, and the menaces of her advocate, were of no avail. This increased the suspicion; Menard gave up his case as lost, though still protesting her innocence. The tribunal ordered closer confinement, and threatened the first examination by the rack to force confession.

Now Madame Bertollon undertook to plead her own cause before the tribunal in which Menard had been so unsuccessful. In this I saw nothing but an artifice of Menard himself, who wished to call the power of female beauty to his aid to support his eloquence.

As she entered the hall a deathlike silence prevailed. She never was so charming as at this moment; her simple attire, and the paleness of deep grief, summoned compassion into each heart, and tears into every eye.

All was silent, and all eyes were turned from her upon me. I was to speak, but could not, such was my inexpressible confusion. She was the picture of suffering innocence. All the delightful hours I had spent with her were recalled to my memory on seeing her, and surrounded my soul like weeping angels pleading for her and whispering that she was certainly guiltless.

At length I recovered. I declared that no one would be more delighted by a proof of the innocence of the accused than her husband, and myself, his advocate. But for this proof it was necessary that she should remove suspicion and confess her intention in purchasing the poison.

Madame Bertollon appeared very weak, leaning on the arm of her advocate. She looked at me with a painful glance, expressive of love and sorrow.

"Oh! Alamontade," she said, in a faint voice, "and must it be you to urge the discovery of my object in purchasing the poison? You – and in this place?"

After a few moments' silence she suddenly rose, turned her pale countenance towards the judges, and said, in a bitter tone, expressive of mental despair,

"My lords, you have threatened me with the rack to force my confession; that is sufficient, and I will put an end to the proceedings – I am guilty, I intended a murder with this poison. More you will not learn from me; pronounce your verdict."

She turned and left the court – perfect silence and utter amazement prevailed. Two days afterwards the tribunal pronounced the verdict of "guilty" against the wretched woman.

M. Bertollon had long since recovered. He was more cheerful than usual, and joked as before at my zeal for virtue; he loved me at the same time so truly that it grieved him that I so obstinately persisted in my strict principles. I therefore sometimes afforded him the satisfaction of appearing to agree with him, and of yielding to his favourite whim, that all upon earth was but a play of expediency.

The evening previous to the day on which the sentence was passed I was with him; we were cheerfully sitting at our wine, until midnight, and swore everlasting friendship to each other till death.

"Tell me, Colas, do you know Clementine de Sonnes?"

I blushed. Wine and confidence in his friendship elicited the holy secret. Bertollon laughed immoderately, exclaiming repeatedly, "Simpleton that you are! you are everywhere tricked by your heavenly virtue. Pray be rational for once, why have you not told me this long since? She would now be your betrothed; well, she shall be yours, here is my hand upon it. With prudence we may subdue the world, why not a girl or a proud family? I have already observed that Clementine is not likely to refuse you."

In raptures I clasped my friend in my arms. "Oh! if you could do that, Bertollon, you would make me happy – make me a god."

"So much the better, for I shall still want your divine assistance for some pet plan. A girl so like your Clementine that they might be taken for sisters. Such a girl lives at Adze. You simpletons have hitherto thought that I go there as frequently as I do for the sake of pure air or business. No; I love the girl inexpressibly; no woman ever fettered me like her. As soon as I am rid of my wife I shall court the Venus of Adze. But then, M. Colas, I shall trouble you not to have such conversations with my future wife as you used to enjoy with my first one."

"What, Bertollon!" I exclaimed, confounded; "you will marry again?"

"Certainly. Look you. I at first thought you were going to play a romance in due form with my wife; I thought you really loved her, in which case I would have resigned her to you, and then we could have come to some arrangement in the affair. I should have liked it very well, and we should not have had all this ado about the poison which had nearly gone against me."

"But how do you mean, Bertollon? I do not quite understand you."

"I must tell you, you innocent. In my wife's absence, I one evening secretly searched her drawers – you may laugh; you see I did not quite trust you at that time, with all your virtue; for I thought you had exchanged love letters of grief and affection. While so doing, the lame Jacques happened to come down the stairs and saw me leave my wife's room after I played her this trick. But the blockhead passed quickly and saluted me."

"What trick do you mean? You talk so confusedly. Drink! here is to your health."

"And to yours, Colas! You have acquitted yourself well. You are a capital fellow. I lay you would not have made an address half so good before the court against my wife, had you known that I myself mixed the poison with the essence, though it was only a small quantity."

"No! certainly not, dear Bertollon."

"Therefore it was wise on my part not to tell you before; now it can do no harm."

"Why you were not fool enough to wish to poison yourself?"

"As to that I knew very well that I was in no great danger. I was only astonished to find poison in my wife's possession. She had labelled it. But what do you think she intended to do with it?"

