THE FINGER OF PROVIDENCE.
The Chourineur had forgotten that it was the day after mid-Lent, and was
consequently greatly surprised at the sight, at once hideous and
singular, which presented itself to his view when he arrived at the
exterior boulevard, which he was traversing to reach the barrier of
Charenton.
He found himself suddenly in the thickest of a dense throng of people,
who were coming out of the cabarets of the Faubourg de la Glaciere, in
order to reach the Boulevard St. Jacques, where the execution was to
take place.
Although it was broad daylight, there was still heard the noisy music of
the public-houses, whence issued particularly the loud echoes of the
cornets-a-piston. The pencil of Callot, of Rembrandt, or of Goya is
requisite to limn the strange, hideous, and fantastical appearance of
this multitude.
Almost all of them, men, women, and children, were attired in old
masquerade costumes. Those who could not afford this expense had on
their clothes rags of bright colours. Some young men were dressed in
women's clothes, half torn and soiled with mud. All their countenances,
haggard from debauchery and vice, and furrowed by intoxication, sparkled
with savage delight at the idea that, after a night of filthy orgies,
they should see two women executed on the scaffold prepared for them.
The foul and fetid scum of the population of Paris,--this vast mob--was
formed of thieves and abandoned women, who every day tax crime for their
daily bread, and every evening return to their lairs with their vicious
spoils.[1]
[1] It is calculated that there are in Paris 30,000 persons who
have no other means of existence but theft.
The crowd entirely choked up the means of circulation, and, in spite of
his gigantic strength, the Chourineur was compelled to remain almost
motionless in the midst of this compact throng. He was, however, willing
to remain so, as the prince would not pass the barrier of Charenton
until eleven o'clock, and it was not yet seven; and he had a singular
spectacle before him.
In a large, low apartment, occupied at one end by musicians, surrounded
by benches and tables laden with the fragments of a repast, broken
plates, empty bottles, etc., a dozen men and women, in various disguises
and half drunk, were dancing with the utmost excitement that frantic and
obscene dance called _La Chahut_.
Amongst the dissipated revellers who figured in this saturnalia, the
Chourineur remarked two couples who obtained the most overwhelming
applause, from the revolting grossness of their attitudes, their
gesticulations, and their language. The first couple consisted of a man
disguised as a bear, and nearly covered with a waistcoat and trousers of
black sheepskin. The head of the animal, being too troublesome to carry,
had been replaced by a kind of hood with long hair, which entirely
covered his features; two holes for his eyes, and a long one for his
mouth, allowed him to see, speak, and breathe.
This man--one of the prisoners escaped from La Force (amongst whom were
Barbillon and the two murderers arrested at the ogress's at the
_tapis-franc_, at the beginning of this recital)--this man so masked was
Nicholas Martial, the son and brother of the two women for whom the
scaffold was prepared but a few paces distant.
Induced into this act of atrocious insensibility and infamous audacity
by one of his associates, this wretch had dared with this disguise to
join in the last revels of the carnival. The woman who danced with him,
dressed as a _vivandiere_, wore a round leather cap with ragged ribands,
a kind of bodice of threadbare red cloth, ornamented with three rows of
brass buttons, a green skirt, and trousers of white calico. Her black
hair fell in disorder all about her head, and her haggard and swollen
features evinced the utmost effrontery and immodesty. The _vis-a-vis_ of
these dancers were no less disgusting.
The man, who was very tall, and disguised as Robert Macaire, had so
begrimed his features with soot that it was impossible to recognise him,
and, besides, a large bandage covered his left eye; the white of the
right eye being thus the more heightened, rendered him still more
hideous. The lower part of the Skeleton's countenance (for it was he)
disappeared in a high neckcloth made of an old red shawl.
Wearing an old, white, napless hat with a crushed side, dirty, and
without a crown, a green coat in rags, and tight mulberry-coloured
pantaloons, patched in every direction, and tied around the instep with
pieces of packthread, this assassin outraged the most _outre_ and
revolting attitudes of the _Chahut_, darting from right to left, before
and behind, his lanky limbs as hard as steel, and twisting and twining,
and springing and bounding with such vigour and elasticity, that he
seemed set in motion by steel springs.
A worthy coryphee of this filthy saturnalia, his lady partner, a tall
and active creature with impudent and flushed features, attired _en
debardeur_, wore a flat cap on one side of a powdered wig with a thick
pigtail, a waistcoat and trousers of worn green velvet, adjusted to her
shape by an orange scarf, with long ends flowing down her back.
A fat, vulgar, coarse woman, the brutal ogress of the _tapis-franc_, was
seated on one of the benches, holding on her knees the plaid cloaks of
this creature and the _vivandiere_, whilst they were rivalling the
bounds, and jumps, and gross postures of the Skeleton and Nicholas
Martial.
Amongst the other dancers there was a lame boy, dressed like a devil, by
means of a black net vest, much too large for him, red drawers, and a
green mask hideous and grotesque. In spite of his infirmity, this little
monster was wonderfully agile, and his precocious depravity equalled, if
it could not exceed, that of his detestable companions, and he gambolled
as impudently as any of them before a fat woman, dressed as a
shepherdess, who excited her partner the more by her shouts of laughter.
No charge having been raised against Tortillard (our readers have
recognised him), and Bras Rouge having been for the while left in
prison, the boy, at his father's request, was reclaimed by Micou, the
receiver of the passage of the Brasserie, who had not been denounced by
his accomplices.
As secondary figures in this picture, let imagination conceive all there
is of the lowest, most shameful, and most monstrous, in this idle,
wanton, insolent, rapacious, atheistical, sanguinary assemblage of
infamy, which is most hostile to social order, and to which we would
call the attention of all thinking persons as our recital draws to a
close.
Excited by the shouts of laughter and the cheers of the mob assembled
around the windows, the actors in the infamous dance cried to the
orchestra for a finale galop. The musicians, delighted to reach the end
of their labours, complied with the general wish, and played a galoppade
with the utmost energy and rapidity. At this the excitement redoubled;
the couples encircled each other and dashed away, following the Skeleton
and his partner, who led off their infernal round amidst the wildest
cries and acclamations.
The crowd was so thick, so dense, and the evolutions so multiplied and
rapid, that these creatures, inflamed with wine, exercise, and noise,
their intoxication became delirious frenzy, and they soon ceased to have
space for their movements. The Skeleton then cried, in a breathless
voice, "Look out at the door! We will go out on to the boulevard."
"Yes, yes!" cried the mob at the windows; "a galop as far as the
Barriere St. Jacques!"
"The two 'mots' will soon be here."
"The headsman cuts double! How funny!"
"Yes, with a cornet-a-piston accompaniment."
"I'll ask the widow to be my partner."
