HOPE.
Spring was approaching, and already the sun darted a more genial warmth,
the sky was blue and clear, while the balmy air seemed to bring life and
breath upon its invigorating wings. Among the many sick and suffering
who rejoiced in its cheering presence was Fleur-de-Marie, who, leaning
on the arm of La Louve, ventured to take gentle exercise in the little
garden belonging to Doctor Griffon's house; the vivifying rays of the
sun, added to the exertion of walking, tinged the pale, wasted
countenance of La Goualeuse with a faint glow that spoke of returning
convalescence. The dress she had worn when rescued from a watery grave
had been destroyed in the haste with which the requisite attempts had
been made for her resuscitation, and she now appeared in a loose
wrapping dress of dark blue merino, fastened around her slender waist by
worsted cord of the same colour as the robe.
"How cheering the sun shines!" said she to La Louve, as she stopped
beneath a thick row of trees, planted beside a high gravelled walk
facing the south, and on which was a stone bench. "Shall we sit down and
rest ourselves here a few minutes?"
"Why do you ask me?" replied La Louve, almost angrily; then taking off
her nice warm shawl, she folded it in four, and, kneeling down, placed
it on the ground, which was somewhat moist from the extreme shelter
afforded by the overhanging trees, saying, as she did so, "Here, put
your feet on this."
"Oh, but La Louve!" said Fleur-de-Marie, perceiving too late the kind
intention of her companion, "I cannot suffer you to spoil your beautiful
shawl in that way."
"Don't make a fuss about nothing; I tell you the ground is cold and
moist. There, that will do." And, taking the tiny feet of
Fleur-de-Marie, she forcibly placed them on her shawl.
"You spoil me terribly, La Louve."
"It is not for your good behaviour, if I do; always trying to oppose me
in everything I try to do for your good. Are you not very much tired? We
have been walking more than half an hour; I heard twelve o'clock just
strike from Asnieres."
"I do feel rather weary, but still the walk has done me good."
"There now--you were tired, and yet could not tell me so!"
"Pray don't scold me; I assure you I was not conscious of my weariness
until I spoke. It is so delightful to be able to walk out in the air,
after being confined by sickness to your bed, to see the trees, the
green fields, and the beautiful country again, when you had given up all
hope of ever enjoying that happiness, or of feeling the warm beams of
the sun fill you with strength and hope!"
"Certainly, you were desperately ill, and for two days we despaired of
your life. I don't mind telling you, now the danger is over."
"Only imagine, La Louve, that, when I found myself in the water, I could
not help thinking of a very bad, wicked woman, who used to torment me
when I was young, and frighten me by threatening to throw me to the
fishes that they might eat me, and, even after I had grown up, she
wanted to drown me; and I kept thinking that it was my destiny to be
devoured by fishes, and that it was no use to try and escape from it."
"Was that really your last idea when you believed yourself perishing?"
"Oh, no!" replied Fleur-de-Marie, with enthusiasm; "when I believed I
was dying, my last thought was for him whom I so reverence, and to whom
I owe so much, and, when I came to myself after you had saved me, my
first thought was of him likewise."
"It is a pleasure to render you any service, you think so much of it."
"No, La Louve; the pleasure consists in falling asleep with our grateful
recollection of kind acts, and remembering them upon waking!"
"Ah, you would induce people to go through fire and water to serve you!
I'm sure I would, for one."
"I can assure you that one of the causes which made me thankful for life
was the hope of being able to advance your happiness. Do you recollect
the castles in the air we used to build at St. Lazare?"
"Oh, as for that, there is time enough to think about that."
"How delighted I should be, if the doctor would only allow me to write a
few lines to Madame Georges, I am sure she must be so very uneasy; and
so must M. Rodolph, too," added Fleur-de-Marie, pensively sighing.
"Perhaps they think me dead."
"As those wretches do who were set on to murder you!"
"Then you still believe my falling into the water was not an accident?"
"Accident! Yes, one of the Martial family's accidents;--mind, when I say
that, you must bear in mind that my Martial is not at all like the rest
of his relations, any more than Francois and Amandine."
"But what interest could they have had in my death?"
"I don't care for that; the Martials are such a vile set that they would
murder any one, provided they were well paid for it. A few words the
mother let drop when my man went to see her in prison prove that."
