RUDOLPH AND SARAH.
We will conduct the reader to the countess's, whom a salutary crisis had
snatched from the delirium and sufferings which, during several days, had
caused the most serious fears for her life. The day began to close. Sarah,
seated in a large arm-chair, and supported by her brother, Thomas Seyton,
was attentively surveying herself in a mirror, which was held by one of her
women kneeling before her. This scene passed in the saloon where La
Chouette had made her murderous attempt. The countess was as pale as
marble, which gave a bolder relief to her dark eyes and hair; an ample
white muslin wrapper completely concealed her form.
"Give me the coral coronet," she said to one of her women, in a weak but
imperious voice.
"Betty will fasten it," said Thomas Seyton; "you will fatigue yourself; you
are already so imprudent."
"The coral!" repeated she, impatiently, as she took the jewel and placed it
on her brow. "Now fasten it, and leave me," she added, to her women.
As they were retiring, she said,
"Let them show M. Ferrand into the little blue saloon; and," she continued,
with an expression of ill-concealed pride, "as soon as his Serene Highness
the Grand Duke of Gerolstein arrives, he must be ushered in here. At
length," said Sarah, throwing herself back in her chair as soon as she was
alone with her brother, "at length I touch this crown--the dream of my
life! The prediction is about to be accomplished!"
"Sarah, calm your emotion," said her brother, earnestly. "Yesterday they
still despaired of your life; disappointment now might cause a relapse."
"You are right, Tom. The fall would be dreadful, for my hopes have never
been nearer being realized than now! I am certain that what has prevented
me from sinking under my sufferings has been my constant hope to profit by
the important revelation which this woman made me at the moment when she
stabbed me."
"Even during your delirium you constantly referred to this idea."
"Because this idea alone sustained my flickering life. What a hope!
Sovereign princess! almost a queen," she added, with rapture.
"Once more, Sarah; no mad dreams; the awakening will be terrible!"
"Mad dreams? How! when Rudolph shall know that this young girl, now a
prisoner at Saint Lazare, is our child, do you think that---"
Seyton interrupted his sister.
"I believe," he replied, with bitterness, "that princes place reasons of
state and political proprieties before natural ties."
"Do you count so little on my address?"
"The prince is not the same fond and enamored youth whom you seduced in
days gone by."
"Do you know why I have wished to ornament my hair with this band of coral?
and why I have put on this white robe? It is because, the first time
Rudolph saw me at the court of Gerolstein, I was dressed in white, and I
wore the same band of coral in my hair."
"How?" said Thomas Seyton, looking at his sister with surprise: "you wish
to evoke these memories; do you not, on the contrary, dread their
influence?"
"I know Rudolph better than you. Doubtless, my features, now changed by age
and sufferings, are no longer those of the young girl of sixteen he so
wildly loved--whom he has alone loved--for I was his first love. And this
love, unique in the life of man, leaves always in his heart ineffaceable
traces. Believe me, brother, the sight of this ornament will awaken in
Rudolph, not only the memories of his love, but also those of his youth;
and to men the recollection of their first emotions is always sweet and
precious."
"But to these soft memories are joined others of terrible import. Do you
forget the fatal termination of your love? The conduct of the prince's
father toward you? Your obstinate silence when Rudolph, after your marriage
with Earl M'Gregor, demanded your child, then quite an infant? your
daughter, of whose death, ten years before, you informed him in a cold
letter? Do you forget that since that time the prince has only felt for you
contempt--hatred?"
"Pity has taken the place of hatred. Since he has known that I was in a
dying state, each day has he sent Baron de Graun to make inquiries."
"From humanity."
"Just now he answered my note; said that he would come here. This
concession is immense, my brother."
"He believes you dying. He supposes that he is coming to take a last
farewell. You were wrong not to write to him what you are now about to
disclose."
[Illustration: THE LITTLE MENDICANT]
"I know why I act thus. This revelation will fill him with surprise and
joy, and I shall be present to profit by his first burst of tenderness.
To-day, or never, he shall say to me, 'A marriage would make the birth of
our child legitimate.' If he says so, his word is sacred, and the hope of
all my life will at length be realized."