"And I the daughter."
"Death to the informers!"
"Long live the prigs and lads of steel!" cried the Skeleton in a voice
of thunder, as he and the dancers, forcing their way in the midst of the
mass, set the whole body in motion; and then were heard cries, and
imprecations, and shouts of laughter, which had nothing human in their
sound.
Suddenly this uproar reached its height by two fresh incidents. The
vehicle which contained the criminals, accompanied by its escort of
cavalry, appeared at the angle of the boulevard, and then all the mob
rushed in that direction, shouting and roaring with ferocious delight.
At this moment, also, the crowd was met by a courier coming from the
Boulevard des Invalides, and galloping towards the Barriere de
Charenton. He was dressed in a light blue jacket with yellow collar,
with a double row of silver lace down the seams, but, as a mark of deep
mourning, he wore black breeches and high boots; his cap also, with a
broad band of silver, was encircled with crape, and on the winkers of
his horse were the arms of Gerolstein.
He walked his horse, his advance becoming every moment more difficult,
and he was almost obliged to stop when he found himself in the midst of
the sea of people we have described. Although he called to them, and
moved his horse with the greatest caution, cries, abuse, and threats
were soon directed against him.
"Does he want to ride us down, that vagabond?"
"He's got lots o' silver on his precious body!" cried Tortillard.
"If he comes against us we'll make him alight and strip the 'tin' off
his jacket to go to the melter's," said Nicholas.
"And we'll take the seams out of your carcase if you are not careful,
you cursed jockey!" added the Skeleton, addressing the courier and
seizing the bridle of his horse,--for the crowd was so dense that the
ruffian had given up his idea of dancing to the barrier.
The courier, who was a powerful and resolute fellow, said to the
Skeleton, lifting the handle of his whip, "If you do not let go my
bridle I'll lay my whip over you. Let me pass; my lord's carriage is
coming close behind. Let me go forward, I say."
"Your lord!" said the Skeleton; "what is your lord to me? I'll slit his
weasand if I like! I never did for a lord; I should like to try my
hand."
"There are no more lords now. _Vive la Charte!_" shouted Tortillard; and
as he said so he whistled a verse of the "Parisienne," and clinging to
one of the courier's legs nearly drew him out of his saddle. A blow with
the handle of his whip on Tortillard's head punished his insolence; but
the populace instantly attacked the courier, who in vain spurred his
horse,--he could not advance a step.
Dismounted, amidst the shouts of the mob, he would have been murdered
but for the arrival of Rodolph's carriage, which took off the attention
of these wretches.
The prince's travelling carriage, drawn by four horses, had for some
time past advanced at only a foot pace, and one of the two footmen had
got down from the rumble and was walking by the side of the door, which
was very low; the postilions kept crying out to the people, and went
forward very cautiously.
Rodolph was dressed in deep mourning, as was also his daughter, one of
whose hands he held in his own, looking at her with affection. The
gentle and lovely face of Fleur-de-Marie was enclosed in a small capot
of black crape, which heightened the dazzling brilliancy of her skin and
the beautiful hue of her lovely brown hair; and the azure of this bright
day was reflected in her large eyes, which had never been of more
transparent and softened blue. Although her features wore a gentle
smile, and expressed calmness and happiness when she looked at her
father, yet a tinge of melancholy, and sometimes of undefinable sadness,
threw its shadow over her countenance when her eyes were not fixed on
her father.
At this moment the carriage came amongst the crowd and began to slacken
its pace. Rodolph lowered the window, and said in German to the lackey
who was walking by the window, "Well, Frantz, what is the meaning of
this?"
"Monseigneur, there is such a crowd that the horses cannot move."
"What has this assemblage collected for?"
"Monseigneur, there is an execution going on."
"Ah, frightful!" said Rodolph, throwing himself back in his carriage.
"What is it, my dear father?" asked Fleur-de-Marie with uneasiness.
"Nothing--nothing, dearest."
"Only listen,--these threatening cries approach us! What can it be?"
"Desire them to reach Charenton by another road," said Rodolph.
"Monseigneur, it is too late, the crowd has stopped the horses."
The footman could say no more. The mob, excited by the savage
encouragement of the Skeleton and Nicholas, suddenly surrounded the
carriage, and, in spite of the threats of the postilions, stopped the
horses, and Rodolph saw on all sides threatening, furious countenances,
and above them all the Skeleton, who came to the door of the carriage.
"Take care, my dear father!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, throwing her arms
around Rodolph's neck.
"Oh, you are the 'my lord,' are you?" said the Skeleton, thrusting his
hideous head into the carriage.
Had it not been for his daughter's presence, Rodolph would have given
way to the natural impetuosity of his character at this insolence; but
he controlled himself, and coolly replied:
"What do you want, and why do you stop my carriage?"
"Because we choose," said the Skeleton. "Each in his turn. Yesterday you
trampled on the mob, and to-day the mob will crush you if you stir."
"Father, we are lost!" murmured Fleur-de-Marie.
"Take courage, love! I understand," replied the prince; "it is the last
day of the carnival,--these fellows are tipsy; I will get rid of them."
"I say, my 'covey,' come, get out, and your 'mot' with you!" cried
Nicholas; "why should you trample upon a parcel of poor people!"
"You seem to have drunk a good deal, and to desire to drink more," said
Rodolph; "here, take this, and do not delay my carriage any longer," and
he threw out his purse, which Tortillard caught.
"Oh, what, you are going to travel, eh? Well, then, you've got your
pockets well lined, no doubt. Come, shell out, my blade, or I'll have
your life." And he opened the door suddenly.
Rodolph's patience was exhausted. Alarmed for Fleur-de-Marie, whose
alarm increased every moment, and believing that a display of vigour
would daunt the wretch, whom he believed to be only drunk, he sprung
from the carriage, intending to seize the Skeleton by the throat. The
latter suddenly receded, and then, drawing a long knife-dirk from his
pocket, rushed at Rodolph. Fleur-de-Marie, seeing the dirk raised to
stab her father, gave a shriek, sprung from the carriage, and threw her
arms around him.
Her father's life must have been sacrificed but for the Chourineur, who
at the commencement of this tumult, having recognised the livery of the
prince, had contrived, by superhuman efforts, to reach the Skeleton; and
at the moment when that ruffian menaced the prince with his knife the
Chourineur seized on his arm with one hand, and, with the other grasping
his collar, threw him backwards.
Although surprised, and from behind too, the Skeleton turned around,
and, recognising the Chourineur, cried, "What! the man in the gray
blouse from La Force? This time, then, I'll do for you!" and rushing
furiously at the Chourineur, he plunged his knife in his breast. The
Chourineur staggered, but did not fall. The crowd kept him on his legs.