"Why, that is an enigma."

"But it was a deep trick, Colas, was it not? The following morning I pretended giddiness, sent for my wife, who brought me the essence herself as usual. The physician was also sent for, and an antidote was applied, but I had only mixed in a small quantity of the poison."

"But Bertollon, what are you talking about? Your wife after all then is quite innocent?"

"That is the joke in the affair. And you have pleaded your throat sore for nothing. But drink; this will cure it. Confess now, was it not a bold stroke of mine? My wife must think she is quite bewitched, for she does not know that I have the best of picklocks in the world for all her drawers."

"But – " said I, becoming suddenly sober with horror.

"Let no one hear any thing of this; you, Colas, are my only confidant. You must know that the affair might have terminated badly after all, as in my haste I upset a phial containing a red liquid in the medicine-chest, and forgot to replace it. But, to cut the matter short, Colas, I am happy. You shall be so too. I swear to you that the day on which I marry Julia, you shall celebrate your nuptials with Clementine. But what is the matter with you? Actually you are fainting. There – drink some water. The champagne does not agree with you."

He supported me with one arm, while offering me the glass with the other, which I pushed back shuddering. I was stunned by what I had heard.

"Go to bed," he said.

I left him, while he staggered after me, laughing loudly.

Midnight had long passed, sleep had not visited me, and when morning approached I had not even undressed, and I walked up and down the room in great agitation. What a night! What had I learned? I was not able to believe so atrocious and revolting a crime. An innocent and virtuous wife, who had never offended her husband, plunged into prison and everlasting disgrace; the husband abusing his friend by making him accomplish his hellish designs, and innocence tortured with pangs more bitter than death?

I felt some relief, however, in the hope that Bertollon only wished to test my friendship. For, if he really had acted so atrociously, how could he venture to let another glass of wine pass his lips, since every drop threatened to disclose his secret; how could he so shamelessly reveal himself in all his atrocity, either to a villain or to an honourable man?

But I hoped in vain to deceive myself; his expressions respecting me and his unfortunate wife, and his former willingness to resign her to me, made all but too true. His early plans were now becoming clearly developed in the misty distance. I recollected many expressions which he had used, and that he himself favoured my intercourse with Madame Bertollon, and refused to become suspicious of our intimacy. And when he spoke of the vehemence and reserve of her disposition, he probably then conceived designs of charging her with this crime.

The morning had dawned, and I was still undecided as to what I should do. Innocence must be saved, but her safety must be the ruin of my benefactor, my first and only friend; only an excess of love for me had elicited the horrible secret. Should I go and betray him? He was the author of my happiness; should the hand which had received innumerable benefits from him, plunge him ungratefully into an unfathomable abyss? Should I lose him whom I still loved, the only one who loved me? "Unhappy series of events," I sighed, "must I become the instrument of fettering innocence, or of sacrificing the life of my benefactor?"

But my conscience cried, "Be just before you wish to be kind! Whatever consequences may attend the actions which we perform, from duty, – nay, even did they involve the destruction of ourselves – nothing should hinder us when virtue is at stake. Return to your poverty, go solitary and cheerfully through life, only save your peace of mind and carry with you a quiet conscience. You did what justice required. There is a God, be pure as he is."

I wrote to the police inspector of the district to come immediately to me on most urgent business. On his arrival I repaired to Bertollon's room, while the officer remained without.

Bertollon was still asleep; I trembled, love and compassion overcame me, I exclaimed, "Bertollon," and kissed him.

He awoke, and I suffered him to wake completely during some indifferent conversation.

"Tell me," I said, at length, "is your wife really innocent? Had you poisoned the essence yourself?"

He looked at me with a penetrating glance, saying, "Be silent."

"But, Bertollon, this answer is but a confirmation of last night's statement. I conjure you, my friend, remove my doubts. Have you done all you said, or did you only wish to – "

Bertollon rose, and said, "Colas! I trust you are discreet."

"But speak, Bertollon, pray speak! the court will pass sentence on your wife to-day, let not innocence perish!"

"Are you mad, Colas? Would you become the betrayer of your friend?"

While stammering this he appeared in violent emotion. He turned pale, and his lips became livid; his eyes stared vacantly. All proved too certainly that he had confessed the previous night, in the excitement of wine, circumstances at which he was now terrified, seeing they were no longer safe in my keeping.

I put my hand on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, "Bertollon! dress, take money enough with you, and flee. I will manage the rest."

With a look threatening death, he asked, "Why?"

"Fly, I say, while there is time."

"Why?" he replied, "Do you intend – or have you, perhaps, already – "

"By all that is dear and sacred to you, fly!"

