she was aware of the full extent of my duties to you!"
"Duties to me! What have I done to deserve so much goodness?"
"Until the moment that Heaven restored you to me, your life had been one
of sorrow and misery, and I reproach myself with your sufferings as if I
had caused them, and when I see you happy, it seems to me I am forgiven.
My only wish, my sole aim, is to render you as happy as you were before
unhappy, to exalt you as you have been abased, for the last trace of
your humiliation must disappear when you see the noblest in the land vie
with each other who shall show you most respect."
"Respect to me! Oh, no! It is to my rank and not to myself they show
respect."
"It is to you, dear child,--it is to you!"
"You love me so much, dear father, that every one thinks to please you
by showing me respect."
"Oh, naughty child!" cried Rodolph, tenderly kissing his daughter; "she
will not cede anything to my paternal pride."
"Is not your pride satisfied at my attributing the kindness I receive to
you only?"
"No, that is not the same thing; I cannot be proud of myself, but of
you. You are ignorant of your own merits; in fifteen months your
education has been so perfected that the most enthusiastic mother would
be proud of you."
At this moment the door of the salon opened, and Clemence, grand duchess
of Gerolstein, entered, holding a letter in her hand.
"Here, love, is a letter from France," said she to Rodolph; "I brought
it myself, because I wished to bid good-morrow to my dear child, whom I
have not yet seen to-day."
"This letter arrives most opportunely," said Rodolph. "We were speaking
of the Past; that monster we must destroy, since he threatens the repose
of our child."
"Is it possible that these fits of melancholy we have so often
remarked--"
"Were occasioned by unhappy recollections; but now that we know the
enemy we shall destroy him."
"From whom is this letter?" asked Clemence.
"From Rigolette, Germain's wife."
"Rigolette?" cried Fleur-de-Marie. "Oh, I am so glad!"
"Do you not fear that this letter may serve to awaken fresh
recollections?" said Clemence, in a low tone to Rodolph.
"On the contrary, I wish to destroy these recollections, and I shall,
doubtless, find arms in this letter, for Rigolette is a worthy creature,
who appreciated and adored our child."
Rodolph then read the following letter aloud:
"BOUQUEVAL FARM, August 15, 1841.
"_Monseigneur_:--I take the liberty of writing to you to
communicate a great happiness which has occurred to us, and to
ask of you another favour,--of you, to whom we already owe so
much, or rather to whom we owe the real paradise in which we
live, myself, my dear Germain, and his good mother. It is this,
monseigneur: For the last ten days I have been crazy with joy,
for ten days ago I was confined with such a love of a little
girl, which I say is the image of Germain, he says it is exactly
like me, and our dear mother says it is like us both; the fact
is, it has beautiful blue eyes like Germain, and black curly
hair like mine."
"Good, worthy people, they deserve to be happy!" said Rodolph. "If ever
there was a couple well matched it is they."
"But really, monseigneur, I must ask your pardon for this
chatter. Your ears must often tingle, monseigneur, for the day
never passes that we do not talk of you, when we say to each
other how happy we are, how happy we were, for then your name
naturally occurs. Excuse this blot, monseigneur; but, without
thinking of it, I had written Monsieur Rodolph, as I used to say
formerly, and then I scratched it out. I hope you will find my
writing improved as well as my spelling, for Germain gives me
lessons, and I do not make those long ugly scrawls I used to do
when you mended my pens."
"I must confess," said Rodolph, with a smile, "that my little protegee
makes a mistake, and I am sure Germain is more frequently employed in
kissing the hand of his scholar than in directing it."
"My dear duke, you are unjust," said Clemence, looking at the letter;
"it is rather a very large hand, but very legible."
"Why, yes, she has really improved," observed Rodolph; "it would in
former days have taken eight pages to contain what she now writes in
two." And he continued:
"It is quite true, you know, monseigneur, that you used to mend
my pens, and when we think of it, we two Germains, we feel quite
ashamed when we recollect how free from pride you were. Ah, I am
again chattering instead of saying what we wish to ask of you,
monseigneur; for my husband unites with me, and it is very
important, for we attach a great deal to it, as you will see. We
entreat of you, monseigneur, to have the goodness to choose for
us and give us a name for our dear little daughter; this has
been the wish of the godfather and godmother,--and who do you
think they are, monseigneur? Two persons whom you and the
Marquise d'Harville have taken from misery and made very happy,
as happy as we are. They are Morel, the lapidary, and Jeanne
Duport, a worthy creature whom I met in prison when I went there
to visit my dear Germain, and whom the marquise afterwards took
out of the hospital.
"And now, monseigneur, you must know why we have chosen M. Morel
for godfather, and Jeanne Duport for godmother. We said it would
be one way of again thanking M. Rodolph for all his kindness, to
have, as godfather and godmother for our little one, worthy
persons who owe everything to him and the marchioness; whilst,
at the same time, Morel and Jeanne Duport are the worthiest
people breathing, they are of our own class in life, and
besides, as we say with Germain, they are our kinsfolk in
happiness, for, like us, they are of the family of your
proteges."
"Really, my dear father, this idea is most delightful and excellent!"
said Fleur-de-Marie; "to take for godfather and godmother persons who
owe everything to you and my dear second mother!"
"Yes, indeed, dearest," said Clemence; "and I am deeply touched at their
remembrance."
"And I am very happy to find that my favours have been so well
bestowed," said Rodolph, continuing his letter.
"With the money you gave him, Morel has now become a jewel
broker, and earns enough to bring up his family very
respectably. Poor Louise, who is a very good girl, is going, I
believe, to be married to a very worthy young man, who loves and
respects her as he ought to do, for she has been unfortunate,
but not guilty, and Louise's husband that is to be is perfectly
sensible of this."
Rodolph laid great stress on these last words, looked at his daughter
for a moment, and then continued:
"I must add, monseigneur, that Jeanne Duport, through the
generosity of the marquise, has been separated from her husband,
that bad man who beat her and took everything from her; she has
now her eldest daughter with her: they keep a small trimming
shop, and are doing very well. Germain writes to you regularly,
monseigneur, every month, on the subject of the Bank for
Mechanics out of Work and Gratuitous Loans; there are scarcely
any sums in arrear, and we find already the good effects of it
in this quarter. Nine, at least, poor families can support
themselves in the dead season of work without sending their
clothes and bedding to the pawnbroker's. And when work comes
in, it does one's heart good to see the haste with which they
return the money lent, and they bless you for the loans so
serviceably advanced.
