THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.
Towards ten o'clock in the evening of the same day in which
Fleur-de-Marie was carried off by the Chouette and Schoolmaster, a man
on horseback arrived at the Bouqueval farm, representing himself as
coming from M. Rodolph to tranquillise Madame Georges as to the safety
of her young friend, and to assure her of her safe return ere long. The
man further stated that M. Rodolph, having very important reasons for
making the request, particularly desired no letters might be addressed
to him at Paris for the present; but that, in the event of Madame
Georges having anything particular to communicate, the messenger now
sent would take charge of it, and deliver it punctually.
This pretended envoy on the part of Rodolph was, in fact, an emissary
sent by Sarah, who, by this stratagem, effected the twofold purpose of
quieting the apprehensions of Madame Georges and also obtaining a delay
of several days ere Rodolph learned that the Goualeuse had been carried
off; during which interval Sarah hoped to have induced the notary,
Jacques Ferrand, to promote her unworthy attempt to impose a
supposititious child on Rodolph, after the manner which has already been
related. Nor was this all the evil planned by the countess; she ardently
desired to get rid of Madame d'Harville, on whose account she
entertained very serious misgivings, and whose destruction she had so
nearly compassed, but for the timely interposition of Rodolph.
On the day following that in which the marquis followed his wife into
the house in the Rue du Temple, Tom repaired thither, and, by skilfully
drawing Madame Pipelet into conversation, contrived to learn from her
how a young and elegantly dressed lady, upon the point of being
surprised by her husband, had been preserved through the presence of
mind and cleverness of a lodger in the house, named M. Rodolph.
Once informed of this circumstance, and possessing no positive proof of
the assignation made by Clemence with M. Charles Robert, Sarah conceived
a plan evidently more hateful than the former: she resolved to despatch
a second anonymous letter to M. d'Harville, calculated to bring about a
complete rupture between himself and Rodolph; or, failing that, to
infuse into the mind of the marquis suspicions so unworthy of his wife
and friend as should induce him to forbid Madame d'Harville ever
admitting the prince into her society.
This black and malignant epistle was couched in the following terms:
"... You have been grossly deceived the other day; your wife,
being apprised of your following her, invented a tale of
imaginary beneficence; the real purpose of her visit to the Rue
du Temple was to fulfil an assignation with an august personage,
who has hired a room on the fourth floor in the house situated
Rue du Temple,--this illustrious individual being known only at
his lodging under the simple name of Rodolph. Should you doubt
these facts, which may probably appear to you too improbable to
deserve credit, go to No. 17 Rue du Temple, and make due
inquiries; obtain a description of the face and figure of the
august personage alluded to; and you will be compelled to own
yourself the most credulous and easily duped husband that was
ever so royally supplanted in the affections of his wife.
Despise not this advice, if you would not have the world believe
you carry your devotion to your prince rather too far."
This infamous concoction was put into the post by Sarah herself, about
five o'clock in the afternoon of the day which had witnessed her
interview with the notary.
On this same day, after having given renewed directions to M. de Grauen
to expedite the arrival of Cecily in Paris by every means in his power,
Rodolph prepared to pass the evening with the Ambassadress of ----, and
on his return to call on Madame d'Harville, for the purpose of informing
her he had found a charitable intrigue worthy even of her cooeperation.
We shall now conduct our readers to the hotel of Madame d'Harville. The
following dialogue will abundantly prove that, in adopting a tone of
kind and gentle conciliation towards a husband she had hitherto treated
with such invariable coldness and reserve, the heart of Madame
d'Harville had already determined to practise the sound and virtuous
sentiments dictated by Rodolph. The marquis and his lady had just
quitted the dinner-table, and the scene we are about to describe took
place in the elegant little salon we have already spoken of. The
features of Clemence wore an expression of kindness almost amounting to
tenderness, and even M. d'Harville appeared less sad and dejected than
usual. It only remains to premise that the marquis had not as yet
received the last infamous production of the pen of Sarah Macgregor.
"What are your arrangements for this evening?" inquired M. d'Harville,
almost mechanically, of his wife.
"I have no intention of going out. And what are your own plans?"
"I hardly know," answered he, with a sigh. "I feel more than ordinarily
averse to gaiety, and I shall pass my evening, as I have passed many
others, alone."
"Nay, but why alone, since I am not going out?"
M. d'Harville gazed at his wife as though unable to comprehend her. "I
am aware," said he, "that you mentioned your intention to pass this
evening at home; still, I--"
"Pray go on, my lord."
"I did not imagine you would choose to have your solitude broken in
upon. I believe you have always expressed a wish to be alone when you
did not receive company?"
"Perhaps I may have done so," said Clemence, with a smile; "but let me,
for once, plead my sex's privilege of changing my mind, and so, even at
the risk of astonishing you by my caprice, I will own that I should
greatly prefer sharing my solitude with you,--that is, if it would be
quite agreeable to you."
"Oh, how very good of you," exclaimed M. d'Harville, with much delight,
"thus to anticipate my most ardent desire, which I durst not have
requested had you not so kindly encouraged me!"
"Ah, my lord, your very surprise is a severe reproach to me."
"A reproach! Oh, not for worlds would I have you so understand me! But
to find you so kindly considerate, so attentive to my wishes, after my
cruel and unjust conduct the other day, does, I confess, both shame and
surprise me; though the surprise is of the most gratifying and
delightful sort."
"Come, come, my lord," said Madame d'Harville, with a smile of heavenly
sweetness, "let the past be for ever forgotten between us."
"Can you, Clemence," said M. d'Harville, "can you bring yourself to
forget that I have dared to suspect you; that, hurried on by a wild,
insensate jealousy, I meditated violence I now shudder to think of?