"The guard! Here come the guard!" exclaimed several voices in alarm.
At these words, and at the sight of the murder of the Chourineur, all
this dense crowd, fearing to be compromised in the assassination,
dispersed as if by magic, and fled in every direction; the Skeleton,
Nicholas, Martial, and Tortillard amongst the earliest.
When the guard came up, guided by the courier (who had escaped when the
crowd had let him go to surround the prince's carriage), there only
remained in this sad scene, Rodolph, his daughter, and the Chourineur,
bathed in his blood. The two servants of the prince had seated him on
the ground, with his back to a tree.
All this passed more quickly than it can be described, and at a few
paces from the _guinguette_ from which the Skeleton and his band had
issued.
The prince, pale and agitated, held in his arms Fleur-de-Marie, half
fainting, whilst the postilions were repairing the harness broken in the
scuffle.
"Quick!" said the prince to his servants engaged in aiding the
Chourineur, "convey this poor fellow to the cabaret; and you," he added,
turning to the courier, "get on the box, and gallop back for Doctor
David at the hotel; you will find him there, as he does not leave until
eleven o'clock."
The carriage went away at a great speed, and the two servants conveyed
the Chourineur to the low apartment in which the orgies had taken place;
several of the women were still there.
"My poor, dear child!" said Rodolph, to his daughter, "let me take you
to some room in this place where you can await me, for I cannot abandon
this brave fellow, who has again saved my life."
"Oh, my dearest father, I entreat you do not leave me!" exclaimed
Fleur-de-Marie, with alarm, and seizing Rodolph's arm. "Do not leave me
alone! I should die with fright! Where you go I will go!"
"But this frightful spectacle?"
"Yes, thanks to this worthy man, you still live for me, my father, and
therefore allow me to join you in thanking and consoling him."
The prince's perplexity was very great. His daughter evinced so much
just fear of remaining alone in a room in this low haunt that he made up
his mind to allow her to enter with him into the apartment, where they
found the Chourineur.
The mistress of the tavern and many of the women who had remained (and
amongst whom was the ogress of the _tapis-franc_) had hastily laid the
wounded man on a mattress, and then stanched and bound his wound with
napkins. The Chourineur opened his eyes as Rodolph entered. At the sight
of the prince his features, pale with approaching death, became
animated. He smiled painfully, and said in a low voice:
"Ah, M. Rodolph, it was very fortunate I was there!"
"Brave and devoted as ever!" said the prince, in an accent of despair.
"Again you have saved my life!"
"I was going to the barrier of--Charenton--to try and see you go by--see
you for the last time. Fortunately--I was unable to get in for the
crowd--besides--it was--to happen--I told Martial so--I had a
presentiment."
"A presentiment?"
"Yes, M. Rodolph--the dream--of the sergeant--last night."
"Oh, try and forget such ideas! Let us hope the wound is not mortal."
"Oh, yes, the Skeleton struck home! Never mind--I told Martial that a
worm of the earth like me--might sometimes be useful--to a great
lord--like you."
"But my life--I owe my life again to you!"
"We are quits, M. Rodolph. You told me--that I had--heart and honour.
That word, you see--oh, I am choking! Sir, without--my asking--do me the
honour--to give me your hand--I feel I am sinking."
"No, no! Impossible!" exclaimed the prince, bending towards the
Chourineur, and clasping in his hands the icy hand of the dying man,
"no--you will live--you will live!"
"M. Rodolph, there is something, you see, above--I killed--with a blow
of a knife--I die from the blow of a knife!" said the Chourineur, who
was sinking fast.
At this moment his eyes turned towards Fleur-de-Marie, whom he had not
before perceived. Amazement was depicted on his dying features; he made
a movement, and said:
"Ah!--the Goualeuse!"
"Yes, my daughter, who blesses you for having preserved her father!"
"She--your daughter--here? That reminds me of how our acquaintance
began--M. Rodolph--and the blows--with the fist; but this blow with a
knife will be the last--last blow. I slashed--and in my turn am
slashed--stabbed. It is just." He heaved a deep sigh--his head fell
back--he was dead.
The sound of horses without was heard; Rodolph's carriage had met that
of Murphy and David, who, in their desire to rejoin the prince, had
anticipated the hour fixed for their departure.
"David," said Rodolph, wiping his eyes, and pointing to the Chourineur,
"is there no hope?"
"None, monseigneur," replied the doctor, after a moment's examination.
During this moment there passed a mute and terrible scene between
Fleur-de-Marie and the ogress, whom Rodolph had not observed. When the
Chourineur had uttered the name of La Goualeuse, the ogress had raised
her head and looked at Fleur-de-Marie. The horrid hag had already
recognised Rodolph; he was called monseigneur--he called La Goualeuse
his daughter. Such a metamorphosis astounded the ogress, who obstinately
fixed her stupid, wondering eyes on her former victim.
Fleur-de-Marie, pale and overcome, seemed fascinated by her gaze. The
death of the Chourineur, the unexpected appearance of the ogress, which
came to awaken more painfully than ever the remembrance of her former
degradation, appeared to her a sinister presage. From this moment,
Fleur-de-Marie was struck with one of those presentiments which, in
dispositions like hers, have most frequently an irresistible influence.
* * * * *
A few days after these events and Rodolph and his daughter quitted Paris
for ever.
EPILOGUE.
CHAPTER I.
GEROLSTEIN.
_Prince Henry of Herkauesen-Oldenzaal to the Count Maximilian
Kaminetz._
OLDENZAAL, 25th August, 1840.
I am just arrived from Gerolstein, where I have passed three
months with the grand duke and his family. I expected to find a
letter announcing your arrival at Oldenzaal, my dear Maximilian.
Judge of my surprise--of my regret, on hearing that you will be
detained in Hungary for several weeks.
For more than four months I have been unable to write to you,
not knowing where to direct my letters, thanks to your original
and adventurous manner of travelling. You had, however, formally
promised me at Vienna that you would be at Oldenzaal the first
of August; I must then give up the pleasure of seeing you, and
yet I have never had greater need of pouring forth my sorrows to
you, Maximilian, my oldest friend, for although we are both of
us still very young, our friendship is of long standing, as it
dates from our childhood.
What shall I say to you? During the last three months a complete
revolution has taken place in me. I am at one of those moments
that decide the existence of a man. Judge, then, how necessary
your presence and your advice are to me. But you will not long
be wanting, whatever motives you have for remaining in Hungary.
Come! Come! I entreat of you, Maximilian, for I stand in need of
you to console me, and I cannot go to seek you. My father, whose
health is daily declining, has summoned me from Gerolstein. Each
day makes so great an alteration in him that it is impossible
for me to leave him.