"Yes, monseigneur, they bless you; for, although you say you did
nothing in this but appoint Germain, and that an unknown did
this great benefit, we must always, suppose it was you who
founded it, as it appears to us the most natural idea. There is,
besides, a most famous trumpet to repeat that it is you who are
the real benefactor. This trumpet is Madame Pipelet, who repeats
to every one that it could be no one but her king of lodgers
(excuse her, M. Rodolph, but she always calls you so) who
established such a charitable institution, and her old darling
Alfred is of the same opinion; he is so proud and contented with
his post as porter to the bank that he says all the tricks of M.
Cabrion would not have the slightest effect on him now.
"Germain has read in the newspapers that Martial, a colonist of
Algeria, has been mentioned with great praise for the courage he
had shown in repulsing, at the head of the settlers, an attack
of plundering Arabs, and that his wife, as intrepid as himself,
had been slightly wounded by his side, where she handled her
musket like a real grenadier; since this time, says the
newspaper, she has been called Madame Carabine.
"Excuse this long letter, monseigneur, but I think you will not
be displeased to hear from us news of all those whose benefactor
you have been. I write to you from the farm at Bouqueval, where
we have been since the spring with our good mother. Germain
leaves us in the morning for his business, and returns in the
evening. In the autumn we shall return to Paris.
"It is so strange, M. Rodolph, that I, who could never endure
the country, am now so fond of it; I suppose it is because
Germain likes it so very much.
"As to the farm, M. Rodolph, you who know, no doubt, where the
good little Goualeuse is, will perhaps tell her that we very
often think of her as one of the dearest and gentlest creatures
in the world; and that, for myself, I never think of my own
happy condition without saying to myself, since M. Rodolph was
also the M. Rodolph of dear Fleur-de-Marie, that, no doubt, she
is by his kindness as happy as we are, and that makes one feel
still more happy. Ah, how I chatter! What will you say to all
this? But you are so good, and then, you know, it is your fault
if I go on as long and as merrily as Papa Cretu and Ramonette,
who no longer have a chance with me in singing. You will not
refuse our request, will you, monseigneur? If you will give a
name to our dear little child, it will seem to us that it will
bring her good fortune, like a lucky star.
"If I conclude by saying to you, M. Rodolph, that we try to give
every assistance in our power to the poor, it is not to boast,
but that you may know that we do not keep to ourselves all the
happiness you have given to us; besides, we always say to those
we succour: 'It is not us whom you should thank and bless; it is
M. Rodolph, the best, most generous person in the world.'
"Adieu, monseigneur! And pray believe that when our dear little
child begins to lisp, the first word she shall utter will be
your name, M. Rodolph, and the next those you wrote on the
basket which contained your generous wedding presents to me,
'Labour and discretion, honour and happiness.' Thanks to these
four words, our love and our care, we hope, monseigneur, that
our child will be always worthy to pronounce the name of him who
has been our benefactor, and that of all the unfortunates he
ever knew--Forgive me, monseigneur, but I cannot finish without
the big tears in my eyes, but they are tears of happiness.
Excuse all errors, if you please; it is not my fault, but I
cannot see very clearly, and I scribble.
"I have the honour to be, monseigneur, your respectful and most
grateful servant,
"RIGOLETTE GERMAIN.
"P.S. Ah, monseigneur, in reading my letter over again, I see I
have often written M. Rodolph, but you will excuse me, for you
know, monseigneur, that under any and every name we respect and
bless you alike."
"Dear little Rigolette!" said Clemence, affected by the letter; "how
full of good and right feeling is her letter!"
"It is, indeed!" replied Rodolph. "She has an admirable disposition, her
heart is all that is good; and our dear daughter appreciates her as we
do," he added, addressing Fleur-de-Marie, when, struck by her pale
countenance, he exclaimed, "But what ails you, dearest?"
"Alas! what a painful contrast between my position and that of
Rigolette. 'Labour and discretion, honour and happiness,' these four
words declare all that my life has been, all that it ought to have
been,--a young, industrious, and discreet girl, a beloved wife, a happy
mother, an honoured woman, such is her destiny; whilst I--"
"What do you say?"
"Forgive me, my dear father; do not accuse me of ingratitude. But in
spite of your unspeakable tenderness and that of my second mother, in
spite of the splendour with which I am surrounded, in spite of your
sovereign power, my shame is incurable. Nothing can destroy the past.
Forgive me, dear father. Until now I have concealed this from you; but
the recollection of my original degradation drives me to despair--kills
me--"
"Clemence, do you hear?" cried Rodolph, in extreme distress. "Oh,
fatality--fatality! Now I curse my fears, my silence. This sad idea, so
long and deeply rooted in her mind, has, unknown to us, made fearful
ravages; and it is too late to contend against this sad error. Oh, I am
indeed wretched!"
"Courage, my dearest!" said Clemence to Rodolph. "You said but now that
it is best to know the enemy that threatens us. We know now the cause of
our child's sorrow, and will triumph over it, because we shall have with
us reason, justice, and our excessive love for her."
"And then she will see, too, that her affliction, if it be, indeed,
incurable, will render ours incurable," said Rodolph.
After a protracted silence, during which Fleur-de-Marie appeared to
recover herself, she took Rodolph's and Clemence's hands in her own, and
said in a voice deeply affected, "Hear me, beloved father, and you my
best of mothers. God has willed it, and I thank him for it, that I
should no longer conceal from you all that I feel. I must have done so
shortly, and told you what I will now avow, for I could not longer have
kept it concealed."
"Ah, now I comprehend!" ejaculated Rodolph, "and there is no longer any
hope for her."
"I hope in the future, my dear father, and this hope gives me strength
to speak thus to you."
"And what can you hope for the future, poor child, since your present
fate only causes you grief and torment?"
"I will tell you; but before I do so let me recall to you the past, and
confess before God, who hears me, what I have felt to this time."
"Speak--speak--we listen!" was Rodolph's reply.
"As long as I was in Paris with you, my dearest father, I was so happy
that such days of bliss cannot be paid for too dearly by years of
suffering. You see I have at least known happiness."