Still, what are even these deep offences to the greater and more
irreparable wrong I have done you?"
"Again I say," returned Clemence, making a violent effort to command
herself, "let us forget the past."
"What do I hear? Can you,--oh, is it possible you will pardon me, and
forget all the past?"
"I will try to do so, and I fear not but I shall succeed."
"Oh, Clemence! Can you, indeed, be so generous? But no, no,--I dare not
hope it! I have long since resigned all expectation that such happiness
would ever be mine."
"And now you see how wrong you were in coming to such a conclusion."
"But how comes this blessed change? Or do I dream? Speak to me,
Clemence! Tell me I am not deceiving myself,--that all is not mere
illusion! Speak! Say that I may trust my senses!"
"Indeed you may; I mean all I have said."
"And, now I look at you, I see more kindness in your eye,--your manner
is less cold,--your voice tremulous. Oh, tell me, tell me, is this
indeed true? Or am I the sport of some illusion?"
"Nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed. I, too, have need
of pardon at your hands, and therefore I propose that we mutually
exchange forgiveness."
"You, Clemence! You need forgiveness! Oh, for what, or wherefore?"
"Have I not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and perhaps even cruel,
towards you? Ought I not to have remembered that it required a more than
ordinary share of courage to act otherwise than you did,--a virtue more
than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheerless, solitary
life, for one of wedded sympathy and happiness? Alas, when we are in
grief or suffering, it is so natural to trust to the kindness and
goodness of others! Hitherto your fault has been in depending too much
on my generosity; henceforward it shall be my aim to show you, you have
not trusted in vain."
"Oh, go on! Go on! Continue still to utter such heavenly words!"
exclaimed M. d'Harville, gazing in almost ecstasy on the countenance of
his wife, and clasping his hands in fervid supplication. "Let me again
hear you pronounce my pardon, and it will seem as though a new existence
were opening upon me."
"Our destinies are inseparably united, and death only can dissever us.
Believe me, it shall for the future be my study to render life less
painful to you than it has been."
"Merciful Heaven! Do I hear aright? Clemence, can it be you who have
spoken these dear, these enchanting words?"
"Let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humiliation of hearing you
express so much astonishment at my speaking as my duty prompts me to do;
indeed, your reluctance to credit my assertions grieves me more than I
can describe. How cruel a censure does it imply upon my past conduct!
Ah, who will pity and soothe you in your severe trials, if not I? I seem
inspired by some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect upon
my past conduct. I have deeply meditated on all that has happened, as
well as on the future. My faults rise up in judgment against me; but
with them come also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching me
how to repair my past errors."
"Your errors, my poor injured Clemence! Alas, you were not to blame!"
"Yes, I was. I ought frankly to have appealed to your honour to release
me from the painful necessity of living with you as your wife; and that,
too, on the day following our marriage,--"
"Clemence, for pity's sake no more!"
"Otherwise, in accepting my position, I ought to have elevated it by my
entire submission and devotion. Under the circumstances in which I was
placed, instead of allowing my coldness and proud reserve to act as a
continual reproach, I should have directed all my endeavours to console
you for so heavy a misfortune, and have forgotten everything but the
severe affliction under which you laboured. By degrees I should have
become attached to my work of commiseration, and, probably, the very
cares and sacrifices it would have required to fulfil my voluntary duty;
for which your grateful appreciation would have been a rich reward. I
might, at last--But what ails you, my lord? Are you ill? Surely you are
weeping!"
"But they are tears of pure delight. Ah, you can scarcely imagine what
new emotions are awakened in my heart! Heed not my tears, beloved
Clemence; trust me, they flow from an excess of happiness, arising from
those dear words you just now uttered. Never did I seem so guilty in my
own eyes as I now appear, for having selfishly bound you to such a life
as mine!"
"And never did I find myself more disposed to forget the past, and to
bury all reference to it in oblivion; the sight of your gently falling
tears, even, seems to open to me a source of happiness hitherto unknown
to me. Courage! Courage! Let us, in place of that bright and prosperous
life denied us by Providence, seek our enjoyment in the discharge of the
serious duties allotted us. Let us be mutually indulgent and forbearing
towards each other; and, should our resolution fail, let us turn to our
child, and make her the depositary of all our affections. Thus shall we
secure to ourselves an unfailing store of holy, of tranquil joys."
"Sure, 'tis some angel speaks!" cried M. d'Harville, contemplating his
wife with impassioned looks. "Oh, Clemence, you little know the pleasure
and the pain you cause me. The severest reproach you ever addressed
me--your hardest word or most merited rebuke never touched me as does
this angelic devotion, this disregard of self, this generous sacrifice
of personal enjoyment. Even despite myself, I feel hope spring up within
me. I dare hardly trust myself to believe the blessed future which
suggests itself to my imagination."
"Ah, you may safely and implicitly believe all I say, Albert! I declare
to you, by all that is sacred and solemn, that I have firmly taken the
resolution I spoke of, and that I will adhere to it in strictest word
and deed. Hereafter I may even be enabled to give you further pledges of
my truth."
"Pledges!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, more and more excited by a happiness
so wholly unlocked for. "What need have I of any pledges? Do not your
look, your tone, the heavenly expression of goodness which animates your
countenance, the rapturous pulsations of my own heart, all convince me
of the truth of your words? But, Clemence, man, you know, is a creature
not easily satisfied; and," added the marquis, approaching his wife's
chair, "your noble, generous conduct inspires me with the boldness, the
courage, to hope--to hope,--yes, Clemence, to venture to hope for that
which, only yesterday, I should have considered it even worse than
madness to presume to think of."
"For mercy's sake, explain yourself!" said Clemence, alarmed at the
impassioned words and glances of her husband.