While I whispered these last words to him, he suddenly jumped up, looked about the room as if searching for something, which made me think he had forgotten in his consternation that his clothes lay near the bed. While I stooped to give them to him he fired a pistol at me, and the blood gushed down over my chest.

The door was burst open, and the inspector of police entered in terror. Bertollon still holding in one hand the pistol he had fired, and a second in the other, looked aghast at the unexpected appearance.

"Accursed dog!" he cried to me, with gestures of despair, and flung the discharged pistol furiously at my head. Another shot followed – Bertollon had shot himself. He reeled against me – I caught him in my arms – his head was shattered.

I became senseless, sank on the floor, and when I first recovered consciousness, I found myself in my own room, with physicians and servants busy about me. My wound, which was under the left shoulder, was probed and dressed, but was not dangerous.

All around me were in great consternation. Several of Bertollon's friends were near me, assailing me with questions.

I dismissed them, and, when recovered, dressed myself and ordered a sedan-chair to carry me to the assembled court.

In the meanwhile Bertollon's suicide had become known in the town. An enormous concourse of people thronged his house, but when they learned that I intended going to the court the curious crowd followed me.

Sentence had already been passed on Madame Bertollon at a private sitting of the court. The moment she was led into the hall to hear it before the assembled multitude, I arrived.

I begged a hearing as I had to make important disclosures. Permission to speak was granted me. Amidst a silence as if death reigned, I said to the judges: "My lords, once I stood here the accuser of innocence, I now come to save her, and to prepare her for a well-deserved triumph. I was deceived by the appearance of circumstances, deceived and abused by my friend, and an accomplice in an act of cruelty without knowing it. The unfortunate lady upon whom you are about to pronounce sentence is not guilty of any crime."

I now distinctly stated the history of the previous night, Bertollon's suicide, and his attempt on my life. Beside me stood the police-inspector as a witness, and lame Jacques, who recollected that he had seen M. Bertollon the evening previous to the poison being taken, coming from the apartment of his wife with a light.

Such a termination to the trial in which I had at first achieved such a splendid victory over my opponent Menard, and which was to found my reputation in that country, no one had expected. During my speech astonishment and horror were depicted on a thousand faces. But when I stopped, a murmuring arose which swelled to loud exultation. My name was shouted with enthusiastic joy, and the eyes of all were filled with tears.

All order was at an end: Madame Bertollon had sunk fainting amidst the congratulations of those around. The vice-governor of the province, a relation of the Mareschale Montreval, whom chance or curiosity brought to the court, descended from his seat and embraced me. M. Menard followed his example, amidst the shouts of the enthusiastic multitude.

I was led to Madame Bertollon, my knees failed me, I sank down and pressed her hand, which I bedewed with tears.

"Can you forgive me?" I faltered.

With a look full of excessive love and a heavenly smile, she looked down on me. "Alamontade!" she sighed softly, but tears checked her words.

The court broke up and the judges embraced me. In vain I endeavoured to find Madame Bertollon; the crowd was too great. I was led down the steps of the court-house, through the dense mass which headed me, with marks of honour.

In the act of getting into my sedan, I was stopped by a well-dressed young man saying, "Sir, you cannot possibly return with pleasant feelings to a house which still contains the corpse of a suicide, and which must remind you of the most horrible circumstances. Do me the honour of allowing me to entertain you in the meanwhile in my own house."

This invitation, urged with cordiality, was quite unexpected. Tears still sparkled in the young man's eyes, and he entreated me so earnestly that I could not refuse. He pressed my hand with joyful gratitude, gave orders to the bearers and disappeared.

Followed by the acclamations of the multitude through the streets, I proceeded but slowly, but at length arrived at the house of my unknown friend. I only noticed that it was in the neighbourhood of Bertollon's house and in the street where Clementine lived, which could not be an unpleasant discovery to me, though I was still confused and overcome.

At the foot of the steps in the inner court, the sedan-chair was opened. The friendly stranger awaited me; I saw myself in a large splendid building, and was assisted up the marble stairs by two servants.

All that is terrible and pleasing in human life was compressed for me into the narrow space of this one day.

The folding-doors were opened, and some ladies advanced to receive me. The eldest among them addressed me, saying, "I am much indebted to my nephew for procuring me the honour of seeing the noble-minded deliverer of innocence in my dwelling."

Who can describe my astonishment when I discovered this lady to be Madame de Sonnes, and that Clementine was following her. I was about to stammer something in reply to her kind reception, but was too much exhausted. The loss of blood in the morning, after a night spent in wakeful melancholy, and the various and extraordinary sensations to which I had been exposed, had quite exhausted me. Clementine's appearance made me lose sight of all around me. I only saw her, only spoke to her, until forms and colours were blended before my fading sight in a confused chaos.