"For some days, perhaps."
"Yes, but what pure and unmingled happiness! The future dazzled me,--a
father to adore, a second mother to cherish doubly, for she replaced
mine, whom I never knew. Then--for I will confess all--my pride was
roused in spite of myself. So greatly did I rejoice in belonging to you.
If then I sometimes thought vaguely of the past, it was to say to
myself, 'I, formerly so debased, am the beloved daughter of a sovereign
prince, whom everybody blesses and reveres; I, formerly so wretched, now
enjoy all the splendours of luxury, and an existence almost royal.'
Alas! my father, my good fortune was so unlooked for, your power
surrounded me with so much brilliancy, that I was, perhaps, excusable in
allowing myself to be thus blinded."
"Excusable! Nothing could be more natural, my angelic girl. What was
there wrong in being proud of a rank which was your own, in enjoying the
advantages of a position to which I had restored you? I remember at this
time you were so delightfully gay, and said to me in accents I never can
again hope to hear, 'Dearest father, this is too, too much happiness!'
Unfortunately it was these recollections that begat in me this deceitful
security."
"Do you remember, my father," said Fleur-de-Marie, unable to overcome a
shudder of horror, "do you remember the terrible scene that preceded our
departure from Paris when your carriage was stopped?"
"Yes," answered Rodolph; in a tone of melancholy. "Brave Chourineur!
after having once more saved my life--he died--there, before our eyes."
"Well, my father, at the moment when that unhappy man expired, do you
know whom I saw looking steadfastly at me? Ah, that look--that look! it
has haunted me ever since!" added Fleur-de-Marie, with a shudder.
"What look? Of whom do you speak?" cried Rodolph.
"Of the ogress of the _tapis-franc_!" answered Fleur-de-Marie.
"That monster! You saw her!--and where?"
"Did you not see her in the tavern where the Chourineur died? She was
amongst the women who surrounded us."
"Ah, now," said Rodolph, in a tone of despair, "I understand. Struck
with horror as you were at the murder of the Chourineur, you must have
imagined that you saw something prophetic in the sinister rencontre!"
"Yes, indeed, father, it was so. At the sight of the ogress I felt a
death-like shiver, and it seemed that under her scowl my heart, which,
until then, had been light, joyous, bounding, was instantly chilled to
ice. Yes, to meet that woman at the very instant when the Chourineur
died, saying, 'Heaven is just!' it seemed to me as a rebuke from
Providence for my proud forgetfulness of the past, which I was hereafter
to expiate by humility and repentance."
"But the past was forced on you, and you are not responsible for that in
the sight of God!"
"You were driven to it--overcome--my poor child!"
"Once precipitated into the abyss in spite of yourself, and unable to
quit it in spite of your remorse and despair, through the atrocious
recklessness of the society of which you were a victim, you saw yourself
for ever chained to this den, and it required that chance should throw
you in my way to rescue you from such thraldom."
"Then, too, my child, your father says you were the victim and not the
accomplice of this infamy," said Clemence.
"But yet, my mother, I have known this infamy!" replied Fleur-de-Marie,
in a tone of deepest grief. "Nothing can destroy these fearful
recollections,--they pursue me incessantly, not as formerly, in the
midst of the peaceful inhabitants of the farm, or the fallen women who
were my companions in St. Lazare, but they pursue me even in this
palace, filled with the elite of Germany; they pursue me even to my
father's arms, even to the steps of his throne!" And Fleur-de-Marie
burst into an agony of tears.
Rodolph and Clemence remained silent in presence of this fearful
expression of unextinguishable remorse; they wept, too, for they
perceived that their consolations were vain.
"Since then," continued Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears, "I say to
myself every moment in the day, with bitter shame, 'I am honoured,
revered, and the most eminent and venerated persons surround me with
respect and attention. In the eyes of a whole court the sister of an
emperor has deigned to fasten my bandeau on my forehead, and I have
lived in the mire of the Cite, familiar with thieves and murderers.'
Forgive me, dearest father, but the more elevated my position, the more
deeply sensitive have I been to the deep degradation into which I had
fallen; and at every homage paid me I feel myself guilty of profanation,
and think it sacrilege to receive such attentions, knowing what I have
been; and then I say to myself, 'If God should please that the past were
all known, with what deserved scorn would she be treated whom now they
elevate so high! What a just and fearful punishment!'"
"But, poor girl, my wife and I know the past; we are worthy of our rank,
and yet we cherish you."
"Because you feel for me the tenderness of a father and mother."
"But remember all the good you have done since your residence here, and
the excellent and holy institution you have founded for orphans and poor
forsaken girls! Then, too, the affection which the worthy abbess of Ste.
Hermangeld evinces towards you, ought not that to be attributed to your
unfeigned piety?"
"Whilst the praises of the abbess of Ste. Hermangeld refer only to my
present conduct, I accept it without scruple; but when she cites my
example to the noble young ladies who have taken vows in the abbey, I
feel as if I were the accomplice of an infamous falsehood."
After a long silence Rodolph resumed, with deep melancholy:
"I see it is unavailing to persuade you! Reasoning is impotent against a
conviction the more steadfast as it is derived from a noble and generous
feeling. The contrast of your past and present position must be a
perpetual punishment; forgive me for saying so, my beloved one!"
"Forgive you! And for what, my dear father?"
"For not having foreseen your excessive susceptibility, which, from the
delicacy of your heart, I should have anticipated. And yet what could I
have done? It was my duty solemnly to recognise you as my daughter; yet
I was wrong--wrong to be too proud of you! I should have concealed my
treasure, and lived in retirement with Clemence and you, instead of
raising you high, so high that the past would disappear as I hoped from
your eyes."
Several knocks were heard at this moment, which interrupted the
conversation. Rodolph opened the door, and saw Murphy, who said:
"I beg your your royal highness's pardon for thus disturbing you, but a
courier from the Prince of Herkauesen-Oldenzaal has just arrived with
this letter, which he says is very important, and must be delivered
immediately to your royal highness."
"Thanks, good Murphy. Do not go away," said Rodolph, with a sigh, "I
shall want you presently." And the prince, closing the door, remained a
moment in the ante-room to read the letter which Murphy had brought him,
and which was as follows:
"_My Lord_:--Trusting that the bonds of relationship existing
between us, as well as the friendship with which you have ever
honoured me, will excuse the boldness of the step I am about to
take, I will at once enter upon the purport of my letter,
dictated as it is by a conscientious desire to act as becomes
the man your highness deigns to style his friend.