I have so much to say that I shall become tedious, but I must
relate to you the most important--the most romantic incident of
my life. Why were you not there, my friend? Why were you not
there? For three months my heart has been a prey to emotions
equally sweet and sorrowful, and I was alone--I was alone.
Sympathise with me, you who know the sensibility of my heart,
you who have seen my eyes filled with tears at the simple
recital of a noble or generous action, at the simple sight of a
splendid sunset--of the sky studded with bright stars.
Do you recollect last year, on our excursion to the ruins of
Oppenfeld, on the shore of the vast lake, our reveries during
that evening, so full of calm, of poesy, and of peace? Strange
contrast! It was three days before that bloody duel, in which I
would not accept you for my second, for I should have suffered
too much for you had I been wounded before your eyes,--the duel
in which, for a dispute at play, my second unhappily killed the
young Frenchman, the Comte de Saint-Remy.
Apropos, do you know what has become of the dangerous siren whom
M. de Saint-Remy brought with him to Oppenfeld, and whose name
was, I think, Cecily David?
You will doubtless, my friend, smile with pity at seeing me thus
losing myself amongst idle recollections of the past, instead of
coming at once to the grave disclosures that I have announced my
intention of making; but, in spite of myself, I delay the time
from moment to moment. I know how severe you are, and I am
fearful of being blamed. Yes, blamed; because, instead of acting
with reflection and prudence (prudence of one and twenty,
alas!), I have acted foolishly, or, rather, I have not acted at
all as--I have suffered myself to be carried away by the stream
that urged me on, and it is only since my return from Gerolstein
that I have been awakened from the enchanting vision that has
lulled me to sleep for the last three months, and this awaking
has been a sorrowful one.
Now, my friend, my dear Maximilian, I take courage. Hear me
indulgently; I begin with fear and trembling--I dare not look at
you, for when you read these lines, how grave and stern will
your face become, stoic that you are!
After having obtained leave of absence for six months, I left
Vienna, and remained some time with my father. His health was
then good, and he advised me to visit my aunt, the Princess
Juliana, superior of the abbey of Gerolstein. I think I have
already told you that my grandfather was cousin-german to the
present duke's grandfather, and the Duke Gustavus Rodolph,
thanks to this relationship, had always treated my father and
myself as his cousins.
You also know, I think, that during a long stay the prince made
recently in France my father was left at the head of the affairs
of the duchy. It is not any feeling of ostentatious pride, as
you well know, Maximilian, that makes me recapitulate all these
circumstances, but to explain to you the causes of the extreme
intimacy that existed between the grand duke and myself during
my stay at Gerolstein.
Do you recollect that last year, after our voyage on the banks
of the Rhine, we heard that the prince had found and married,
_in extremis_, the Countess Macgregor, in order to legitimise
the daughter he had had by her by a previous and secret
marriage, afterwards annulled, because it had been contracted
against the consent of the late grand duke?
This young girl, thus formally recognised, this charming
Princess Amelie, of whom Lord Dudley, who had seen her at
Gerolstein about a year ago, spoke to us with an enthusiasm that
we suspected of exaggeration, strange chance! who would have
said then--
But although you have doubtless penetrated my secret, let me
pursue the progress of events.
The convent of Ste. Hermangeld, of which my aunt is abbess, is
scarcely a quarter of a league from Gerolstein, for the gardens
of the abbey touch the outskirts of the town. A charming house,
perfectly isolated from the cloisters, had been placed at my
disposal by my aunt, who has, as you know, the affection of a
mother for me. The day of my arrival she informed me a grand
drawing-room would be held the next day, as the grand duke was
going formally to announce his intended marriage with La
Marquise d'Harville, who had just arrived at Gerolstein with her
father, the Comte d'Orbigny.
The duke was blamed by some for not having sought an alliance
with some royal house, but others, and amongst them my aunt,
congratulated him on having chosen, instead of a marriage of
ambition, a young and lovely woman to whom he was deeply
attached, and who belonged to one of the first families in
France. You know, too, that my aunt has always had the greatest
regard for the grand duke, and has always appreciated his fine
qualities.
"My dear child," said she to me, speaking of the drawing-room,
to which I was going the next day,--"my dear child, the most
astonishing sight you will see to-morrow will be the pearl of
Gerolstein."
"Of whom are you talking, my dear aunt?"
"Of the Princess Amelie."
"The grand duke's daughter? Lord Dudley spoke of her at Vienna
with warmth we suspected of exaggeration."
"At my age and in my position," replied my aunt, "people do not
exaggerate, so you can trust to my judgment, and I assure you I
never knew any one more enchanting than the Princess Amelie. I
would speak of her beauty were it not for an indefinable charm
she possesses, superior even to her beauty. From the first day
that the grand duke presented me to her, I felt myself
irresistibly drawn towards her; and I am not the only person.
The Archduchess Sophia is at Gerolstein, and is the most proud
and haughty princess I know."
"Very true, aunt; her irony is terrible, very few persons escape
from her sarcasms; at Vienna every one dreaded her. Can the
Princess Amelie have found favour in her eyes?"
"The other day she came here after visiting the asylum placed
under the princess's direction. 'Do you know,' said this
redoubtable archduchess to me, 'that if I resided long with the
grand duke's daughter I should become quite harmless, so
contagious is her goodness!'"
"Why, my cousin must be an enchantress!" said I, laughing, to my
aunt.
"Her most powerful charm, at least in my eyes," replied my aunt,
"is the mixture of sweetness, modesty, and dignity that I have
told you of, and which gives a most touching expression to her
face."
"Indeed, aunt, modesty is a rare quality in a princess so young,
so beautiful, and so happy."
"Reflect that the princess is still more deserving of praise for
her modesty, as her elevation is so very recent."
"In her interview with you, aunt, did the princess make any
reference to her early life?"
"No; but when, notwithstanding my advanced age, I addressed her
with the respect due to her rank, since her royal highness is
the grand duke's daughter, her ingenuous confusion, mingled with
gratitude and veneration for me, quite overpowered me; for her
reserve, full of dignity and affability, proved to me that her
present elevation did not make her forget her past life, and
that she accorded to my age what I accorded to her rank."
"It must require," said I, "the most perfect tact to observe
those nice differences."
"My dear boy, the more I see of the princess, the more I
congratulate myself on my first impression. Since she has been
here the number of charitable acts she has done is incredible,
and that with a reflection and a judgment that in a person of
her age quite surprises me. Judge yourself. At her request the
grand duke has founded at Gerolstein an establishment for
orphans of five or six years, and for young girls (who are
either orphans or abandoned by their parents) of the age of
sixteen, that age so fatal to those who are not protected
against the temptations of vice or the pressure of want.