"Yes," cried he, seizing her hand, "yes, by dint of tender, untiring,
unwearied love,--Clemence, do you understand me?--I say, by dint of love
such as mine I venture to hope to obtain a return of my affection. I
dare to anticipate being loved by you,--not with a cold, lukewarm
regard, but with a passion ardent as my own for you. Ah, you know not
the real nature of such a love as I would inspire you with! Alas! I
never even dared to breathe it in your ears,--so frigid, so repulsive
were you to me. Never did you bestow on me a look, a word of kindness,
far less make my heart leap with such joy as thrilled through my breast
but now, when your words of sweet and gentle tenderness drew happy tears
from my eyes, and which, still ringing in my ears, make me almost beside
myself with gladness; and, amid the intoxicating delight which floats
through my brain, comes the proud consciousness of having earned even so
rich a reward by the deep, the passionate ardour of my love for you. Oh,
Clemence, when you will let me only tell you half I have suffered,--how
I have writhed in despairing anguish at your coldness, your disdain,
how I have watched and sighed in vain for one encouraging glance,--you
will own that, for patient devotion to one beloved object, I am inferior
to none. Whence arose that melancholy, that avoidance of all society,
our best friends have so fruitlessly sought to rouse me from? Can you
not guess the cause? Ah, it originated in desolation of spirit and
despair of ever obtaining your love. Yes, dearest Clemence, to that
overwhelming dread was owing the sombre taciturnity, the dislike to
company, the desponding gloom, which excited so many different
conjectures. Think, too, how much my sufferings must have been increased
by the fact that she, the beloved object of my heart's idolatry, was my
own,--legally, irrevocably mine,--dwelling beneath the same roof, yet
more completely alienated from me than though we dwelt in the opposite
parts of the earth. But my burning sighs, my bitter tears, reached not
you; or, I feel almost persuaded, they would have moved even you to pity
me. And now it seems to me that you must have divined my sufferings, and
have come, like an angel of goodness as you are, to whisper in my ears
bright promises of days of unclouded happiness. No longer shall I be
doomed to gaze in unavailing yet doting admiration on your graceful
beauty; no more shall I account myself most blessed yet most accursed in
possessing a creature of matchless excellence, whose charms of mind and
body, alas! I am forbidden to consider as mine; but now the envious
barrier which has thus long divided us is about to be withdrawn, and the
treasure my beating heart tells me is all my own will henceforward be
freely, indisputably mine! Will it not, dear Clemence? Speak to me, and
confirm that which the busy throbbings of my joyful heart tell me to
hope for and expect, as the reward of all I have so long endured!"
As M. d'Harville uttered these last words, he seized the hand of his
wife, and covered it with passionate kisses; while Clemence, much
grieved at the mistake her husband had fallen into, could not avoid
withdrawing her hand with a mixture of terror and disgust. And the
expression of her countenance so plainly bespoke her feelings, that M.
d'Harville saw at once the fearful error he had committed. The blow fell
with redoubled force after the tender visions he had so lately conjured
up. A look of intense agony replaced the bright exultation of his
countenance exhibited a little while since, when Madame d'Harville,
eagerly extending her hand towards him, said, in an agitated tone:
"Albert, receive my solemn promise to be unto you as the most tender and
affectionate sister,--but nothing more. Forgive me, I beseech you, if,
inadvertently, my words have inspired you with hopes which can never be
realised."
"Never?" exclaimed M. d'Harville, fixing on his wife a look of
despairing entreaty.
"Never!" answered she. The single word, with the tone in which it was
spoken, proved but too well the irrevocable decision Clemence had
formed.
Brought back, by the influence of Rodolph, to all her nobleness of
character, Madame d'Harville had firmly resolved to bestow on her
husband every kind and affectionate attention; but to love him she felt
utterly out of her power; and to this immutable resolution she was
driven by a power more forcible than either fear, contempt, or even
dislike,--it was a species of repugnance almost amounting to horror.
After a painful silence of some duration, M. d'Harville passed his hand
across his moist eyelids and said, in a voice of bitterness:
"Let me entreat your pardon for the unintentional mistake I have made.
Oh, refuse not to forgive me for having ventured to believe that
happiness could exist for me!"
And again a long pause ensued, broken at last by D'Harville's
vehemently exclaiming, "What a wretch am I!"
"Albert," said Clemence, gently, "for worlds would I not reproach you;
yet is my promise of being unto you the most loving and affectionate of
sisters unworthy any estimation? You will receive from the tender cares
of devoted friendship more solid happiness than love could afford. Look
forward to brighter days. Hitherto you have found me almost indifferent
to your sorrows; you shall henceforward find me all zeal and solicitude
to alleviate them, and eager to share with you every grief or cause of
suffering, whether of body or of mind."
At this moment a servant, throwing open the folding doors, announced:
"His Highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein."
M. d'Harville started; then, by a powerful effort, recovering his
self-command, he advanced to meet his visitor.
"I am singularly fortunate, madame," said Rodolph, approaching Clemence,
"to find you at home to-night; and I am still more delighted with my
good fortune, since it procures me the pleasure of meeting you, also, my
dear Albert," continued he, turning to the marquis, and shaking him
cordially by the hand.
"It is, indeed, some time since I have had the honour of paying my
respects to your royal highness."
"If the truth must be spoken, my dear Albert," said the prince,
smilingly, "you are somewhat platonic in your friendships, and, relying
on the certain attachment of your friends, care very little about either
giving or receiving any outward proof of affection."
By a breach of etiquette, which somewhat annoyed Madame d'Harville, a
servant here entered the room with a letter for the marquis. It was the
anonymous epistle of Sarah, accusing Rodolph of being the lover of
Madame d'Harville.