"Fifteen months have now elapsed since you returned from France,
bringing with you your long-lost daughter, whom you so happily
discovered living with that mother from whom she had never been
parted, and whom you espoused when _in extremis_, in order to
legitimise the Princess Amelie.
"Thus ennobled, of matchless beauty, and, as I learn from my
sister, the abbess of Ste. Hermangeld, endowed with a character
pure and elevated as the princely race from which she springs,
who would not envy your happiness in possessing such a treasure?
"I will now candidly state the purport of my letter, although I
should certainly have been the bearer of the request it
contains, were it not that a severe indisposition detains me at
Oldenzaal.
"During the time my son passed at Gerolstein he had frequent
opportunities of seeing the Princess Amelie, whom he loves with
a passionate but carefully concealed affection. This fact I have
considered it right to acquaint you with, the more especially
as, after having received and entertained my son as
affectionately as though he had been your own, you added to your
kindness by inviting him to return, as quickly as his duties
would allow, to enjoy that sweet companionship so precious to
his heart; and it is probable that my apprising you of this
circumstance may induce you to withdraw your intended
hospitality to one who has presumed to aspire to the affections
of your peerless child.
"I am perfectly well aware that the daughter of whom you are so
justly proud might aspire to the first alliance in Europe, but I
also know that so tender and devoted a parent as yourself would
not hesitate to bestow the hand of the Princess Amelie on my
son, if you believed by so doing her happiness would be secured.
"It is not for me to dwell upon Henry's merits,--you have been
graciously pleased to bestow your approval on his conduct thus
far, and I venture to hope he will never give you cause to
change the favourable opinion you have deigned to express
concerning him.
"Of this be assured, that whatever may be your determination, we
shall bow in respectful and implicit submission to it, and that
I shall never be otherwise than your royal highness's most
humble and obedient servant,
"GUSTAVE PAUL,
"_Prince of Herkauesen-Oldenzaal_."
After the perusal of this letter Rodolph remained for some time sad and
pensive; then a gleam of hope darting across his mind, he returned to
his daughter, whom Clemence was most tenderly consoling.
"My dear child," said he, as he entered, "you yourself observed that
this day seemed destined to be one of important discoveries and solemn
explanations, but I did not then think your words would be so strikingly
verified as they seem likely to be."
"Dear father, what has happened?"
"Fresh sources of uneasiness have arisen."
"On whose account?"
"On yours, my child. I fear you have only revealed to us a portion of
your griefs."
"Be kind enough to explain yourself," said Fleur-de-Marie, blushing.
"Then hearken to me, my beloved child. You have, perhaps, good cause to
fancy yourself unhappy. When, at the commencement of our conversation,
you spoke of the hopes you still entertained, I understood your meaning,
and my heart seemed broken by the blow with which I was menaced, for I
read but too clearly that you desired to quit me for ever, and to bury
yourself in the eternal seclusion of a cloister. My child, say, have I
not divined your intentions?"
"If you would consent," murmured forth Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint,
gasping voice.
"Would you, then, quit us?" exclaimed Clemence.
"The abbey of Ste. Hermangeld is in the immediate neighbourhood of
Gerolstein, and I should frequently see yourself and my father."
"Remember, my child, that vows such as you would take are not to be
recalled. You are scarcely eighteen years of age, and one day you
may--possibly--"
"Oh, think not I should ever regret my choice! There is no rest or peace
for me save in the solitude of a cloister. There I may be happy, if you
and my second mother will but continue to me your affection."
"The duties and consolations of a religious life," said Rodolph, "might,
certainly, if not cure, at least alleviate the anguish of your lacerated
and desponding mind, and although your resolution will cost me dear, I
cannot but approve of it."
"Rodolph!" cried the astonished Clemence, "do I hear aright? Is it
possible you--"
"Allow me more fully to explain myself," replied Rodolph. Then
addressing his daughter, he said, "But before an irrevocable decision is
pronounced, it would be well to ascertain if nothing more suitable, both
to your inclinations and our own, could be found for you than the life
of a nun."
Fleur-de-Marie and Clemence started at Rodolph's words and manner,
while, fixing an earnest gaze on his daughter, the prince said,
abruptly:
"What think you, my child, of your cousin, Prince Henry?"
The brightest blush spread over the fair face of Fleur-de-Marie, who,
after a momentary hesitation, threw herself weeping in her father's
arms.
"Then you love him, do you not, my darling child?" cried Rodolph,
tenderly pressing her hands. "Fear not to confide the truth to your best
friends."
"Alas!" replied Fleur-de-Marie, "you know not what it has cost me to
conceal from you the state of my heart! Had you questioned me on the
subject, I would gladly have told you all, but shame closed my lips, and
would still have done so, but for your inquiry into the nature of my
feelings."
"And have you any suspicion that Henry is aware of your love?"
"Gracious heavens, dearest father!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, shrinking
back in terror, "I trust not!"
"Do you believe he returns your affection?"
"Oh, no, no! I trust he does not! He would suffer too deeply."
"And what gave rise to the love you entertained for your cousin?"
"Alas, I know not! It grew upon me almost unconsciously. Do you remember
a portrait of a youth dressed as a page, in the apartments of the Abbess
de Ste. Hermangeld?"
"I know; it was the portrait of Henry."
"Believing the picture to be of distant date, I one day in your presence
remarked upon the extreme beauty of the countenance, when you jestingly
replied that it was the likeness of an ancestor who, in his youth, had
displayed an extraordinary share of sense, courage, and every estimable
quality; this strengthened my first impression, and frequently after
that day I used to delight in recalling to my mind the fine countenance
and noble features of one I believed to have been long numbered with the
dead. By degrees these reveries began to form one of my greatest
pleasures, and many an hour have I passed gazing, amid smiles and tears,
on one I fondly hoped I might be permitted to know and to love in
another world. For in this," continued poor Fleur-de-Marie, with a most
touching expression, "I well know I am unworthy to aspire to the love of
any one but you, my kind, indulgent parents."
"I can now understand the nature of the reproof you once gave me for
having misled you on the subject of the portrait."