"The good sisters of my convent teach and direct the children of
this asylum. During my visits there I have had ample
opportunities of judging of the adoration that these poor,
unfortunate creatures have for the princess. Every day she
spends several hours at this place, which is placed under her
protection, and I repeat that it is not merely gratitude and
respect that the children and nuns feel towards the princess, it
almost amounts to fanaticism."
"The princess must be an angel," said I to my aunt.
"An angel, indeed!" replied she, "for you cannot conceive with
what touching kindness she treats her young protegees. I have
never seen the susceptibility of misfortune meet with more
delicate sympathy. You would think some irresistible attraction
drew the princess towards this class of unfortunates. Will you
believe it? she, the daughter of a sovereign, only addresses
these poor children as 'my sisters!'"
At these last words of my aunt I confess I felt my eyes fill
with tears. Do you not also admire the admirable and pious
conduct of this young princess?
"Since the princess," said I, "is so marvellously gifted, I
shall be greatly embarrassed when I am presented to her
to-morrow. You know how timid I am; you know, also, that
elevation of character imposes upon me more than high birth, so
that I am certain to appear both stupid and embarrassed
to-morrow; so I make up my mind to that beforehand."
"Come, come!" said my aunt, smiling, "she will take pity upon
you, the more readily as you are not quite a stranger to her."
"I am not a stranger to her, aunt?"
"Certainly not."
"How so?"
"You recollect that when at the age of sixteen you left
Oldenzaal, to travel with your father through Russia and
England, I had your portrait painted in the costume you wore at
the first _bal costume_ the late duchess gave?"
"Yes, aunt, the costume of a German page of the sixteenth
century."
"Our famous painter, Fritz Mocker, whilst he painted a faithful
likeness of you, not only produced a page of that century, but
even the style of the pictures of that time.
"Some days after her arrival at Gerolstein, the Princess Amelie,
who had come with her father to visit me, remarked your
portrait, and asked what was that charming picture of olden
times. Her father smiled, and said, 'This is the portrait of a
cousin of ours, who would be, were he now alive (as you see by
his dress), some three hundred years old, but who, although very
young, made himself remarkable for his courage and goodness of
heart; has he not bravery in his eyes and goodness in his
smile?'"
Do not, I entreat you, Maximilian, shrug your shoulders with
disdain at seeing me write these puerile details of myself,
which are, alas, necessary to my story.
"The Princess Amelie," continued my aunt, "deceived by this
innocent pleasantry, after a long examination of your portrait,
joined with her father in praising the amiable and determined
expression of your face. Some time after, when I went to
Gerolstein, she questioned me playfully about 'her cousin of the
olden time.'
"I then explained the trick to her, and told her that the
handsome page of the sixteenth century was really the Prince
Henry d'Herkauesen-Oldenzaal, a young man of one and twenty,
captain in the guards of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, and
in every other respect than the costume very like his picture.
At these words the princess," continued my aunt, "blushed and
became serious, and has never since spoken of the picture.
However, you see that you are not quite a stranger to your
cousin; so take courage, and maintain the reputation of your
portrait."
This conversation took place, as I have already told you, the
evening previous to the day on which I was to be presented to
the princess my cousin. I left my aunt, and returned to my own
apartments.
You have often told me, my dear Maximilian, that I was totally
free from vanity; I must therefore trust to that to prevent my
appearing vain during this recital.
As soon as I was alone I reflected with a secret satisfaction
that the Princess Amelie, after seeing my portrait, painted five
or six years ago, had inquired after "her cousin of the olden
time."
Nothing could be more absurd than to build the slightest hope on
so trivial a circumstance, I acknowledge; but I always treat you
with the most perfect confidence, and I acknowledge that this
trifling circumstance delighted me.
No doubt the praise I had just heard bestowed on the princess by
so grave and austere a person as my aunt, by raising her in my
estimation, rendered this circumstance more agreeable.
Why should I tell you? The hopes I conceived from this trifling
event were so mad that, now that I look back more calmly on the
past, I ask myself how I could have indulged in ideas that must
have ended in my destruction.
Although related to the grand duke, and always treated by him
with the greatest kindness, yet it was impossible to entertain
the slightest hope of a marriage with the princess; even had she
returned my affection it would still have been impossible. Our
family holds an honourable position, but it is poor when
compared with the grand duke, the richest prince of the German
confederation; and besides, I was only one and twenty, a simple
captain in the guards, without any reputation or any position.
Never could the grand duke think of me as a suitor for his
daughter.
All these reflections ought to have saved me from a passion I
did not as yet feel, but of which I had a strange presentiment.
Alas! I rather gave way to fresh puerilities; I wore on my
finger a ring that Thecla (the countess of whom I have so often
spoken) had given me, although this souvenir of a boyish love
could not have much embarrassed me. I sacrificed it to my new
flame, and, opening the window, I cast the ring into the waves
of the river that flowed beneath.
I have no need to tell you what a night I passed, you can
imagine; I knew the princess was very beautiful; I sought to
picture to myself her features, her air, her manner, her figure,
the sound of her voice; and thinking of my portrait which she
had noticed I recollected that the artist had flattered me
excessively, and I contrasted the picturesque dress of a page of
the sixteenth century with the simple uniform of a captain of
the Austrian guards.
But amidst all these absurd ideas some generous thoughts crossed
my mind, and I was overcome,--yes, overcome by the recollection
of the tenderness of the princess for those poor girls whom she
always terms "my sisters."
The next day the hour for the reception came. I tried on several
uniforms one after another, found them all to fit me very ill,
and departed very dissatisfied with myself.
Although Gerolstein is only a quarter of a league from Ste.
Hermangeld, during the short journey all the childish ideas that
had so occupied me during the night had given place to one sad
and grave thought.
An invincible presentiment told me I was approaching one of the
crises of my life. A magical inspiration revealed to me that I
was about to love, to love as a man loves but once in his life;
and, as if to complete my misfortunes, this love, as loftily as
deservedly bestowed, was doomed to be unhappy.
You do not know the grand ducal palace of Gerolstein. In the
opinion of every one who has visited the capitals of Europe,
there is, with the exception of Versailles, no royal residence
that has a more regal and imposing appearance.
If at this time I speak of this, it is because, thinking over
them, I wonder how they did not recall me to myself; for the
Princess Amelie was the daughter of the sovereign of this
palace, these guards, and of these riches.
You arrived at the palace by the marble court; so called,
because, with the exception of a drive for the carriages, it is
paved with variegated marble, forming the most magnificent
mosaics, in the centre of which is a basin of breccia antique,
into which a stream of water flows from a porphyry vase.
