“I commit you, my kind nurse, to your uncle’s care; to yours I entrust the dearest relic of my better self. Be to Adrian, sweet one, what you have been to me—enliven his sadness with your sprightly sallies; soothe his anguish by your sober and inspired converse, when he is dying; nurse him as you have done me.”
Clara burst into tears; “Kind girl,” said the Countess, “do not weep for me. Many dear friends are left to you.”
“And yet,” cried Clara, “you talk of their dying also. This is indeed cruel—how could I live, if they were gone? If it were possible for my beloved protector to die before me, I could not nurse him; I could only die too.”
The venerable lady survived this scene only twenty-four hours. She was the last tie binding us to the ancient state of things. It was impossible to look on her, and not call to mind in their wonted guise, events and persons, as alien to our present situation as the disputes of Themistocles and Aristides, or the wars of the two roses in our native land. The crown of England had pressed her brow; the memory of my father and his misfortunes, the vain struggles of the late king, the images of Raymond, Evadne, and Perdita, who had lived in the world’s prime, were brought vividly before us. We consigned her to the oblivious tomb with reluctance; and when I turned from her grave, Janus veiled his retrospective face; that which gazed on future generations had long lost its faculty.
After remaining a week at Dijon , until thirty of our number deserted the vacant ranks of life, we continued our way towards Geneva. At noon on the second day we arrived at the foot of Jura. We halted here during the