"Conceive, dearest father, what was my confusion when I learnt from the
superior that the portrait was a living subject,--that of her nephew! My
trouble was extreme, and earnestly did I endeavour to erase from my
heart all the fond associations connected with that picture. In vain!
the pertinacity with which I strove to forget but riveted the impression
I had received; and, unfortunately, dear father, you rendered the task
of forgetting more difficult, by continually eulogising the heart,
disposition, and principles of Prince Henry."
"You loved him, then, my child, from merely seeing his likeness and
hearing his praises?"
"Without positively loving him, I felt myself attracted towards him by
an irresistible impulse, for which I bitterly reproached myself; my only
consolation was the thought that no person knew my fatal secret. For how
could I presume to love? How excuse my ingratitude in not contenting
myself with the tenderness bestowed on me by you, my father, and you,
also, dearest mother? In the midst of all these conflicting feelings I
met my cousin, for the first time, at a ball given by you to the
Archduchess Sophia; his resemblance to the portrait too well assured me
it was he; and your introducing Prince Henry to me as a near relative
afforded me ample opportunities of discovering that his manners were as
captivating as his mind was cultivated."
"It is easy to conceive, then, that a mutual passion sprung up between
you! Indeed, he won upon my regard ere I was aware of the ground he had
gained; he spoke of you so admiringly, yet so respectfully."
"You had yourself praised him so highly."
"Not more than he deserved. It is impossible to possess a more noble
nature, or a more generous and elevated character."
"I beseech you, dearest father, to spare me the fresh trial of hearing
him thus praised by you. Alas! I am already wretched enough."
"Go on, my child. I have a reason in thus extolling your cousin--I will
explain hereafter. Proceed."
"Though aware of the danger of thus daily associating with my cousin, I
felt unable to withdraw myself from the pleasure his society afforded
me; nor, spite of my implicit reliance on your indulgence, dear father,
durst I disclose my fears to you. I could then only redouble my efforts
to conceal my unfortunate attachment, and--shall I confess?--there were
moments when, forgetting the past, I gave myself up to all the dear
delights of a friendship hitherto unknown to me. But the departure of
Prince Henry from your court tore the veil from my eyes, and showed me
how truly and ardently I loved him, though not with a sister's love, as
I had made myself believe. I had resolved to open my heart entirely to
you on this subject," continued Fleur-de-Marie, whose strength seemed
utterly exhausted by her long confession, "and then to ask you what
remained for one so every way unfortunate but to seek the repose of a
cloister."
"Then, dearest daughter, let me answer the question ere you have put it,
by saying there is a prospect as bright and smiling awaits your
acceptance, as that you propose is cheerless and gloomy."
"What mean you?"
"Now, then, listen to me. It was impossible for an affection as great as
mine to be blinded to the mutual affection subsisting between yourself
and your cousin; my penetration also quickly discovered that his passion
for you amounted to idolatry; that he had but one hope, one desire on
earth,--that of being loved by you. At the time I played off that little
joke respecting the portrait, I had not the least expectation of Henry's
visiting Gerolstein. When, however, he did come, I saw no reason for
changing the manner in which I had always treated him, and I therefore
invited him to visit us on the same terms of friendly relationship he
had hitherto done. A very little time had elapsed ere Clemence and
myself saw plainly enough the cause of his frequent visits, or the
mutual delight you felt in each other's society. Then mine became a
difficult task.
"On the one hand, I rejoiced as a father that one so every way worthy of
you should have won your affection; then on the other hand, my poor dear
child, your past misfortunes forbade me to encourage the idea of uniting
you to your cousin, to whom I several times spoke in a manner very
different to the tone I should have adopted, had I contemplated
bestowing on him your hand.
"Thus placed in a position so delicate, I endeavoured to preserve a
strict neutrality, discouraging Prince Henry's attentions by every means
in my power, and yet manifesting towards himself the same paternal
kindness with which I had always treated him; and besides, my poor girl,
after a life of so much unhappiness as yours, I could not bring myself
suddenly to tear away the innocent pleasure you appeared to feel in the
company of your cousin. It was something to see you even temporarily
happy and cheerful, and even now your acquaintance with Prince Henry may
be the means of securing your future tranquillity."
"Dear father, I understand you not."
"Prince Paul, Henry's father, has just sent me this letter. While
considering such an alliance as an honour too great to aspire to, he
solicits your hand for his son, who, he states, is inspired with a
passion for you."
"Dearest father!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, concealing her face with her
hands, "do you forget?"
"I forget nothing,--not even that to-morrow you enter a convent, where,
besides, being for ever lost to me, you will pass the remainder of your
days in tears and austerity. If I must part with you, let it be to give
you to a husband who will love you almost as tenderly as your father."
"Married!--and to him, father! You cannot mean it!"
"Indeed I do; but on one condition: that directly after your marriage
has been celebrated here, without pomp or parade, you shall depart with
your husband for some tranquil retreat in Italy or Switzerland, where
you may live unknown, and merely pass for opulent persons of middle
rank. And my reason for attaching this proviso to my consent is because
I feel assured that, in the bosom of simple and unostentatious
happiness, you would by degrees forget the hateful past, which is now
only more painfully contrasted with the pomp and ceremony by which you
are surrounded."
"Rodolph is right," said Clemence. "With Henry for your companion, and
happy in each other's affection, past sorrows will soon be forgotten."
"And as I could not wholly part with you, Clemence and I would pay you a
visit each year. Then when time shall have healed your wounded spirit,
my poor child, and present felicity shall have effaced all recollections
of the past, you will return to dwell among us, never more to part."
"Forget the past in present happiness!" murmured Fleur-de-Marie.
"Even so, my child," replied Rodolph, scarcely able to restrain his
emotion at seeing his daughter's scruples thus shaken.
"Can it be possible," cried Fleur-de-Marie, "that such unspeakable
felicity is reserved for me? The wife of Henry. And one day to pass my
life between him--yourself--and my second mother!" continued she, more
subdued by the ineffable delight such a picture created in her mind.
"All--all that happiness shall be yours, my precious child!" exclaimed
Rodolph, fondly embracing Fleur-de-Marie. "I will reply at once to
Henry's father that I consent to the marriage. Comfort yourself with the
certainty that our separation will be but short; the fresh duties you
will take upon yourself in a wedded life will serve to drive away all
past retrospections and painful reminiscences; and should you yourself
be a mother, you will know and feel how readily a parent sacrifices her
own regrets and griefs to promote the happiness of her child."