This court of honour is surrounded by a row of beautiful marble
statues, holding candelabras of gilt bronze, from which sprung
brilliant jets of gas. Alternately with these statues are the
Medicean vases, raised on richly sculptured pedestals, and
filled with rose laurels, whose leaves shine in the lights with
a metallic lustre.
The carriages stopped at the foot of the double staircase
leading to the peristyle of the palace. At the foot of this
staircase were stationed on guard, mounted on their black
horses, two soldiers of the regiment of the guards of the grand
duke. You would have been struck with the stern and warlike
appearance of these two giants, whose cuirasses and helmets,
made like those of the ancients, without crest or plume,
sparkled in the sun.
These soldiers wore blue coats with yellow collars, buckskin
breeches, and jack-boots. To please you who are so fond of
military details, I add, that at the top landing of the
staircase were stationed, as sentinels, two grenadiers of the
foot-guards of the duke. Their uniform, with the exception of
the colour of the coat and facings, resembles, I am told, that
of Napoleon's grenadiers.
After traversing the vestibule, where the porters of the duke
were stationed, halberd in hand, I ascended a splendid staircase
of white marble, which opened upon a portico, ornamented with
jasper columns, and surmounted by a painted and gilt cupola.
There were two long files of domestics.
I then entered the guard-room, at the door of which I found a
chamberlain and an aide-de-camp, whose duty it was to present to
his royal highness those persons who were entitled to this
honour. My relationship, though distant, procured me a special
presentation. An aide-de-camp preceded me into a long gallery,
filled with gentlemen in full court dress or uniform, and
splendidly attired ladies.
Whilst I passed through this brilliant assembly, I heard here
and there remarks that augmented my embarrassment. Every one
admired the angelic beauty of the Princess Amelie, the charming
appearance of the Marquise d'Harville, and the imperial air of
the Archduchess Sophia, who, recently arrived from Munich with
the Archduke Stanislaus, was about to depart for Warsaw; but
whilst rendering their just tribute of admiration to the lofty
bearing of the duchess and to the charms of the Marquise
d'Harville, every one agreed that nothing could exceed the
loveliness of the Princess Amelie.
As I approached the spot where the grand duke and the princess
were I felt my heart beat more and more violently. At the moment
that I entered the salon (I forgot to tell you there was a
concert and ball at court) the famous Liszt sat down to the
piano, and instantly the most profound silence succeeded to the
conversation that was going on. I waited in the embrasure of a
door until Liszt had finished the piece he was playing with his
accustomed taste.
It was then that I saw the Princess Amelie for the first time.
I must tell you all that passed, for I feel an indescribable
pleasure in writing it.
Picture to yourself a large salon furnished with regal
splendour, brilliantly lighted up, and hung with crimson silk,
embroidered with wreaths of flowers in gold. In the first row,
on large gilt chairs, sat the Archduchess Sophia with Madame
d'Harville on her left, and the Princess Amelie on her right.
Behind them stood the duke in the uniform of colonel of the
guards. He seemed scarcely thirty, and the military uniform set
off his fine figure and noble features. Beside him was the
Archduke Stanislaus in the uniform of a field-marshal; then came
the princess's maids of honour, the ladies of the grand
dignitaries of the court, and then the dignitaries themselves.
I need scarcely tell you that the Princess Amelie was less
conspicuous by her rank than by her extraordinary beauty. Do not
condemn me without reading this description of her. Although it
falls far short of the reality, you will understand my
adoration. You will understand that as soon as I saw her I loved
her; and that the suddenness of my passion can only be equalled
by its violence and its eternity.
The Princess Amelie was dressed in a plain white watered silk
dress, and wore, like the archduchess, the riband of the
imperial order of St. Nepomucenus recently sent to her by the
empress. A diadem of pearls surrounded her head, and harmonised
admirably with two splendid braids of fair hair that shaded her
delicate cheeks. Her arms, whiter than the lace that ornamented
them, were half hidden in long gloves, reaching nearly to her
elbow.
Nothing could be more perfect than her figure, nothing more
charming than her foot in its satin slipper. At the moment when
I saw her her beaming blue eyes wore a pensive expression. I do
not know whether some serious thought came over her, or whether
she was impressed with the grave melody of the piece Liszt was
playing; but the expression of her countenance seemed to me full
of sweetness and melancholy.
Never can I express my feelings at that moment. All that my aunt
had related of her goodness crossed my mind.
Smile if you will, but my eyes became full of tears when I saw
this young girl, so beautiful and so idolised by such a father,
seem so melancholy and pensive.
You know how scrupulously etiquette and the privileges of rank
are observed by us. Thanks to my title and my relationship to
the grand duke, the crowd in the midst of which I stood
gradually fell back, and I found myself left almost alone in the
embrasure of the door. It was, no doubt, owing to this
circumstance that the princess, awaking from her reverie,
perceived, and no doubt recognised me, for she started and
blushed.
She had seen my portrait at my aunt's, and recognised me;
nothing could be more simple. The princess's eyes did not rest
upon me an instant, but that look threw me into the most violent
confusion. I felt my cheeks glow, I cast down my eyes, and did
not venture to raise them for some time. When I dared at last to
steal a glance at the princess she was speaking in a low tone to
the archduchess, who seemed to listen to her with the most
affectionate interest.
Liszt having paused for a few moments between the pieces he was
playing, the grand duke took the opportunity of expressing his
admiration. On returning to his place he perceived me, nodded
kindly to me, and said something to the archduchess, fixing his
eyes on me at the same time. The duchess, after looking at me a
moment, turned to the duke, who smiled and said something to his
daughter that seemed to embarrass her, for she blushed again. I
was on thorns; but, unfortunately, etiquette forbade my leaving
my place until the concert was over.
As soon as the concert was finished I followed the aide-de-camp;
he conducted me to the grand duke, who deigned to advance a few
steps towards me, took me by the arm, and said to the
Archduchess Sophia:
"Permit me to present to your royal highness my cousin, Prince
Henry of Herkauesen-Oldenzaal."
"I have seen the prince at Vienna, and meet him here with
pleasure," replied the duchess, before whom I inclined myself
respectfully.
"My dear Amelie," continued the prince, addressing his daughter,
"this is Prince Henry, your cousin, the son of one of my most
valued friends, Prince Paul, whom I greatly lament not seeing
here to-day."
"Pray, monseigneur, inform the prince that I equally regret his
absence, for I am always delighted to know any of my father's
friends."
I had not until then heard the princess's voice, and I was
struck with its intense sweetness.
"I hope, my dear Henry, you will stay some time with your aunt,"
said the grand duke. "Come and see us often about three o'clock
_en famille_; and if we ride out you must accompany us. You know
how great an affection I have always felt for you, for your
noble qualities."
"I cannot express my gratitude for your royal highness's
kindness."