The marquis, out of deference for the prince, put away with his hand
the small silver salver presented to him by the servant, saying, in an
undertone:
"Another time,--another time."
"My dear Albert," said Rodolph, in a voice of the most genuine
affection, "why all this ceremony with me?"
"My lord!"
"With Madame d'Harville's permission, let me beg of you to read your
letter without delay."
"I assure you, my lord, it is not of the slightest consequence."
"Again I say, Albert, read your letter all the same for my being here."
"But, my lord, indeed--"
"Nay, I ask you to do so; or, if you will have it, I desire you to read
it immediately."
"If your highness commands it, my duty is obedience," said the marquis,
taking the letter from the salver.
"Yes, I positively command you to treat me as one old friend ought to
treat another." Then turning towards Madame d'Harville, while the
marquis was breaking the seal of the fatal letter, the contents of which
were, of course, unknown to Rodolph, he said, smilingly, to Madame
d'Harville:
"What a triumph for you, madame, to bend this untractable spirit, and
make it bow to your very caprice!"
M. d'Harville having opened Sarah's infamous letter, approached the
wax-lights burning on the mantelpiece, the better to read it. His
features bore no visible mark of agitation as he perused the vile
scrawl. A slight trembling of the hand alone was visible, as, after a
short hesitation, he refolded the paper and placed it in the pocket of
his waistcoat.
"At the risk of passing for a perfect Goth," said he, with a smile, to
Rodolph, "I will ask you to excuse me, my lord, while I retire to reply
to this letter, which is more important than it at first appeared."
"Shall I not see you again this evening?"
"I am fearful I shall not have that honour, my lord; and I trust your
royal highness will condescend to excuse me."
"What a slippery person you are!" cried Rodolph, gaily. "Will you not,
madame, endeavour to prevent his quitting us?"
"Nay, I dare not attempt that your highness has failed to accomplish."
"But seriously, my dear Albert, endeavour to come back as soon as you
have concluded your letter; or, if that is not possible, promise to give
me a few minutes in the morning. I have a thousand things to say to
you."
"Your highness overwhelms me with kindness," answered the marquis, as,
bowing profoundly, he withdrew, leaving Clemence and the prince alone.
"Your husband has some heavy care on his mind," observed Rodolph to the
marquise; "his smile appeared to me a forced one."
"At the moment of your highness's arrival, M. d'Harville was much
excited, and he has had great difficulty in concealing his agitation
from you."
"My visit was, probably, _mal a propos_?"
"Oh, no, my lord! You came just in time to spare me the conclusion of a
most painful conversation."
"Indeed! May I inquire the subject of it?"
"I had explained to M. d'Harville the line of conduct I had determined
to pursue towards him for the future, assuring him of my future sympathy
and affectionate attention to his happiness."
"How happy you must have rendered him by such gratifying words!"
"He did, indeed, at first, seem most truly happy; and so was I,
likewise; for his tears and his joys caused in me a feeling of delight
I never before experienced. Once I fancied I did but indulge a just
revenge each time I addressed to him a reproach or a sarcasm; but it was
a weak and impotent mode of torture, which always recoiled upon myself,
as my better judgment pointed out the unworthiness of such conduct;
while just now how great was the difference! I had inquired of my
husband if he were going out, to which he mournfully replied that he had
no intention of so doing, but should pass the evening alone, as he most
frequently did. Ah, my lord, could you but have seen his surprise when I
offered to be his companion, and how suddenly did the gloomy expression
of his features give place to a bright glow of happiness! Ah, you were
quite right, there is nothing more really delightful than preparing
happy surprises for those around us."
"But how could so much kindness on your part have brought about the
painful conversation you were alluding to just now?"
"Alas, my lord!" said Clemence, blushing deeply, "M. d'Harville, not
satisfied with the hopes I felt myself justified in holding out, allowed
himself to form others of a nature too tender to admit of their being
realised, and in proportion to my consciousness of my utter inability to
respond to such sentiments had been my anxiety not to arouse them; and,
greatly as I had felt touched by the warmth of my husband's gratitude
for my proffered affection, I was even still more terrified and alarmed
by the passionate ardour of his manner and expressions; and when,
carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings, he pressed his lips
upon my hand, a cold shudder pervaded my whole frame, and I found it
impossible to conceal the disgust and alarm I experienced. Doubtless
this manifestation of my invincible repugnance pained him deeply, and I
much lament having been unable to prevent his perceiving my feelings.
But now that the blow has fallen, it will, at least, serve to convince
M. d'Harville of the utter impossibility of my ever being more to him
than the most tender and devoted friend."
"I pity him most sincerely, without being able to blame you in the
slightest degree for the part you have acted. There are certain feelings
which must ever be held sacred. But poor Albert! With his noble,
generous spirit, his frank, confiding nature, his warm, enthusiastic
heart,--if you only knew how long I have been vainly trying to discover
the cause of the hidden melancholy which was evidently preying upon his
health. Well, we must trust to the soothing effects of time and reason.
By degrees he will become more sensible of the value of the affection
you offer him, and he will resign himself as he did before, when he had
not the consolatory hopes you now present to his view."
"Hopes which I solemnly assure you, my lord, it is my fixed
determination to realise in their fullest extent."
"And now let us turn our attention to others who are also called upon to
suffer and taste of heavy sorrows. You know I promised to occupy you in
a charitable work, which should have all the charm of a romance of real
life; and I am here to perform my promise."
"What, already, my lord? Indeed, you rejoice me greatly."