"A mother! I a mother!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, with bitter despair,
awakening at that word from the sweet illusion in which her memory
seemed temporarily lulled. "Oh, no! I am unworthy to bear that sacred
name! I should expire of shame in the presence of my own child, if
indeed I could survive the horrible disclosures I must necessarily make
to its father of my past life! Oh, never--never!"
"My child, for pity's sake, listen to me!"
Pale and beautiful amidst her deep distress, Fleur-de-Marie arose with
all the majesty of incurable sorrow, and, looking earnestly at Rodolph,
she said, "We forget that, ere Prince Henry made me his wife, he should
be acquainted with the past!"
"No, no, my daughter," replied Rodolph, "I had by no means forgotten
what he both ought to know and shall learn of the melancholy tale."
"Think you not that I should die, were I thus degraded in his eyes?"
"And he will also admit and feel," added Clemence, "that if I style you
my daughter, he may, without fear or shame, safely call you his wife."
"Nay, dearest mother, I love Prince Henry too truly to bestow on him a
hand that has been polluted by the touch of the ruffians of the Cite."
* * * * *
A short time after this painful scene, the following announcement
appeared in the Official Gazette of Gerolstein:
"The taking of the veil by the most high and mighty Princess Amelie of
Gerolstein took place yesterday in the Abbey of Ste. Hermangeld, in the
presence of the reigning grand duke and all his court. The vows of the
novice were received by the right reverend and illustrious Lord Charles
Maximus, Archbishop of Oppenheim; Monseigneur Annibal Andre, one of the
princes of Delphes and Bishop of Ceuta, _in partibus infidelium_, and
apostolic nuncio, bestowed the salutation and papal benediction. The
sermon was preached by the most reverend Seigneur Pierre d'Asfeld, canon
of the Chapter of Cologne, and count of the Holy Roman Empire. _Veni
Creator Optime!_"
CHAPTER III.
THE VOWS.
_Rodolph to Clemence._
GEROLSTEIN, 12th January, 1842.
Your assurance that your father is better induces me to hope
you will be enabled to return here with him shortly. I dreaded
that at Rosenfeld, situated in the midst of the woods, he would
be exposed to the piercing cold of our rigorous winters, but,
unfortunately, his fondness for hunting rendered all our advice
useless.
I entreat you, Clemence, as soon as your father can bear the
motion of the carriage, quit that country and this habitation,
only fit for those Germans of an iron frame whose race has now
disappeared.
The ceremony of our poor child's taking the vows is fixed for
to-morrow, the thirteenth of January, the fatal day on which I
drew my sword on my father! Alas! I thought too soon I was
forgiven! The hope of passing my life with you and my child made
me forget that it was she who had been punished up to the
present time, and that my punishment was to come. And it is
come, when, six months ago, she disclosed the double torture she
suffered,--her incurable shame for the past, and her hopeless
passion for Henry.
These two sentiments became, by a fatal logic, the cause of her
fixed resolve to take the veil. You know that we could not
conceal from her that, had we been in her place, we should have
pursued the same noble and courageous course she has adopted.
How could we answer those humble words, "I love Prince Henry too
much to give him a hand that has been touched by the bandits of
the Cite!"
I have seen her this morning, and though she seemed less pale
than usual, though she said she did not suffer, yet her health
gives me the most mortal alarm.
Alas! This morning, when I saw beneath the veil those noble
features, I could not refrain from thinking how beautiful she
looked the day of our marriage; it seemed that our happiness was
reflected on her face.
As I told you, I saw her this morning. She does not know that
to-morrow the Princess Juliana resigns her abbatical dignity,
and that she has been unanimously chosen to succeed her.
Since the beginning of her novitiate there has been but one
opinion of her piety, her charity, and the exactitude with which
she fulfils all the rules of the order; she even exaggerates
their austerity. She exercises in the convent that authority she
exercised everywhere, but of which she herself is ignorant. She
confessed to me this morning that she is not so absorbed by her
religious duties as to forget the past.
"I accuse myself, dear father," said she, "because I cannot help
reflecting that, had Heaven pleased to spare me the degradation
that has stained my life, I might have lived happily with you
and my husband. Spite of myself, I reflect on this, and on what
passed in the Cite. In vain I beseech Heaven to deliver me from
these temptations,--to fill my heart with himself; but he does
not hear my prayers, doubtless because my life has rendered me
unworthy of communion with him."
"But," cried I, clinging to this faint glimmer of hope, "it is
not yet too late; your novitiate is only over to-day; you are
yet free. Renounce this austere life, dwell again with us, and
our tenderness shall soften your grief."
Shaking her head sorrowfully, she replied:
"The cloister is, indeed, solitary for me, accustomed as I have
been to your tender care; doubtless cruel recollections come
over me, but I am consoled by the knowledge that I am performing
my duty. I know that everywhere else I should be liable to be
placed in that position in which I have already suffered so
much. Your daughter shall do what she ought to do, suffer what
she ought to suffer."
Without founding any great hopes on this interview, I yet said
to myself, "She can renounce the cloister. But as she is
determined, I can but repeat her words, 'God alone can offer me
a refuge worthy of himself.'" Adieu, dear Clemence! It consoles
me to see you grieve with me, for I can say 'our' child without
egotism in my sufferings. Often this thought lightens my sorrow,
for you are left to me, and what is left to Fleur-de-Marie?
Adieu again; return soon.
R.
ABBEY OF STE. HERMANGELD.
Four o'clock in the morning.
Reassure yourself, Clemence! Thank God, the danger is over, but
the crisis was terrible!
Last evening, agitated by my thoughts, I recollected the
paleness and languor of my poor child, and that she was obliged
to pass almost all the night in the church in prayer.
I sent Murphy and David to demand the Princess Juliana's
permission to remain until the morrow in the mansion that Henry
occupied usually; thus my child would have prompt assistance,
and I prompt intelligence, in case that her strength failed
under this rigorous, I will not say cruel, obligation to pass
the whole of a cold winter's night in the church.