"Well, to prove it," said the grand duke, smiling, "engage your
cousin for the second quadrille; the first belongs to the
archduke."
"Will your royal highness do me the honour?" said I to my
cousin.
"Oh, call each other cousin, as in the good old times," replied
the duke, laughing. "There should be no ceremony between
relations."
"Will you dance with me, cousin?"
"Yes, cousin," replied the princess.
I cannot tell how much I felt the touching kindness of the grand
duke, and how bitterly I reproached myself for yielding to an
affection the prince would never authorise.
I vowed inwardly that nothing should induce me to acquaint my
cousin with my affection, but I feared my emotion would betray
me.
I had leisure for these reflections whilst my cousin danced the
first quadrille with the Archduke Stanislaus. Nothing was more
suited to display the graces of the princess's person than the
slow movements of the dance. I anxiously awaited my turn; and I
succeeded in concealing my emotion when I led her to the
quadrille.
"Does your royal highness sanction my calling you cousin?" said
I.
"Oh, yes, cousin, I am always delighted to obey my father."
"I rejoice in this familiarity, since I have learnt from my aunt
to know you."
"My father has often spoken of you, cousin; and what may,
perhaps, astonish you," added she, timidly, "I also knew you by
sight; for one day the Abbess of Ste. Hermangeld, your aunt, for
whom I have the greatest respect, showed me your picture."
"As a page of the sixteenth century?"
"Yes, cousin; and my father was malicious enough to tell me that
it was an ancestor of ours, and spoke so highly of his courage
and his other qualities that our family ought to be proud of
their descent from him."
"Alas, cousin, I fear my resemblance to my portrait is not
great!"
"You are mistaken, cousin," said the princess. "For at the end
of the concert I recognised you immediately, in spite of the
difference of costume." Then, wishing to change the
conversation, she added, "How charmingly M. Liszt plays!--does
he not?"
"Yes. How attentively you listened to him!"
"Because there is to me a double charm in music without words.
Not only you hear the execution, but you can adapt your thoughts
to the melody. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly; your own thoughts become words to the air."
"Yes, you quite comprehend me," said she, with a gesture of
satisfaction. "I feared I could not express what I felt just
now."
"I thank God, cousin," said I, smiling, "you can have no words
to set to so sad an air."
I know not whether my question was indiscreet or whether she had
not heard me, but suddenly she exclaimed, pointing out to me the
grand duke, who crossed the room with the archduchess on his
arm, "Cousin, look at my father, how handsome he is! how noble!
how good! Every one looks at him as if they loved him more than
they feared him."
"Ah," cried I, "it is not only here he is beloved. If the
blessing of his people be transmitted to their posterity, the
name of Rodolph of Gerolstein will be immortal."
"To speak thus is to be, indeed, worthy of his attachment."
"I do but give utterance to the feelings of all present; see how
they all hasten to pay their respects to Madame d'Harville!"
"No one in the world is more worthy of my father's affections
than Madame d'Harville."
"You are more capable than any one of appreciating her, as you
have been in France."
Scarcely had I pronounced these words than the princess cast
down her eyes, and her features assumed an air of melancholy;
and when I led her back to her seat the expression of them was
still the same. I suppose that my allusion to her stay in France
recalled the death of her mother.
In the course of the evening a circumstance occurred which you
may think too trivial to mention, perhaps, but which evinces the
extraordinary influence this young girl universally inspires.
Her bandeau of pearls having become disarranged, the Archduchess
Sophia, who was leaning on her arm, kindly readjusted the
ornament upon her brow. Knowing, as we do, the hauteur of the
archduchess, such condescension is almost inconceivable.
The next morning I was invited, together with a few other
persons, to be present at the marriage of the grand duke with
Madame la Marquise d'Harville. I had never seen the princess so
radiant and happy.
Some days after the duke's marriage I had a long interview with
him. He questioned me about my past life, my future career. He
gave me the most admirable advice, the kindest encouragement. So
much so that the idea crossed my mind that he had perceived my
love and wished to bring me to confess it.
But this idea was soon dispelled. The prince concluded by
telling me that the great wars were over, that I ought to avail
myself of my name, my connections, the education I had received,
and my father's friendship with the Prince de M----, prime
minister of the emperor, in order to follow a diplomatic instead
of a military career. In a word, he offered me his sovereign
protection to facilitate my entry in the career he proposed to
me.
I thanked him for his offers with gratitude, and added that I
felt the weight of his advice and would follow it.
I at first visited the palace very seldom; but, thanks to the
duke's reiterated invitations, I was soon there almost every
day. We lived in the peaceful retirement resembling that of some
English mansions. When the weather permitted we rode out with
the duke, the duchess, and the grand personages of the court.
When we were forced to remain at home we sang, and I accompanied
the grand duchess and my cousin, who had the sweetest and most
expressive voice I ever heard. At other times we inspected the
magnificent picture galleries and museums, and the library of
the prince, who is one of the most accomplished men in Europe. I
often dined at the palace, and on the opera nights I accompanied
the duke's family to the theatre.
Could this intimacy have lasted for ever I should have been
happy, perhaps, but I reflected that I should be summoned to
Vienna by my duties. I reflected, also, that the duke would soon
think of finding a suitable alliance for his daughter.
My cousin remarked this change in me. The evening before I
quitted Gerolstein she told me she had for several days remarked
my abstracted manner. I endeavoured to evade this question,
saying that my approaching departure was the cause.
"I can scarcely believe it," replied she. "My father treats you
like a son; every one loves you. It would be ingratitude if you
were unhappy."
"Alas!" said I, unable to restrain my emotion, "it is grief I am
a prey to!"
"Why, what has happened?"
"Just now, cousin, you have told me your father treated me like
a son, and that every one loved me; and yet, ere long, I must
quit Gerolstein. It is this that grieves me."
"And are the recollections of those you have left as nothing?"
"Doubtless; but time brings so many changes."
"There are affections, at least, that are unchangeable; such as
that of my father for you, such as that I feel for you. When you
are once brother and sister you never forget each other," added
she, looking up, her large blue eyes full of tears.
I was on the point of betraying myself; however, I controlled my
feelings in time.
"Do you think then, cousin," said I, "that when I return in a
few years this affection will continue?"
"Why should it not?"
"Because you will be probably married; you will have other
duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother."
This was all that passed; I know not if she was offended at
these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the
changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she
was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her
face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked
for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young Countess
d'Oppenheim, one of her maids of honour.
The same evening I received a second letter from my father,
urging me to return. The next morning I took leave of the grand
duke. He told me my cousin was unwell, but that he would make
my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of
assistance, and added that, whenever I had leave of absence,
nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at
Gerolstein.
Happily, on my arrival, I found my father better; still confined
to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. Now
that you know all, Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?