"Has he really been to see that dreadful woman?"
"Yes; and he tells me there is no hope of pardon for herself, Calabash,
or Nicholas. A great many things have been discovered against them; and
all the judges and those kind of people say they want to make a public
example of them, to frighten others from doing such things."
"How very shocking for nearly a whole family to perish in this way."
"And they certainly will, unless, indeed, Nicholas manages to make his
escape; he is in the same prison with a monstrous ruffian whom they call
the Skeleton, and this man is getting up a plot to escape with several
of his companions. Nicholas sent to tell Martial of this, by a prisoner
who was discharged from prison the other day, for I must tell you, my
man had been weak enough to go and see his brother in La Force; so,
encouraged by this visit, that hateful wretch Nicholas sent to tell my
man that he might effect his escape at any minute, and that his brother
was to send money and clothes to disguise himself in, ready for him, to
Father Micou's."
"Ah, your Martial is so kind-hearted, I'm sure he will do it!"
"A fig for such kind-heartedness! I call it downright foolery to help
the very man who tried to take his life. No, no, Martial shall do no
such thing; quite enough if he does not tell of the scheme for breaking
out of prison, without furnishing clothes and money, indeed. Besides,
now you are out of danger, myself, Martial, and the two children are
about to start on our rambles over France in search of work, and, depend
upon it, we never mean to set our feet in Paris again. Martial found it
quite galling enough to be called the son of a man who was guillotined;
how, then, could he endure being taunted with the disgraceful ends of
all his family?"
"Well, but, at least, you will defer your departure till I have been
enabled to see and speak with M. Rodolph; you have returned to virtue,
and I promised you a reward if you would but forsake evil ways, and I
wish to keep my word. You saved me from death, and, not satisfied with
that, have nursed me with the tenderest care during my severe illness."
"Suppose I did; well, it would seem as though I had done the little good
in my power for the sake of gain, were I to allow you to ask your
friends for anything for me! No, no; I say again, I am more than repaid
in seeing you safe and likely to do well."
"My kind Louve, make yourself perfectly easy; it shall not be said that
you were influenced by interested motives, but that I was desirous of
proving my gratitude to you."
"Hark!" said La Louve, hastily rising, "I fancy I hear the sound of a
carriage coming this way; yes--yes, there it is! Did you observe the
lady who was in it?"
"Dear me!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, "I fancy I recognised a young and
beautiful lady I saw at St. Lazare."
"Then she knows you are here, does she?"
"I cannot tell you whether she does or no, but one thing is very
certain, that she is acquainted with the person I have so often
mentioned to you, who, if he pleases, and I hope that he will please,
can realise all those schemes of happiness we used to build when in
prison."
"What about getting a gamekeeper's place for my man?" asked La Louve,
with a sigh; "and a cottage in the middle of the woods for us all to
live in? Oh, no! That is too much like what we read of in fairy tales,
and quite impossible ever to happen to a poor creature like myself."
Quick steps were heard advancing rapidly from behind the trees, and in a
minute Francois and Amandine (who, thanks to the kind consideration of
the Count de Saint-Remy, had been permitted to remain with La Louve,
during her attendance on La Goualeuse) presented themselves, quite out
of breath, exclaiming:
"La Louve, here is a beautiful lady come along with M. de Saint-Remy to
see Fleur-de-Marie, and they want to see her directly!"
At the same moment, Madame d'Harville, accompanied by M. de Saint-Remy,
appeared from the side of the walk, the impatience of the former not
allowing her to wait the arrival of Fleur-de-Marie. Directly the
marquise saw her, she ran and embraced her, exclaiming:
"My poor dear child! What happiness does it not afford me to find you
thus in life and safety, when I believed you dead!"
"Be assured, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, as she gracefully and
modestly returned the affectionate pressure of Madame d'Harville, "that
I have equal pleasure in seeing again one whose former kindness has made
so deep an impression on my heart!"
"Ah, you little imagine the joy and rapture with which the intelligence
of your existence will be welcomed by those who have so bitterly
bewailed your supposed loss!"
