About the end of the sixteenth century, there lived in France a family by the name of de Mornay. It consisted of Georges de Mornay, his wife and two daughters, as well as two servants; a young girl, the daughter of one of Monsieur de Mornay’s friends, and an old woman, who had lived in the household for years.

The family’s fortune was such as to render economy necessary rather than desirable, and their way of life was consequently unassuming. Both M. de Mornay and his lady were younger children, but the fact was perhaps resented more bitterly by Monsieur than Madame, for what his brother had squandered so recklessly, he knew he could have turned to such good account, and used not only to illumine the fortunes of his immediate family, but of all who knew him. It was his nature to be generous, and he grieved that he could not.

His brother, indeed, had a sad story to tell. Leonardo de Mornay had commenced life just as privileged as his brother, who was some years his junior. He was equal in figure, character, and understanding; in the first indeed, he was generally considered to surpass him, for he was some inches taller. He was both pious and moral, benevolent and just; and everything boded well for his future prosperity and happiness.

At twenty he had the misfortune to fall in love with a woman of high birth and fashion, but little fortune. Or at least, she persuaded him to believe that she was in love with him, and it was only a short step from there for his soft heart to yield to mutual affection. Upon their marriage, her conduct soon proved to all the world how mistaken he had been in this belief, although his trusting nature failed (or chose) not to discern what everybody else could plainly see. At length, her behaviour was such that even he could perceive that their marriage was far from what it should be, and that on her part, there was now no love for him; that there never had been, he refused to believe. Still he loved his wife, who was very beautiful, and the initial beginnings of their courtship were forgotten. It is true that had he not genuinely believed her to have loved him, he would certainly never have opened his heart to loving her; but as it was, he loved her with passion and adoration; any mention of his Caroline’s wayward ways was strongly and angrily refuted by him. He refused to hear any ill of her spoken.

A few unhappy years of marriage passed for Leonardo; every instance of her indifference to him was a pang in his heart. It was perhaps inevitable that such a mode of being could not continue long; incontrovertible proofs of Lady Caroline’s love affairs came to light, and for the first time, there was violence between them. She was expecting an infant, her first, and understandably Leonardo entertained doubts of its legitimacy, which must justify his anger. Though in reality unhurt, she artfully feigned a fit, at the first signs of which he instantly repented of his rashness, and was profuse in his apologies and declarations of love. Shortly afterwards, she lost the child, which was probably not Leonardo’s, but nonetheless she persuaded him that it was, and it was not hard to convince him that he was the murderer of his own child.

Caroline, relatively unscathed by the incident - for never were there feelings less maternal than hers - beheld unmoved the wreck Leonardo became upon this conviction, and nonchalantly continued her affairs. Poor Leonardo knew not what he should do, and regarded himself with horror. Caroline’s haughty forgiveness, which he viewed as evidence of a most glorious Christian spirit, rendered him even more despicable to himself. Contemplation, which he had always loved, became an evil, and diversion a most necessary object. Much to Caroline’s delight, they removed to Venice, where opportunities for pleasure were almost infinite. She enjoyed magnificent scope for her schemes and indulgences, and scarcely now did she even bother to conceal them from her husband. She held an unaltered sway over him, and one meaningful look from her could render him pale and trembling, and amenable to her every demand.

He knew that she continued her indiscretions, but while he regarded himself as the murderer of her child, he couldn’t bear to reproach her. Indeed, he could hardly bear to look on her, who only served as a living reminder of his most heinous crime. Despite this, he still loved her, and every transgression of her duties was painful to him.