"If he makes you this promise--yes."
At this moment was heard the noise of a carriage, which entered the
court-yard. "It is he--it is Rudolph!" cried Sarah.
"Yes, it is the prince, he is getting out of the carriage."
"Leave me alone--this is the decisive moment," said Sarah, with immovable
self-control; for a towering ambition and unbounded selfishness had always
been and still were the ruling motives of this woman.
After a momentary hesitation, Thomas Seyton drew near to his sister and
said, "It is I who will inform the prince how your daughter has been saved;
this interview will be too dangerous for you; a violent emotion would kill
you."
"Your hand, my brother," said Sarah.
Then, placing on her impassable heart the hand of Seyton, she added, with a
forced and icy smile, "Am I agitated?"
"No, in truth, not at all," said Seyton, with surprise; "I know what
command you have over yourself. But at such a moment--where for you will be
decided--a crown--or death--your calmness absolutely confounds me."
"Why this astonishment, my brother? did you not know that nothing--no,
nothing has ever caused this marble heart to quicken its pulsations? It
will only palpitate when I shall feel placed on my brow the sovereign
crown. I hear Rudolph--leave me."
"But--"
"Leave me!" cried Sarah, in a tone so imperious, so resolute, that her
brother left the apartment some moments before the prince was introduced.
When Rudolph entered the saloon, his countenance expressed pity; but seeing
the countess seated in the chair decked with her jewels, he drew back with
surprise, and his physiognomy became immediately somber and suspicious.
The countess, divining his thoughts, said to him in a soft and feeble
voice, "You thought to find me dying; you came to receive my last
farewell!"
"I have always regarded as sacred the last wishes of the dying, but it
appears I have been deceived."
"Reassure yourself," said Sarah, interrupting Rudolph. "I have not deceived
you; there remain for me but a few hours to live. Pardon me a last act of
coquetry; I wished to spare you the usual attendants of a death-bed. I
wished to die dressed as I was the first time I saw you. Alas! after ten
years of separation, I see you again! Thanks--oh, thanks! But in your
turn, render thanks to heaven for having moved you to come to listen to my
last prayer. If you had refused me, I had carried with me to the tomb a
secret which is going to make the joy, the happiness of your life. Joy
mixed with some tears, like all other human felicity; but this felicity!
you would buy it at the price of half the remaining days of your life!"
"What do you mean to say?" demanded the prince, with surprise.
"Yes, Rudolph, if you had not come, this secret would have followed me to
the tomb--it had been my sole vengeance; and yet--no, no, I should not have
had this terrible courage. Although you would have caused me much
suffering, I should have divided with you this supreme happiness, which,
more fortunate than I, you will a long time enjoy."
"But, once more, madame, what means all this?"
"When you know it, you will comprehend my delay in informing you, for you
will regard this revelation as a miracle from heaven. But, strange
thought--I, who with one word can cause you the greatest happiness that you
have ever experienced--I feel, although now the minutes of my life are
counted--I feel an indescribable satisfaction in prolonging your suspense;
and, besides, I know your heart, and, in spite of the firmness of your
character, I should fear to announce to you, without preparation, a
discovery so incredible. The emotions of sudden joy have also their
dangers."
"Your pallor increases--you with difficulty restrain a violent agitation,"
said Rudolph; "all this proves that something grave and important----"
"Grave and important!" repeated Sarah, in a faltering voice, for,
notwithstanding her habitual immobility, in reflecting upon the immense
importance of the revelation she was about to make to Rudolph, she felt
herself more agitated than she could have thought possible. After a
moment's silence, Sarah, no longer able to restrain herself, cried,
"Rudolph, our child is not dead."
"Our child!"
"I tell you she lives!" These words, the accent of truth with which they
were pronounced, moved the prince to the very bottom of his heart.
"Our child!" he repeated, advancing hastily toward Sarah; "our child! my
daughter!"
"She is not dead; I have certain proofs; I know where she is--to-morrow you
shall see her."
"My daughter! my child!" repeated Rudolph, as if in a dream; "can it be
possible? is she alive?"