[Illustration: "In the Church in Prayer"
Original Etching by Mercier]
I wrote to Fleur-de-Marie that, whilst I respected her religious
exercises, I besought her to watch in her cell and not in the
church. This was her reply:
"_My dear Father_:--I thank you for this fresh proof of
your tenderness, but be not alarmed, I am sufficiently
strong to perform my duty. Your daughter must be guilty
of no weakness. The rule orders it, I must submit. Should
it cause me some physical sufferings, how joyfully shall
I offer them to God! Adieu, dear father! I cannot say I
pray for you, because whenever I pray to Heaven I cannot
help remembering you in my prayers. You have been to me
on earth what God will be, if I merit it, in heaven.
Bless your child, who will be to-morrow the spouse of
Heaven.
"SISTER AMELIE."
This letter, in some measure, reassured me; however I had, also,
a vigil to keep. At nightfall I went to a pavilion I had built,
near my father's monument, in expiation of this fatal night.
About one o'clock I heard Murphy's voice. He came from the
convent in order to inform me that, as I had feared, my unhappy
child, spite of her resolution, had not had sufficient strength
to accomplish this barbarous custom.
At eight o'clock in the evening Fleur-de-Marie knelt and prayed
until midnight, but, overpowered by her emotion and the intense
cold, she fainted; two nuns instantly raised her, and bore her
to her cell. David was instantly summoned, and Murphy came to
me. I hastened to the convent, where the abbess assured me that
my daughter's swoon, from which she had recovered, had been
caused only by her weakness, but that David feared that my
presence might seriously affect her. I feared they were
preparing me for something more dreadful, but the superior said:
"I assure you, monseigneur, the princess is in no danger; the
restorative the doctor has given her has greatly recruited her
strength."
David soon returned. She was better, but had insisted upon
continuing her vigil, consenting only to kneel upon a cushion.
"She is in the church, then?" cried I.
"Yes, monseigneur, but she will quit it in a quarter of an
hour."
I entered the church, and, by the faint light of a lamp, I saw
her kneeling and praying fervently. Three o'clock struck; two
sisters, seated in the stalls, advanced and spoke to her; she
crossed herself, rose, and traversed the choir with a firm step,
and yet as she passed the lamp she seemed to me deathly pale. I
remain at the abbey until the ceremony be over. I think now it
is useless to send this letter incomplete. I will forward it
to-morrow, with all the details of this sad day. Adieu,
dearest!--I am heart-broken--pity!
R.
THE LAST CHAPTER.
THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY.
_Rodolph to Clemence._
The thirteenth of January! Now a doubly sinister anniversary!
Dearest, we have lost her for ever! All is over,--ended all. It
is true, then, that there is a horrid pleasure in relating a
terrible grief.
Yesterday I was complaining of the necessity that kept you from
me; to-day, Clemence, I congratulate myself that you are not
here,--you would have suffered too much. This morning I was in a
light slumber, and was awakened by the sound of bells. I started
in affright; it seemed to me a funereal sound,--a knell! In
fact, our daughter is dead,--dead to us! And from to-day,
Clemence, you must begin to wear her mourning in your heart, a
heart always so maternally disposed towards her. Whether our
child be buried beneath the marble of the tomb or the vault of
the cloister, what is the difference to us? Hardly eighteen
years of age, yet dead to the world!
At noon the profession took place, with solemn pomp, and I was
present, concealed behind the curtains of our pew. I felt, but
even with greater intensity, all the poignant emotion we
underwent at her novitiate. How strange! She is adored! And they
believe, universally, that she was attracted to a religious life
by an irresistible vocation; and yet whilst they believed it was
a happy event for her, an overwhelming sadness weighed down the
spectators. There appeared in the very air, as it were, a
doleful foreboding, and it was founded, if only half realised.
The profession terminated, they led our child into the
chapter-room, where the nomination of the new abbess was to take
place, and, thanks to my sovereign privilege, I went into this
room to await Fleur-de-Marie's return to the choir. She soon
entered; her emotion and weakness were so excessive that two of
the sisters supported her. I was alarmed, less at her paleness
and the great change in her features, than at the peculiar
expression of her smile, which seemed to me imprinted with a
kind of secret satisfaction.
Clemence, I say to you, perhaps we may very soon require all our
courage,--I feel within myself that our child is mortally
smitten. May Heaven grant that I am deceived, and may my
presentiments arise only from the despairing sadness which this
melancholy spectacle has inspired!
Fleur-de-Marie entered the chapter-room, all the stalls were
filled by the nuns. She went modestly to place herself last on
the left-hand side, still leaning on the arm of one of the
sisters, for she yet appeared very weak.
The Princess Juliana was seated at the end of the apartment,
with the grand prioress on one side and another dignitary on the
other, holding in her hand the golden crozier, the symbol of
abbatial authority. There was profound silence; and then the
lady abbess rose, took the crozier in her hand, and said, in a
voice of great emotion:
"My dear daughters, my great age compels me to confide to
younger hands this emblem of my spiritual power," and she
pointed to the crozier. "I am authorised by a bull of our holy
father; I will, therefore, present to the benediction of
monseigneur the Archbishop of Oppenheim, and to the approbation
of his royal highness the grand duke our sovereign, whosoever of
my dear daughters shall be pointed out by you to succeed me.
Our grand prioress will inform you of the result of the
election, and she who has been chosen will receive my crozier
and ring."
I did not take my eyes off my daughter. Standing up in her
stall, her two hands folded over her bosom, her eyes cast down,
and half covered by her white veil and the long folds of her
black gown, she was pensive and motionless, not supposing for a
moment that she would herself be elected, as this fact had been
communicated by the abbess to no one but myself.
The grand prioress took a book and read:
"Each of our dear sisters having been, according to the rule,
requested a week since to place her vote in the hands of our
holy mother, and keep her choice secret until this moment, in
the name of our holy mother I declare to you, my dear, dear
sisters, that one of you has, by her exemplary piety, merited
the unanimous suffrages of the community, and that she is our
sister Amelie, the most noble and puissant Princess of
Gerolstein."
At these words a murmur of pleased surprise and satisfaction
went around the apartment; the eyes of all the nuns were fixed
on my daughter with an expression of tender sympathy, and, in
spite of my painful forebodings, I was myself deeply touched at
this nomination, which, done isolatedly and secretly, had yet
presented such an affecting unanimity.