"It was a most fortunate idea of mine to hire the small chamber I told
you of in the Rue du Temple; you can scarcely imagine all the curious
and interesting objects it has made me acquainted with. In the first
place your poor protegees in the garrets are now enjoying that happiness
your presence secured to them. They have still some severe trials to
undergo; but I will not enter upon the painful details at the present
moment. One of these days you shall learn how many direful evils may be
heaped upon one unfortunate family."
"How grateful they must feel towards you!"
"Nay, 'tis your name is ever on their lips, loaded with praises and
blessings."
"Ah, my lord, is it then in my name you have succoured them?"
"To increase the value of the gift, I confess I did presume to name you
as their benefactress. Besides, what have I done more than carry out
your promises?"
"I cannot allow of even this pious fraud, and to-morrow they shall learn
from me whom they have to thank. I will tell them the extent of their
obligations to you."
"Oh, pray do no such thing, or you will spoil all my fine schemes.
Remember that I have a small apartment in the house; that for the sake
of much good I hope to effect, I am anxious to preserve a strict
_incognito_ there. Recollect, also, that the Morels are now beyond the
reach of further distress; and, finally, let me remind you that there
are other claimants for your benevolence. And now for the subject of our
present intrigue. I want your generous aid and assistance in behalf of a
mother and daughter, who from former affluence are at this moment
reduced to the most abject penury, in consequence of having been most
villainously despoiled of their just rights."
"Poor things! And where do these unfortunate beings reside, my lord?"
"I do not know."
"Then how did you become acquainted with their misfortunes?"
"Yesterday I was at the Temple,--perhaps, Madame la Marquise, you do not
know what sort of place the Temple is?"
"Indeed, my lord, I do not."
"It is a bazaar of the most amusing description. Well, I went there for
the purpose of making several purchases in company with a female lodger
who occupies an apartment adjoining my own--"
"Indeed! A female neighbour?"
"Yes, my next-door neighbour on the fourth floor. Don't you recollect I
told you I had a chamber in the Rue du Temple?"
"Pardon me, my lord, I had quite forgotten that circumstance."
"I must tell you that this same neighbour is one of the prettiest little
mantua-makers you ever saw. She is called Rigolette, is for ever
laughing, and never was in love."
"Upon my word, a most uncommon specimen of her class!"
"She even admits that her indifference to the tender passion arises less
from prudence than because she has not time to think about love or
lovers, both of which she says would take up too much of her time; as,
working from twelve to fifteen hours daily, it is with difficulty she
manages to earn twenty-five sous a day, yet on that trifling sum she
lives contentedly."
"Is it possible?"
"Possible! Why, she even launches out into luxuries,--has a couple of
birds, who consume as much food as herself, arranges her chamber with
the most scrupulous and pretty neatness, while her dress would make a
modern belle grow pale with envy."
"And all this effected upon five and twenty sous a day? It is almost
difficult to believe it."
"I assure you my fair neighbour is a pattern of industry, order,
economy, and practical philosophy; and as such I beg to recommend her to
your notice in her capacity of dressmaker, in which she is reported to
have much skill. If you will honour her with your commands, her fortune
will be surely made; although there is no occasion for your carrying
your beneficence so far as to wear the dresses you permit her to make."
"Oh, I will take care to give her employment immediately. Poor girl!
living honestly and contentedly upon a sum squandered by the rich for
the most trifling whim or caprice."
"Well, now then that you have undertaken to interest yourself in my
deserving young neighbour, let us proceed to the little adventure I was
about to relate to you. I went, as I told you, to the Temple with Mlle.
Rigolette in order to purchase many articles necessary for the comfort
of the poor family in the garret, when, accidentally examining the
drawers of an old _secretaire_ exposed for sale, I found the fragment of
a letter in a female hand, in which the writer bitterly deplored the
destitution to which herself and daughter were exposed in consequence of
the villainy of the person in whose hands their money had been placed. I
inquired of the mistress of the shop how she became possessed of the
piece of furniture in question. She told me it was part of a lot of very
common household goods she purchased of a person still young, who had
evidently disposed of all her effects from stern necessity, and being
without any other means of raising money. Both mother and daughter,
continued my informant, seemed much superior to their condition, and
each bore their distress with a proud yet calm fortitude."
"And do you not know where these poor ladies can be found, my lord?"
"I do not, unfortunately, at the present moment, but I have given
directions to M. de Grauen to use every effort to discover them, and, if
needs must be, even to apply to the police for assistance. It is just
probable that the unfortunate parent and child, finding themselves
stripped of their little stock of furniture, may have sought refuge in
some obscure lodging; and if so, there is every chance of discovering
their abode, since the keepers of lodging-houses are obliged to write a
daily report of every fresh inmate they receive."
"What a singular combination of events!" said Madame d'Harville, much
astonished: "Your account is, indeed, a most interesting one."
"You have not heard all yet. In a corner of the fragment of writing
found in the old _secretaire_, are these words, 'To write to Madame de
Lucenay.'"
"Oh, how fortunate!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville, with much animation.
"No doubt the duchess can tell me all about these unfortunate ladies.
But then," added she, thoughtfully, "I do not see, after all, how we
shall be able to describe them, as we do not even know their name."
"Nay, it will be easy to inquire whether she is acquainted with a widow
still in the prime of life, whose air and manner indicate her being far
superior to her present circumstances, and who has a daughter about
sixteen years of age named Claire. I am sure it was Claire the woman
told me the younger female was called."
"How very strange! That is my child's name; and furnishes an additional
reason for my interesting myself in their misfortunes."
"I forgot to tell you that the brother of this unhappy widow died by his
own hands a very few months ago."