Fleur-de-Marie, taking La Louve, who had withdrawn to a distance from
the affecting scene, by the hand, and presenting her to Madame
d'Harville, said:
"Since, madame, my benefactors are good enough to take so lively an
interest in my welfare and preservation, permit me to solicit their
kindness and favour for my companion, who saved my life at the expense
of her own."
"Make yourself perfectly easy on that score, my child; your friends will
amply testify to the worthy La Louve how fully they appreciate the
service they well know she has rendered you, and that 'tis to her they
owe the delight of seeing you again."
Confused and blushing, La Louve ventured neither to reply nor raise her
eyes towards Madame d'Harville, so completely did the presence of that
dignified person abash and overpower her. Yet, at hearing her very name
pronounced, La Louve could not restrain an exclamation of astonishment.
"But we have not a minute to lose," resumed the marquise. "I am dying
with impatience to carry off Fleur-de-Marie, and I have a cloak and warm
shawl for her in the carriage. So come, my child, come!" Then,
addressing the count, she said, "May I beg of you to give my address to
this brave woman, that she may be enabled to come to-morrow to say
good-bye to Fleur-de-Marie? That will oblige you to pay us a visit,"
continued Madame d'Harville, speaking to La Louve.
"Depend upon my coming, madame," replied the person addressed. "Since it
is to bid adieu to La Goualeuse, I should be grieved, indeed, if I were
to miss that last pleasure."
A few minutes after this conversation, Madame d'Harville and La
Goualeuse were on the road to Paris.
* * * * *
After witnessing the frightful death by which Jacques Ferrand atoned for
the heinous offences of his past life, Rodolph had returned home deeply
agitated and affected. After passing a long and sleepless night, he sent
to summon Sir Walter Murphy, in order to relieve his overcharged heart
by confiding to this tried and trusty friend the overwhelmingly painful
discovery of the preceding evening relative to Fleur-de-Marie. The
honest squire was speechless with astonishment; he could well understand
the death-blow this must be to the prince's best affections, and as he
contemplated the pale, careworn countenance of his unhappy friend, whose
red, swollen eyes and convulsed features amply bespoke the agony of his
mind, he ransacked his brain for some gleam of comfort, and his
invention for words of hope and comfort.
"Take courage, my lord," said he at last, drying his eyes, which, spite
of all his accustomed coolness, he had not been able to prevent from
overflowing, "take courage; yours is indeed an infliction, one that
mocks at all vain attempts at consolation; it is deep, lasting, and
incurable!"
"You are right; what I felt yesterday seems as nothing to my sense of
misery to-day."
"Yesterday, my lord, you were stunned by the blow that fell on you, but
as your mind dwells more calmly on it, so does the future seem more dark
and dispiriting. I can but say, rouse yourself, my lord, to bear it with
courage, for it is beyond all attempts at consolation."
"Yesterday the contempt and horror I felt for that woman,--whom may the
Great Being pardon, before whose tribunal she now stands,--mingled with
surprise, disgust, and terror, occasioned by her hideous conduct,
repressed those bursts of despairing tenderness I can no longer restrain
in your sympathising presence, my faithful friend. I fear not to indulge
the natural emotions of my heart, and my hitherto pent-up tears may now
freely vent themselves. Forgive my weakness, and excuse my thus cowardly
shrinking from the trial I am called upon to endure, but it seems to
have riven my very heart-strings, and to have left me feeble as an
infant! Oh, my child! My loved, my lost child! Long must these scalding
tears flow ere I can forget you!"
"Ah, my lord, weep on, for your loss is indeed irreparable!"
"What joy to have atoned to her for all the wretchedness with which her
young days have been clouded! What bliss to have unfolded to her the
happy destiny that was to recompense her for all her past sorrows! And,
then, I should have used so much care and precaution in opening her eyes
to the brilliant lot that was to succeed her miserable youth, for the
tale, if told too abruptly, might have been too much for her delicate
nerves to sustain; but, no, I would by degrees have revealed to her the
history of her birth, and prepared her to receive me as her father!"
Then, again bursting into an agony of despair, Rodolph continued: "But
what avails all that I would have done, when I am tortured by the cruel
reflection that, when I had my child all to myself during the ill-fated
day I conducted her to the farm, when she so innocently displayed the
rich treasures of her pure and heavenly nature, no secret voice
whispered to me that in her I beheld my cherished and lamented daughter?