Just as I finished this letter, my door opened, and, to my great
surprise, my father, whom I believed to be in bed, entered; he
saw the letter on the table.
"To whom are you writing so long a letter?" said he, smiling.
"To Maximilian, father."
"Oh," said he, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "he
has all your confidence! He is very happy!"
He pronounced these last words in so sorrowful a tone that I
held out the letter to him, almost without reflection, saying:
"Read it, father."
My friend, he has read all! After having remained musing some
time he said to me:
"Henry, I shall write and inform the grand duke of all that
passed during your stay at Gerolstein."
"Father, I entreat you not!"
"Is what you have written to Maximilian scrupulously true?"
"Yes."
"Do you love your cousin?"
"I adore her; but--"
My father interrupted me.
"Then, in that case, I shall write to the grand duke and demand
her hand for you."
"But, father, such a demand will be madness on my part!"
"It is true; but still, in making this demand, I shall acquaint
the prince with my reasons for making it. He has received you
with the greatest kindness, and it would be unworthy of me to
deceive him. He will be touched at the frankness of my demand,
and, though he refuse it, as he certainly will, he will yet know
that, should you ever again visit Gerolstein, you cannot be on
the same familiar terms with the princess."
You know that, although so tenderly attached to me, my father is
inflexible in whatever concerns his duty; judge, then, of my
fears, of my anxiety.
I hastily terminate this long letter, but I will soon write
again. Sympathise with me, for I fear I shall go mad if the
fever that preys on me does not soon abate. Adieu, adieu! Ever
yours,
HENRY D'H.-O.
We will now conduct the reader to the palace of Gerolstein, inhabited by
Fleur-de-Marie since her return from France.
CHAPTER II.
THE PRINCESS AMELIE.
The apartment of Fleur-de-Marie (we only call her the Princess Amelie
officially) had been by Rodolph's orders splendidly furnished. From the
balcony of the oratory the two towers of the Convent of Ste. Hermangeld
were visible, which, embosomed in the woods, were in their turn
overtopped by a high hill, at the foot of which the abbey was built.
One fine summer's morning Fleur-de-Marie gazed listlessly at this
splendid landscape; her hair was plainly braided, and she wore a high,
white dress with blue stripes; a large muslin collar was fastened around
her throat by a small blue silk handkerchief, of the same hue as her
sash.
Seated in a large armchair of carved ebony, she leant her head on her
small and delicately white hand. Fleur-de-Marie's attitude and the
expression of her face showed that she was a prey to the deepest
melancholy.
At this instant a female of a grave and distinguished appearance entered
the room, and coughed gently to attract Fleur-de-Marie's attention. She
started from her reverie, and, gracefully acknowledging the salutation
of the newcomer, said:
"What is it, my dear countess?"
"I come to inform your royal highness that the grand duke will be here
in a few minutes, and, also, to ask a favour of you."
"Ask it, you know how happy I am to oblige you."
"It concerns an unhappy creature who had unfortunately quitted
Gerolstein before your royal highness had founded the asylum for orphans
and children abandoned by their parents."
"What do you wish I should do for her?"
"The father went to seek his fortune in America, leaving his wife and
daughter to gain a precarious subsistence. The mother died, and this
poor girl, then only sixteen, was seduced and abandoned. She fell lower
and lower, until at length she became, like so many others, the
opprobrium of her sex."
Fleur-de-Marie turned red and shuddered. The countess, fearing she had
wounded the delicacy of the princess by the mention of this girl's
condition, replied:
"I pray your royal highness to pardon me; I have, doubtless, shocked you
by speaking of this wretched creature, but her repentance seemed so
sincere that I ventured to plead for her."
"You were quite right. Pray continue," said Fleur-de-Marie, subduing her
emotion. "Every fault is worthy of pity when followed by repentance."
"After two years passed in this wretched mode of existence she repented
sincerely, and came back to Gerolstein. She chanced to lodge in the
house of a good and pious widow; encouraged by her kindness, the poor
creature told her all her sad story, adding that she bitterly regretted
the faults of her early life, and that all she desired was to enter some
religious house, where by prayer and penitence she might atone for her
sins. She is only eighteen, very beautiful, and possesses a considerable
sum of money, which she wishes to bestow on the convent she enters."
"I undertake to provide for her," said Fleur-de-Marie; "since she
repents, she is worthy of compassion; her remorse must be more bitter in
proportion as it is sincere."
"I hear the grand duke," said the lady in waiting, without remarking
Fleur-de-Marie's agitation; and, as she spoke, Rodolph entered, holding
a large bouquet of roses in his hand.
At the sight of the prince the countess retired, and scarcely had she
left the apartment than Fleur-de-Marie threw herself into her father's
arms, and leant her head on his shoulder.
"Good morning, love," said Rodolph, pressing her to his heart. "See what
beautiful roses; I never saw finer ones." And the prince made a slight
motion as if to disengage himself from her and look at her, when, seeing
her weeping, he threw down the bouquet, and, taking her hands, cried:
"You are weeping! What is the matter?"
"Nothing, dear father," said Fleur-de-Marie, striving to smile.
"My child," replied Rodolph, "you are concealing something from me; tell
me, I entreat you, what thus distresses you. Never mind the bouquet."
"Oh, you know how fond I am of roses; I always was! Do you recollect,"
added she, "my poor little rose-tree? I have preserved the pieces of it
so carefully!"
At this terrible allusion, Rodolph cried:
"Unhappy child! Is it possible that, in the midst of all the splendour
that surrounds you, you think of the past? Alas! I hoped my tenderness
had made you forget it."
"Forgive me, dear father; I did not mean what I said. I grieve you."
"I grieve, my child, because I know how painful it is for you thus to
ponder over the past."
"Dear father, it is the first time since I have been here."
"The first time you have mentioned it, but not the first time you have
thought of it; I have for a long time noticed your sadness, and was
unable to account for it. My position was so delicate, though I never
told you anything, I thought of you constantly. When I contracted my
marriage, I thought it would increase your happiness. I did not venture
to hope you would quite forget the past; but I hoped that, cherished and
supported by the amiable woman whom I had chosen for my wife, you would
look upon the past as amply atoned for by your sufferings. No matter
what faults you had committed, they have been a thousand times expiated
by the good you have done since you have been here."
"Father!"
"Oh, let me tell you all, since a providential chance has brought about
this conversation I at once desired and dreaded! I would, to secure your
happiness, have sacrificed my affection for Madame d'Harville and my
friendship for Murphy, had I thought they recalled the past to you."
"Oh, their presence, when they know what I was, and yet love me so
tenderly, seems a proof of pardon and oblivion to me! I should have been
miserable if for my sake you had renounced Madame d'Harville's hand."