Then, suddenly reflecting on the great improbability of this relation, and
fearing to be the dupe of Sarah, he cried, "No, no; it is a dream! it is
impossible, you deceive me; it is some unworthy deceit!"
"Rudolph, listen to me!"
"No, I know your ambition--I know of what you are capable; I can fathom the
object of this fabrication!"
"Well! you speak the truth. I am capable of everything. Yes, I did wish to
deceive you. Yes, some days before I received my mortal wound I did wish to
find a young girl, whom I would have presented to you in the place of our
child whom you regret so bitterly."
"Enough--oh! enough, madame."
"After this confession you will believe me, perhaps; or, rather, you will
be forced to give credence to the proofs."
"To the proofs?"
"Yes, Rudolph; I repeat it, I have wished to deceive you, to substitute an
obscure girl in the place of her we mourn; but Heaven willed that, at the
moment when I was about to carry the project into execution, I should be
stricken down."
"You! at this moment!"
"Heaven has also willed that they should propose to me to play this
part--do you know whom? our daughter."
"Are you delirious? In the name of heaven---"
"I am not delirious, Rudolph. In this casket, among some papers and a
portrait, which will prove to you the truth of what I say, you will find a
paper stained with my blood."
"With your blood?"
"The woman who informed me that our child was still living dictated to me
this revelation--then I was stabbed by a poniard."
"And who was she? how did she know?"
"It was to her our child was delivered--quite an infant--after having
falsely reported her death."
"But this woman--her name? can she be believed? where did you become
acquainted with her?"
"I tell you, Rudolph, that all this is fate--providential. Some months
since, you rescued a poor girl from poverty, to send her to the country--is
it not so?"
"Yes, to Bouqueval."
"Jealousy and hatred drove me wild. I caused this young girl to be carried
off by the woman of whom I have spoken."
"And she took the unhappy child to Saint Lazare?"
"Where she yet is."
"She is there no longer. Ah! you do not know, madame, the frightful evil
you have caused by tearing this poor child from the retreat where I had
placed her; but--"
"The girl no longer at Saint Lazare?" cried the lady in alarm; "and you
speak of a frightful evil!"
"A monster of cupidity had an interest in her death. They have drowned her,
madame; but answer, you say--"
"My daughter!" cried Sarah, interrupting Rudolph, and rising on her feet,
immovable as a marble statue.
"What does she say? good heavens!" cried Rudolph.
"My child!" repeated Sarah, whose face became livid and frightful from
despair; "they have killed my child!"
"The Goualeuse your child!" repeated Rudolph, recoiling with horror.
"The Goualeuse! yes! that is the name the woman mentioned--this woman
called La Chouette. Dead--dead!" cried Sarah, still motionless, her eyes
fixed and glaring; "they have killed her!"
"Sarah!" replied Rudolph, as pale and alarmed as she, "calm yourself--
answer me--La Goualeuse--this girl whom you caused to be carried off by
La Chouette from Bouqueval, was--"
"Our child!"
"She!"
"And they have killed her."
"Oh!--no, no--you rave--this cannot be. You know not, no, you know not how
frightful this is. Sarah! compose yourself; speak to me tranquilly. Seat
yourself--calm yourself. Often there are appearances--resemblances which
deceive; one is inclined to believe what one desires. It is not a reproach
I make you; but explain to me well--tell me all the reasons you have to
credit this, for it cannot be--no, no; it must not be!--it is not so!"
After a moment's pause, the countess collected her thoughts, and said to
Rudolph in an expiring voice, "Hearing of your marriage, thinking to be
married myself, I could not keep our daughter with me; she was then four
years old."
"But at this epoch I asked you for her with prayers," cried Rudolph, in a
heartrending tone, "and my letters remained unanswered. The only one you
wrote me announced her death."
"I wished to avenge myself for your contempt by refusing you your child.
That was unworthy; but listen to me: I feel it--my life is drawing to a
close; this last blow has overwhelmed me."
"No, no! I do not believe you--I do not wish to believe you! La Goualeuse
my child! Oh, you would not have this so!"