I might have prevented this dreadful calamity by keeping her with me
instead of sending her to Madame Georges. Oh, if I had, I should have
been spared my present sufferings, and needed only to have opened my
arms and folded her to my heart as my newly found treasure,--more really
great and noble by the beauty of her heart and mind, and perhaps more
worthy to fill the station to which I should raise her, than if she had
always been reared in opulence and with a knowledge of her rank! I alone
am to blame for her death; but mine is an accursed existence. I seem
fated to trample on every duty,--a bad son and a bad father!"
Murphy felt that grief such as Rodolph's admitted of no ordinary
consolation. He did not therefore attempt to interrupt its violence by
any hackneyed phrases or promises of comfort he well knew could never be
realised.
After a long silence, Rodolph resumed, in an agitated voice:
"I cannot stay here after what has happened. Paris is hateful to me; I
will quit it to-morrow."
"You are quite right in so doing, my lord."
"We will go by a circuitous route, and I will stop at Bouqueval as I
pass, that I may spend some few hours alone with my sad thoughts, in the
chamber where my poor child enjoyed the only peaceful days she was ever
permitted to taste. All that was hers shall be carefully collected
together,--the books from which she studied, her writings, clothes, even
the very articles of furniture and hangings of the chamber; I will make
a careful sketch of the whole, and when I return to Gerolstein I will
construct a small building containing the fac-simile of my poor child's
apartment, with all that it contained, to be erected in the private
ground in which stands the monument built by me in memory of my outraged
parent; there I will go and bewail my daughter. These two funeral
mementos will for ever remind me of my crime towards my father, and the
punishment inflicted on me through my own child."
After a fresh silence, Rodolph said, "Let all be got ready for my
departure to-morrow."
Anxious, if possible, to create if but a momentary change of ideas in
the prince's mind, Murphy said, "All shall be prepared, my lord,
according to your desire; only you appear to have forgotten that
to-morrow is fixed for the celebration of the marriage of Rigolette with
the son of Madame Georges, and that the ceremony was to take place at
Bouqueval. Not contented with providing for Germain as long as he lives,
and liberally endowing his bride, you also promised to be present to
bestow the hand of your young protegee on her lover."
"True, true,--I did engage to do so; but I confess I have not sufficient
courage to venture in a scene of gaiety. I cannot, therefore, visit the
farm to-morrow, for to join in the wedding festivities is impossible."
"Perhaps the scene might serve to calm your wounded feelings, with the
thought that, if miserable yourself, you have made others happy."
"No, my friend, no! Grief is ever selfish, and loves to indulge itself
in solitude. You shall supply my place to-morrow; and beg of Madame
Georges to collect together all my poor child's possessions; then when
the room is fitly arranged, you will have an exact copy taken of it, and
cause it to be sent to me in Germany."
"And will you not even see Madame d'Harville, my lord, ere you set out
on your journey?"
At the recollection of Clemence, Rodolph started; his affection for her
burned as steadfastly and sincerely as ever, but, for the moment, it
seemed buried beneath the overwhelming grief which oppressed him. The
tender sympathy of Madame d'Harville appeared to him the only source of
consolation; but, the next instant, he rejected the idea of seeking
consolation in the love of another as unworthy his paternal sorrow.
"No, my kind friend, I shall not see Madame d'Harville previously to
quitting Paris. I wrote to her a few days since, telling her of the
death of Fleur-de-Marie, and the pain it had caused me. When she learns
that the ill-fated girl was my long-lost daughter, she will readily
understand that there are some griefs, or rather fatal punishments, it
is requisite to endure alone."
A gentle knock was heard at the door at this minute. Rodolph, with
displeasure at the interruption, signed for Murphy to ascertain who it
was. The faithful squire immediately rose, and, partly opening the door,
perceived one of the prince's aides-de-camp, who said a few words in a
low tone, to which Murphy replied by a motion of the head, and,
returning to Rodolph, said, "Have the goodness, my lord, to excuse me
for an instant! A person wishes to see me directly on business that
concerns your royal highness."
"Go!" replied the prince.