Madame d'Harville was silent for some minutes, as though reflecting
deeply; at length she said:
"If Madame de Lucenay be in any way acquainted with this unfortunate
family, these particulars will be quite sufficient to identify them;
besides which the lamentable end of the brother must have fixed every
circumstance connected with them more strongly in her memory. How
impatient I feel to question the duchess on the subject! I will write
her a note this very evening, begging of her not to go out to-morrow
till I have seen her. Who can these interesting people be? From your
account, my lord, I should say they certainly belong to the higher class
of society, and must, therefore, feel their present distress so much the
more keenly. Alas, to such as they the falling into such utter
destitution must inflict a deeper, keener sting!"
"And all their sufferings have arisen from the knavery of an
unprincipled scoundrel,--a notary, named Jacques Ferrand. But I am in
possession of other acts of villainy on his part equally black with
this."
"That is the name of the person acting as the legal adviser both of my
husband and mother-in-law," exclaimed Clemence; "and, indeed, my lord, I
think you must be mistaken in your opinion of him, for he is universally
regarded as a person of the strictest honour and probity."
"I assure you I have the most irrefragable proofs of what I assert.
Meanwhile let me beg of you to be perfectly silent as to the character I
assign this man, who is as subtle as unprincipled; and the better to
unmask his nefarious practices, it is necessary he should be allowed to
think himself secure from all danger; a few days will enable me to
perfect my schemes for bringing him to a severe reckoning. He it was who
brought such unmerited affliction upon the interesting females I have
been telling you of, by defrauding them of a large sum, which, it
appears, was consigned to his care by the brother of the unfortunate
widow."
"And this money?"
"Was their sole dependence."
"This is, indeed, a crime of the most heinous description!"
"'Tis, indeed, of blackest die," exclaimed Rodolph, "having nothing to
extenuate it, and originating neither in passion nor necessity. The
pangs of hunger will often instigate a man to commit a theft, the thirst
for revenge lead on to murder; but this legal hypocrite is passing rich,
and invested, by common consent, with a character of almost priestly
sanctity, while his countenance and manners are moulded with such
studious art as to inspire and command universal confidence. The
assassin kills you at a blow,--this villain tortures, prolongs your
sufferings, and leaves you, after the death-blow has been inflicted, to
sink under the gnawing agonies of want, misery, and despair. Nothing is
safe from the cupidity of such a man as Ferrand: the inheritance of the
orphan, the hard-earned savings of the laborious poor,--all excite alike
his unprincipled avarice; and that which in other men arises out of the
impulse of the moment is with this wretch the result of a cold and
unrelenting calculation. You entrust him with your wealth,--to see it is
to covet it, and with him to desire is to possess himself, without the
smallest scruple. Totally unheeding your future wretchedness, the
grasping deceiver deprives you of your property, and without a pang
consigns you to beggary and destitution. Suppose that, by a long course
of labour and privations, you have contrived to amass a provision
against the wants and infirmities of old age; well, no sooner is this
cold-blooded hypocrite made the depositary of your little treasure, than
he unhesitatingly appropriates it, leaving you to drag on a miserable
existence, without a morsel of bread but such as the hand of charity
doles out to you. Nor is this all. Let us consider the fearful
consequences of these infamous acts of spoliation. Take the case of the
widow of whom we were speaking just now,--imagine her dying of grief and
a crushed spirit, the results of her heavy afflictions; she leaves a
young and helpless girl to struggle alone in the world,--a weak and
delicate being, whose very loveliness increases her dangers and
difficulties. Without friends or support, unaccustomed to the rough
realities of life, the poor orphan has but to choose between starvation
and dishonour. In an evil hour she falls, and becomes a lost, degraded
creature. And thus Jacques Ferrand, by his dishonest appropriation of
the things committed to his charge, occasions not only the death of the
mother, but the dishonour of the child; he destroys the body of the one
and the soul of the other,--and again, I say, not with the merciful
despatch of the assassin's dagger, but by the slow tortures of lingering
cruelty!"
Clemence listened in profound silence, not unmixed with surprise, at
hearing Rodolph express himself with so much indignation and bitterness.
Accustomed only to witness the most urbane suavity in the tone and
manner of her guest, she felt more than ordinarily struck by his
vehement and excited language; which, however, seemed to show his
intense abhorrence of all crooked and nefarious dealings.
"I must entreat your pardon, madame," said the prince, after a pause,
"for having permitted myself to use so much warmth in the presence of a
lady; but, in truth, I could not restrain my indignation when I
reflected on all the horrible dangers which may overwhelm your future
protegees. But, be assured, it is quite impossible to exaggerate those
fearful consequences brought about by ruin and misery."
"Indeed! Indeed, my lord, you rather merit my thanks, for having so
powerfully and energetically augmented, if possible, the tender pity I
feel for this unfortunate parent, whose heart is, doubtless, wrung with
anguish rather for her young and innocent daughter than for herself. It
is, in truth, a fearful situation. But we shall soon be enabled to
relieve her mind, and rescue her from her present misery, shall we not,
my lord? Oh, yes, I feel assured we shall,--and henceforward their
happiness shall be my care. I am rich,--though not so much so as I could
wish, now that I perceive how worthily wealth may be employed; but
should there be occasion for further aid than I am enabled to afford, I
will apply to M. d'Harville in their behalf. I will render him so happy,
that he shall find it impossible to refuse any of my new caprices, and I
foresee that I shall have plenty of them. You told me, did you not, my
lord, that our protegees are proud? So much the better. I am better
pleased to find them so; for pride under unmerited misfortune always
betokens a great and elevated mind. But I shall be able to overreach
them, for I will so contrive that they shall be relieved from their
present misery without ever guessing to what channel they owe their
deliverance from misery. You think I shall find it difficult to deceive
them? So much the better. Oh, I have my own plans of action, I can
assure you, my lord; and you will see that I shall be deficient neither
in cunning nor address."