He had frequent recourse to the gaming table, where he won - and lost - a great deal. Meanwhile his wife held large and lavish parties, to which half the nobility of Venice were invited. Animal pleasures soon became the only ones obtainable to Leonardo, aside from those of gaming, and he ate and drank with avidity. The contrast of such outward gaiety with such internal anguish is immeasurably ugly. He was almost always in liquor, which probably contributed to involve him in several duels at which he was unfortunate to receive an injury to his shoulder, which sent him into fevers. More than once his very life was endangered, and while he recovered, his health suffered. His constitution, originally good, was wrecked by heavy drinking, and received irreparable injury. Lady Caroline beheld his fading health with pleasure and anticipation, for by now she was pregnant again. But in this, her hopes were to be thwarted, for almost all Leonardo’s fortune was dissipated, and he had several large debts of honour left to pay. Her rage at the discovery was considerable; but after an evening’s cool reflection, she eloped with one of her lovers - leaving without a word the husband who still loved her and had suffered so much on her account.

Shortly afterwards Leonardo was imprisoned for his debt. The elder M. de Mornay could not endure the thoughts of his son in a place so unsuitable for his birth and position, and considerably lessened Georges’ fortune in order to recover his brother’s. But though successful, the restoration of money was now useless, at least to the felicity of Leonardo: the elopement of his wife, the terrible conditions in the prison, and most of all the memory of his own crime, together with his previous alcoholic excesses, had rendered him an idiot. It is probable that he gave himself willingly up to madness. At any rate, the recovery of his money now served to confine him in a madhouse, where he did nothing all day but grind his teeth and pound the straw with his fists. Shocked and grieved at the appalling condition of his son, the elder M. de Mornay died shortly after.

Eighteen years had Leonardo now languished in his cell; and rather than any improvement, the passing years showed only further degeneration. He lived still; but Georges never visited him;- he was not eager to witness a sight so distressing to humanity, and not even alloyed with the possibility of doing any good. Besides, his madness was now such that he recognised no one.

Though seven years younger than Leonardo, and considerably impoverished by him, Georges loved his brother with a most sincere affection, and the thoughts of his afflictions, frequently occurring to him, cast a melancholy gloom over his character. He had a most vehement disgust of vice and dissipation, and never engaged in any pursuit that was not wholly innocent and useful. The ill-fated history of his brother also determined him to live in relative retirement, and instil in his children the firmness of mind to resist the temptation of vice, which his brother had so unhappily lacked. Fortunately, neither of them appeared likely to follow their uncle’s example. Lavinia, the eldest, was just sixteen, but she already had a strong will and a mind as brave as any man’s. She often laughed at the superstitious fears of the surrounding rustics, and had formed her own, very cynical, view of the world. Despite this, she had not yet lost the obedience of awkward, deferential youth, nor yet learnt how to defy tradition, or shirk compulsion. She often visited the poor and unfortunate of the district, as was customary for young ladies of her comparative prosperity, even though the idle prattle of the parishioners bored her, and the conditions of the lowest disgusted. Her father, who knew of her weekly excursions, beheld her settings-out with pleasure and approval, wrongly attributing them to laudable motives, and little guessing how the business sickened her. The peasants themselves saw nothing in her visits but real kindness and charity, and thanked her with swelling hearts and glistening eyes. It often amused her to hear herself spoken of as a young lady of such “goodness”, while at the same time she scorned their childlike simplicity and humble gratitude, thankful for even a glimpse of her.

She was a very pretty girl, but as yet no man had turned his gaze towards her. Unromantic herself, her father entertained a strong prejudice against early marriages; hence, it seemed unlikely that she would ever give her hand unless tempted by cold, solid advantage. Of all the family, Lavinia was the least satisfied with their current station; she knew a little of her father’s history, and her uncle’s, and often wondered what it would have been like, had things been otherwise. The entire subject was one on which M. de Mornay was extremely uncommunicative, but her fancy was captured, and she pestered her father with questions. His reproaches were always gentle yet serious; still she was not to be deterred from her purpose. She thought it a wonderful story; love, betrayal, murder, a madhouse! Her feelings of the whole were mainly dominated by grudging admiration of Lady Caroline, which was at times difficult to disguise.