Scarcely had the door closed on Murphy, than Rodolph, covering his face
with his hands, uttered a heavy groan.
"What horrible feelings possess me!" cried he. "My mind seems one vast
ocean of gall and bitterness; the presence of my best and most faithful
friend is painful to me; and the recollection of a love pure and
elevated as mine distresses and embarrasses me. Last night, too, I was
cowardly enough to learn the death of Sarah with savage joy. I
felicitated myself on being free from an unnatural being like her, who
had caused the destruction of my child; I promised myself the horrible
satisfaction of witnessing the mortal agonies of the wretch who deprived
my child of life. But I was baffled of my dear revenge. Another cruel
punishment!" exclaimed he, starting with rage from his chair. "Yet
although I knew yesterday as well as to-day that my child was dead, I
did not experience such a whirlwind of despairing, self-accusing agony
as now rends my soul; because I did not then recall to mind the one
torturing fact that will for ever step in between me and consolation. I
did not then recall the circumstance of my having seen and known my
beloved child, and, moreover, discovered in her untold treasures of
goodness and nobleness of character. Yet how little did I profit by her
being at the farm! Merely saw her three times--yes, three times--no
more! when I might have beheld her each day--nay, have kept her ever
beside me. Oh, that will be my unceasing punishment, my never-ending
reproach and torture,--to think I had my daughter near me, and actually
sent her from me! Nor, though I felt how deserving she was of every fond
care, did I even admit her into my presence but three poor distant
times."
While the unhappy prince thus continued to torment himself with these
and similar reflections, the door of the apartment suddenly opened and
Murphy entered, looking so pale and agitated that even Rodolph could not
help remarking it; and rising hastily, he exclaimed:
"For heaven's sake, Murphy, what has happened to you?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"Yet you are pale!"
"'Tis with astonishment."
"Astonishment at what?"
"Madame d'Harville."
"Madame d'Harville! Gracious heaven! Some fresh misfortune?"
"No, no, my lord--indeed, nothing unfortunate has occurred. Pray compose
yourself! She is--in the drawing-room--"
"Here--in my house? Madame d'Harville here? Impossible!"
"My lord, I told you the surprise had quite overpowered me!"
"Tell me what has induced her to take such a step! Speak, I conjure you!
In heaven's name, explain the reason for her acting so contrary to her
usually rigid notions!"
"Indeed, my lord, I know nothing. But I cannot even account to myself
for the strange feelings that come over me."
"You are concealing something from me!"
"No, indeed, my lord; on the honour of a man, I know only what the
marquise said to me."
"And what did she say?"
"'Sir Walter,' said she, with an unsteady voice, though her countenance
shone with joy, 'no doubt you are surprised at my presence here; but
there are some circumstances so imperative as to leave no time to
consider the strict rules of etiquette. Beg of his royal highness to
grant me an immediate interview of a few minutes only in your presence,
for I know well that the prince has not a better friend than yourself. I
might certainly have requested him to call on me, but that would have
caused at least an hour's delay; and when the prince has learned the
occasion of my coming, I am sure he will feel grateful to me for not
delaying the interview I seek for a single instant.' And as she uttered
these words, her countenance wore an expression that made me tremble all
over."
"But," returned Rodolph, in an agitated tone, and, spite of all his
attempts at retaining his composure, being even paler than Murphy
himself, "I cannot guess what caused your emotion; there must be
something beyond those words of Madame d'Harville's to occasion it."
"I pledge you my honour if there be I am wholly ignorant of it; but I
confess those few words from Madame la Marquise seemed quite to bewilder
me. But even you, my lord, are paler than you were."
"Am I?" said Rodolph, supporting himself on the back of his chair, for
he felt his knees tremble under him.
"Nay, but, my lord, you are quite as much overcome as I was. What ails
you?"
"Though I die in making the effort," exclaimed the prince, "it shall be
done. Beg of Madame d'Harville to do me the honour to walk in."
By a singular and sympathetic feeling this extraordinary and wholly
unexpected visit of Madame d'Harville had awakened in the breasts of
Murphy and Rodolph the same vague and groundless hope, but so senseless
did it seem that neither was willing to confess it to the other.
* * * * *
Madame d'Harville, conducted by Murphy, entered the apartment in which
was the prince.