"I fully anticipate the most Machiavelian system of ruse and deep
combination," said Rodolph, smiling.
"But we must, first of all, discover where they are. Oh, how I wish
to-morrow were come! When I leave Madame de Lucenay, I shall go directly
to their old residence, make inquiries of their late neighbours, collect
all the information I can, and form my own conclusions from all I see
and hear. I should feel so proud and delighted to work out all the good
I intend to these poor ladies, without being assisted by any person; and
I shall accomplish it,--I feel sure I shall. This adventure affects me
greatly. Poor things! I seem even to feel a livelier interest in their
misfortunes when I think of my own child."
Deeply touched at this charitable warmth, Rodolph smiled with sincere
commiseration at seeing a young creature of scarcely twenty years of
age, seeking to lose, amid occupations so pure and noble, the sense of
the severe domestic afflictions which bore so heavily upon her. The eyes
of Clemence sparkled with enthusiasm, a delicate carnation tinged her
pale cheek, while the animation of her words and gestures imparted
additional beauty to her lovely countenance.
The close and silent scrutiny of Rodolph did not escape the notice of
Madame d'Harville. She blushed, looked down for a few minutes, then,
raising her eyes in sweet confusion, said:
"I see, my lord, you are amused at my girlish eagerness. But, in truth,
I am impatient to taste those sources of delight which are about to gild
an existence hitherto so replete with grief and sadness, and,
unfortunately, so useless to every one. Alas, this was not the life my
early dreams had pictured to me,--the one great passion of life I must
for ever renounce! Though young, I must live, and act, and think, as
though scores of years had passed over my head. Alas, alas!" continued
Clemence, with a sigh, "to me is denied the dear domestic joys my heart
could so fondly have prized." After a minute's pause she resumed: "But
why should I dwell on such vain and fruitless regrets? Thanks to you, my
lord, charity will replace the void left in my heart by disappointed
affection. Already have I owed to your counsels the enjoyment of the
most touching emotions. Your words, my lord, affect me deeply, and
exercise unbounded influence over me. The more I meditate on what you
have advanced, the more I search into its real depth and value, the more
I am struck by its vast power and truth, the more just and valuable does
it appear to me. Then, when I reflect that, not satisfied with
sympathising with sufferings of which you can form no idea from actual
experience, you aid me with the most salutary counsels, and guide me,
step by step, in the new and delightful path of virtue and goodness
pointed out by you to relieve a weary and worn-out heart, oh, my lord,
what treasure of all that is good must your mind contain! From what
source have you drawn so large a supply of tender pity for the woes of
all?"
"Nay, the secret of my sincere commiseration with the woes of others
consists in my having deeply suffered myself,--nay, in still sighing
over heavy sorrows none can alleviate or cure."
"You, my lord! Surely you cannot have tasted thus bitterly of grief and
misfortune?"
"Yes, 'tis even so. I sometimes think that I have been made to taste of
nearly every bitter which fills our cup of worldly sorrows, the better
to fit me for sympathising with all descriptions of worldly trials.
Wounded and sorely afflicted as a friend, a husband, and a parent, what
grief can there be in which I am not qualified to participate?"
"I always understood, my lord, that your late wife, the grand duchess,
left no child?"
"True; but, before I became her husband, I was the father of a daughter,
who died quite young. And, however you may smile at the idea, I can with
truth assert that the loss of that child has poisoned all my subsequent
days. And this grief increases with my years. Each succeeding hour but
redoubles the poignancy of my regrets, which, far from abating, appear
to grow,--strengthen, even as my daughter would have done had she been
spared me. She would now have been in her seventeenth year."
"And her mother," asked Clemence, after a trifling hesitation, "is she
still living?"
"Oh, name her not, I beseech you!" exclaimed Rodolph, whose features
became suddenly overcast at this reference to Sarah. "She to whom you
allude is a vile, unworthy woman, whose feelings are completely buried
beneath the cold selfishness and ambition of her nature. Sometimes I
even ask myself whether it is not better that my child has been removed
by death than for her to have been contaminated by the example of such a
mother."
Clemence could not restrain a feeling of satisfaction at hearing Rodolph
thus express himself. "In that case," said she, "I can imagine how
doubly you must bewail the loss of your only object of affection!"
"Oh, how I should have doted on my child! For it seems to me that, among
princes, there is always mixed up with the affection we bear a son, a
sort of interested regard for the being destined to perpetuate our
race,--a kind of political calculation. But a daughter!--oh, she is
loved for herself alone! And when, alas! one is weary of witnessing the
many fearful pictures of fallen humanity an intercourse with the world
compels us to behold, what joy to turn from the dark pictures of guilt
and crime to refresh ourselves by the contemplation of a young and
innocent mind, and to delight in watching the unfolding of all those
pure and tender feelings so guilelessly true to nature! The proudest,
the happiest mother feels not half the exquisite joy of a father in
observing the gradual development of a daughter's character. A mother
will dwell with far greater rapture on the bold and manly qualities of a
son. For have you never remarked that the cause which still further
cements the doting affection of a mother for her son, or a father for
his daughter, is the feeling of either requiring or bestowing aid and
protection? Thus, the mother looks upon her son in the light of a future
support and protection; while the father beholds in his young and
helpless daughter a weak and fragile creature, clinging to him for
safety, counsel, and protection from all the storms of life."
"True, my lord,--most true!"
"But what avails it thus to dwell on sources of delight for ever lost to
me?" cried Rodolph, in a voice of the deepest dejection. His mournful
tones sunk into the very heart of Clemence, who could not restrain a
tear, which trickled slowly down her cheek. After a short pause, during
which the prince, making a powerful effort to restrain himself, and
feeling almost ashamed of allowing his feelings thus to get the better
of him in the presence of Madame d'Harville, said, with a smile of
infinite sadness, "Your pardon, madame, for thus allowing myself to be
drawn away by the remembrance of my past griefs!"