"Listen to me, I say. When she was four years old my brother commissioned
Madame Séraphin, widow of one of his old servants, to bring up the child
until she was old enough to be placed at school. The sum destined for her
future support was placed by my brother with a notary renowned for his
probity. The letters of this man, and of Madame Séraphin, addressed at this
period to me and my brother, are there, in that casket. At the end of a
year they wrote me that the health of my child failed; eight months after,
that she was dead; and they sent me the official notification of her
decease. At this time, Madame Séraphin entered the service of Jacques
Ferrand, after having delivered our child to La Chouette by the hands of a
wretch now in the galleys at Rochefort. I began to write this confession of
La Chouette when she wounded me. This paper is there, with a portrait of
our daughter at the age of four years. Examine all--letters, confessions,
portrait--and you, who have seen her--this unfortunate child--judge."
At these words, which exhausted her strength, Sarah fell back almost
lifeless in her chair. Rudolph was thunderstruck at this revelation. There
are some misfortunes so unlooked for, so horrible, that we are unwilling to
believe them until compelled by overwhelming evidence. Rudolph, persuaded
of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, had but one hope left, which was to
convince himself that she was not his child. With a frightful calmness,
which alarmed Sarah, he approached the table, opened the casket, and fell
to reading the letters one by one, and examining, with scrupulous
attention, the papers which accompanied them. These letters, stamped at the
post-office, written to Sarah and her brother by the notary and by Madame
Séraphin, related to the childhood of Fleur-de-Marie, and to the investment
of the funds destined for her support. Rudolph could not doubt the
authenticity of this correspondence. The confession of La Chouette was
confirmed by the information obtained (of which we have spoken at the
commencement of this story) by order of Rudolph, which pointed out a man
named Pierre Tournemine, a prisoner at Rochefort, as the man who had
received Fleur-de-Marie from Madame Séraphin to deliver her to La
Chouette--to La Chouette, whom the unfortunate child herself had recognized
before Rudolph, at the tapis-franc of the Ogress. Rudolph could no longer
doubt the identity of these persons and of the Goualeuse. The official
notice concerning her death appeared in conformity to law; but Ferrand had
himself acknowledged to Cecily that this forged notice had served for the
spoliation of a considerable sum formerly settled as an annuity on the girl
whom he had caused to be drowned by Nicholas Martial, by the Ravageurs'
Island.
It was, then, with growing and alarming anguish that Rudolph acquired, in
spite of himself, the terrible conviction that the Goualeuse was his
daughter, and that she was dead. Unfortunately for him, all seemed to
confirm this belief. Before condemning Jacques Ferrand on the proofs given
by the notary himself to Cecily, the prince, his deep interest for the
Goualeuse, having caused inquiries to be made at Asnières, had learned
that, in fact, two women, one old and the other young, and dressed in a
peasant's costume, had been drowned in going to Ravageurs' Island, and that
rumor accused the Martials of this new crime. Here we must state that, in
spite of the attention of Dr. Griffon, of the Count de Saint Rémy, and of
La Louve, Fleur-de-Marie, for a long time in a desperate situation, had
hardly become convalescent, and that her weakness, mental and physical, was
such, that she had not been able up to this time to inform Madame George or
Rudolph of her position. This concourse of circumstances could not leave
the slightest hope to the prince. A last proof was reserved for him. At
length he cast his eyes on the miniature, which he had almost feared to
look at. The blow was frightful. In this infantine and charming face,
already radiant with that divine beauty which belongs to the cherubim, he
recognized in a striking manner the features of Fleur-de-Marie; her Grecian
nose, her noble forehead, her little mouth; already slightly serious. For,
said Madame Séraphin to Sarah, in one of her letters which Rudolph had just
read, "The child asks always for its mother, and is very sad."
There were her large blue eyes, of a blue so pure and soft--the bluebell's
blue, as La Chouette had said to Sarah on recognizing in this miniature the
features of the unfortunate child whom she had persecuted, in her infancy,
under the name of LaPegriotte, and as a young girl under the name of La
Goualeuse.
At the sight of this miniature, Rudolph's tumultuous and violent feelings
were stifled by his tears. He fell back, heartbroken, on a chair, and
concealed his face in his hands, sobbing convulsively.