For several weeks I kept my bed and room, a fever having been produced by the sufferings from my wound. Young M. de Sonnes never left me; he had all my property removed from Bertollon's house; including the harp, but not the wreath. They did not know of what value it was to me.

In the meanwhile Madame Bertollon had been acquitted; and M. de Sonnes told me that the fair sufferer had immediately left Montpellier, and had gone into a distant convent. He likewise gave me a letter which had been sent for me, under cover, to Madame de Sonnes, saying, "Madame Bertollon probably wished us to thank her deliverer."

I took it with a trembling hand; as soon as I was alone I perused it, and ever since it has accompanied me in weal and woe. Its contents are as follows: —

"Abbey St. G., at V – ,

"May 11, 1762.

"Farewell, Alamontade, these lines, the first I ever wrote to a man, will be the last. I have left the stormy life of the great world; the solemn stillness of sacred walls encloses me; I have been able to disengage myself, without regret, from all that once was dear and indispensable; I take nothing out of the world except the wounds which it inflicted.

"Ah! that I could have left these wounds, and the remembrance of the past behind me. They cling to me to make my last friend, Death, the more desirable.

"In the bloom of life the black veil of widowhood encircles me; by it I show to men a mourning which I feel not, and conceal that which consumes me.

"Yes, Alamontade, I do not blush even now, in this sacred spot, to confess what I never wished to conceal from you, that I loved you. You knew it. Alas! you still know it; and it was you who could point the dagger to a heart which beat for you alone in this world.

"Oh! Alamontade, you have deceived me. You never loved me. I was not grieved at my unfortunate husband accusing me of the blackest crime. No. But that you could believe me guilty, could become my accuser; you, for whom I would cheerfully have died, – that has withered the very root of my life.

"But no; no reproaches. Noble, and still beloved, you were blameless. Dazzled by appearances, you sacrificed feeling to friendship and your sense of justice. You wished, at most, to be unhappy, not ungrateful. I feel it fully; the wife of another dared not love you; and I, in my sinful affection, was never worthy of your pure heart. I always felt this, and my weakness was always at war with my inclination. No being was more wretched than I; and each look from you, each kiss perpetuated a flame which it ought to have extinguished. In a moment of despair I wished for a voluntary death rather than the danger of losing my virtue. Then I procured the poison which I had destined for myself, because I loved you much too passionately. This is the secret which shame would have prevented me from confessing upon the rack. Alas! You, the source of my misfortune – it was you that interrogated me before the judges.

"You have never loved me, and my separation will never grieve you. I had deceived myself, and must suffer for the devotion of my unsuspecting heart. The world pities me, but its pity leaves me without consolation; and even your compassion, my friend, aggravates my pain instead of mitigating it.

"Within these cloistered walls I see the end of my short pilgrimage; the lime-tree before the grated window of my cell throws its shade upon the little spot that will become my tomb. This is my consolation.

"Ah! how melancholy to stand thus alone in the world! and I am alone, for no one living loves me. My friends have forgotten me already in their joyous circles, and my tears do not disturb their merriment. I fade like the solitary flower of the mountain, unknown and unseen; it gives and receives no joy; its disappearance leaves no trace behind.

"And you, the only one I loved, receive these lines as a farewell. A breaking heart breathed these words; a dying hand traced them. I do my last duty. Do not disturb my peace by answering this. I shall not receive any letter, and will never see you. I will pray to God for your happiness; and my last sigh shall be for you; and, with the remembrance of you, death shall lead me to a better life.

"AMELIA BERTOLLON."

I never saw the noble creature again. Perfectly virtuous, she sank. But I never forgot her, and often shed tears to her memory.

Madame de Sonnes and Clementine frequently visited me during my illness, and treated me not like a stranger, but like a brother, or near relative.

Madame de Sonnes was a noble lady of lively temperament and superior education. She never seemed to live for herself, but only for others; being constantly anxious to afford pleasure and render some service, she knew how to give to those, who were not above profiting by her benevolence, the appearance of being her benefactors. Her kindness always wore the stamp of gratitude.

Clementine, the pride of the family, was quite worthy of her mother. Perfect innocence and constant serenity formed her character, and no one could approach her without loving her. I had never seen, never fancied her so beautiful as now. Her smile was inspiring, her look penetrated to the soul, her deportment was the beau ideal of grace, and she was distinguished above her friends by so much amiability that she alone was unusually admired. Yet she was the most unassuming of all; she knew nothing of all her excellence, and was delighted when she discovered excellence in others. You could imagine that she had never seen her own image reflected.