"I beseech you, my lord, make no apology to me; but, on the contrary,
believe that I most sincerely sympathise with your very natural regrets.
Have I not a right to share your griefs, for have I not made you a
participator in mine? My greatest pain is, that the only consolation I
could offer you would be vain and useless to assuage your grief."
"Not so; the very expression of your kind commiseration is grateful and
beneficial to me; and I find it a relief to disburden my mind, and tell
you all I suffer. But, courage!" added Rodolph, with a faint and
melancholy smile; "the conversation of this evening entirely reassures
me on your account. A safe and healthful path is opened to you, by
following which you will escape the trials and dangers so fatal to many
of your sex, and, still more so, for those as highly endowed as
yourself. You will have much to endure, to struggle against, and contend
with; but in proportion to the difficulties of your position will be
your merit in overcoming them. You are too young and lovely to escape
without a severe ordeal; but, should your courage ever fail you, the
recollection, not only of the good you have done, but also that you
propose to effect, will serve to strengthen your virtuous resolutions,
and arm you with fresh courage."
Madame d'Harville melted into tears.
"At least," said she, "promise me your counsels and advice shall never
fail me. May I depend on this, my lord?"
"Indeed, indeed, you may. Whether near or afar off, believe that I shall
ever feel the most lively interest in your welfare and well-doing; and,
so far as in me lies, will I devote my best services to promote your
happiness, or that of the man whom I glory in calling my dearest
friend."
"Thanks, my lord," said Clemence, drying her tears, "for this consoling
promise. But for your generous aid, I feel too well that my own strength
would fail me. Still I bind myself now, and in your presence,
faithfully and courageously to perform my duty, however hard or painful
that duty may be."
As Clemence uttered these last words, a small door, concealed by the
hangings, suddenly opened; and M. d'Harville, pale, agitated, and
evidently labouring under considerable excitement, appeared before
Madame d'Harville and Rodolph. The latter involuntarily started, while a
faint cry escaped the lips of the astonished wife.
The first surprise over, the marquis handed to Rodolph the letter
received from Sarah, saying:
"Here, my lord, is the letter I but just now received in your presence.
Have the kindness to cast your eyes over it, and afterwards commit it to
the flames."
Clemence gazed on her husband with utter astonishment.
"Most infamous!" exclaimed Rodolph, indignantly, as he finished the
perusal of the vile scrawl.
"Nay, my lord, there is an act more dastardly even than the sending an
anonymous letter; and that act I have committed."
"For the love of heaven, explain yourself!"
"Instead of at once fearlessly and candidly showing you this letter, I
concealed its contents from you. I feigned calmness and tranquillity,
while jealousy, rage, and despair filled my heart. Nor is this all. To
what detestable meanness do you suppose, my lord, my ungoverned passions
led me? Why, to enact the part of a spy,--to hide myself basely and
contemptibly behind this door, to overhear your conversation and espy
your actions. Yes, hate me, despise me as you will, I merit all for
having insulted you by a suspicion. Oh, the writer of these fiendish
letters knew well the culpable weakness of him to whom they were
addressed. But, after all I have heard,--for not a word has escaped me,
and I now know the nature of the interest which attracts you to frequent
the Rue du Temple,--after having, by my mean and unworthy jealousy,
given support to the base calumny by believing it even for an instant,
how can I hope for pardon, though I sue for it upon my knees? Still,
still, I venture to implore from you, so superior to myself in nobleness
and generosity of soul, pity, and, if you can, forgiveness for the wrong
I have done you!"
"No more of this, my dear Albert," said Rodolph, extending his hands
towards his friend with the most touching cordiality; "you have nothing
to ask pardon for. Indeed, I feel quite delighted to find you have
discovered the secrets of Madame d'Harville and myself. Now that all
further restraint is at an end, I shall be able to lecture you as much
and as frequently as I choose. But, what is better still, you are now
installed as the confidant of Madame d'Harville,--that is to say, you
now know what to expect from a heart so pure, so generous, and so noble
as hers."
"And you, Clemence," said M. d'Harville, sorrowfully, to his wife, "can
you forgive me my last unworthy act, in addition to the just causes you
already have to hate and despise me?"
"On one condition," said she, extending her hand towards her husband,
which he warmly and tenderly pressed, "that you promise to aid me in all
my schemes for promoting and securing your happiness!"
"Upon my word, my dear marquis," exclaimed Rodolph, "our enemies have
shown themselves bunglers after all! They have afforded you an
opportunity you might never otherwise have obtained, of rightly
appreciating the tender devotion of your incomparable wife, whose
affection for you, I venture to say, has shone out more brightly and
steadily under the machinations of those who seek to render us
miserable, than amidst all the former part of your wedded life; so that
we are enabled to take a sweet revenge for the mischief intended to be
effected: that is some consolation, while awaiting a fuller atonement
for this diabolical attempt. I strongly suspect the quarter from which
this scheme has emanated; and however patiently I may bear my own
wrongs, I am not of a nature to suffer those offered to my friends to
remain unpunished. This, however, is my affair. Adieu, madame,--our
intrigue is discovered; and you will be no more at liberty to work alone
in befriending your protegees. But, never mind! Before long we will get
up some mysterious enterprise, impossible to be found out; and we will
even defy the marquis, with all his penetration, to know more than we
choose to tell him."
* * * * *
After accompanying Rodolph to his carriage with reiterated thanks and
praises, the marquis retired to his apartments without again seeing
Clemence.