The abbess continued, in a serious and loud voice:
"My dear daughters, if it be, indeed, Sister Amelie whom you
think the most worthy and most deserving of you all,--if it be
she whom you recognise as your spiritual superior, let each of
you reply to me in turn, my dear daughters."
And each nun replied in a clear voice:
"Freely and voluntarily I have chosen, and I do choose, Sister
Amelie for my holy mother and superior."
Overcome by inexpressible emotion, my poor child fell on her
knees, clasped her hands, and remained so until each vote was
declared. Then the abbess, placing the crozier and the ring in
the hands of the grand prioress, advanced towards my daughter to
take her hand and conduct her to the abbatial seat.
"Rise, my dear daughter," said the abbess; "come and assume the
place that belongs to you. Your virtues, and not your rank, have
obtained for you the position you have gained."
Fleur-de-Marie, trembling, advanced a few steps, and said:
"Pardon me, holy mother, but I would speak to my sisters."
"Then first place yourself, my dear child, in your abbatial
seat," said the princess; "it is from thence your voice shall be
heard."
"That place, holy mother, never can be mine!" replied
Fleur-de-Marie, in a low and tremulous voice.
"What mean you, my dear daughter?"
"So high a dignity was not made for me, holy mother."
"But the wishes of all your sisters call you to it."
"Permit me, holy mother, to make here, on my knees, a solemn
confession; and my sisters will see, and you, also, holy mother,
that the humblest condition is not humble enough for me."
"This arises from your modesty, my dear child," said the
superior, with kindness, believing that the unhappy girl was
giving way to a feeling of overdelicacy.
But I divined the confession Fleur-de-Marie was about to make,
and, greatly alarmed, I exclaimed, in a voice of entreaty:
"My child, I conjure thee--"
It is impossible, my dearest Clemence, to describe the look
which Fleur-de-Marie gave me. In an instant she understood all,
and saw how deeply I should share in the shame of this horrible
revelation. She comprehended that after such a confession they
might accuse me of falsehood, for I had always made it out that
Fleur-de-Marie had never left her mother. At this reflection the
poor dear child thought she would be guilty of the blackest
ingratitude towards me; she had not power to continue, but bowed
down her head, overcome--overwhelmed.
"Again I assure you, my dear child," said the abbess, "your
modesty deceives you. The unanimity of the choice of your
sisters proves how worthy you are to replace me. It is not the
princess--it is Sister Amelie who is elected. For us your life
began on the day when you first put foot in this house of the
Lord, and it is this exemplary and holy life that we recompense.
I will say more, my dear daughter; if before you entered this
retreat your life had been as wrong as it has been, on the
contrary, pure and praiseworthy, the heavenly virtues of which
you have given me an example since your abode here would expiate
and ransom, in the eyes of the Lord, any past life, however
culpable. And now, my dear daughter, judge if your modesty ought
not to be reassured."
These words of the abbess were, as you may think, my Clemence,
the more precious for Fleur-de-Marie, as she believed the past
ineffaceable. Unfortunately, this scene had deeply moved her,
and, although she affected calmness and serenity, I saw that her
features altered in a most distressing manner.
"I believe I have convinced you, my dear daughter," said the
Princess Juliana; "and you will not cause so great a grief to
your sisters as to refuse this mark of their confidence and
affection?"
"No, holy mother," she said, with an expression which struck me,
and in a voice more and more feeble, "I think now I may accept;
but as I feel myself fatigued and in pain, if you will permit
it, holy mother, the ceremony of the consecration shall not
take place for a few days."
"As you wish, my dear daughter; but in the meanwhile, until your
dignity is blessed and consecrated, take this ring, come to your
place, and our dear sisters will do you homage according to our
rules."
And the superior, putting the pastoral ring on Fleur-de-Marie's
finger, led her to the abbatial seat. It was a simple and
touching sight. Supported on one side by the grand prioress,
bearing the golden crozier, and on the other by the Princess
Juliana, each of the sisters, as she passed by, made obeisance
to our child, and respectfully kissed her hand. But judge of my
affright when she swooned before the procession of the sisters
was terminated. David had not quitted the convent, and he
hastened to the abbess's apartment, whither we had conveyed her,
and then attended to her.
The superior having returned to close the sitting of the
chapter, I remained alone with my daughter. After looking at me
for some time, she said:
"My dear father, can you forget my ingratitude? Can you forget
that at the moment when I was about to make my painful
confession--when you implored me--"
"Silence! I beseech you!"
"And I did not reflect," she continued, with bitterness, "that,
in telling in the face of all the world from what an abyss of
depravity you had rescued me, I revealed a secret which you had
preserved out of tenderness to me! It would have been to accuse
you publicly--you, my father--of a dissimulation, which you only
resigned yourself to to assure me a brilliant and honoured
existence! Can you ever forgive me?"
Instead of replying, I pressed my lips on her forehead; she felt
my tears flow. Having kissed my hands many times, she said:
"Now I feel better, and, as now I am dead to the world, I should
like to make a few bequests in favour of several persons; but as
all I have comes from you, do you authorise me, dearest father?"
"Say, dearest, and I will do all you desire."
"I should wish my beloved mother to keep always in the little
boudoir in which she usually sits my embroidery-frame, with the
work I began."
"It shall be so, love; your apartment is as when you left it.
Clemence will be deeply touched by your thought of her."
"As for you, dear father, take, I pray, my large ebony armchair,
in which I have thought of--reflected upon so much."
"I will put it beside my own, in my own private closet, and will
imagine I see you in it every day, where you have so often sat,"
I said, unable to repress my tears.
"And now I would leave some souvenirs to those who took so much
interest in me when I was unhappy. To Madame Georges I would
give the writing-desk I have lately used; she taught me to write
originally, so the gift will be very appropriate," she said,
with her sweet smile. "As to the venerable cure of Bouqueval,
who instructed me in religion, I intend for him the beautiful
crucifix in my oratory."
"Very well, my dearest child."
"I should like to send my bandeau of pearls to my good little
Rigolette; it is a simple ornament which she may wear in her
beautiful black hair. And as you know where Martial and La Louve
are in Algeria, I should like to send to the brave woman who
saved my life my gold enamelled cross. These different
keepsakes, dearest father, I would have sent to them 'from
Fleur-de-Marie.'"
"I will do all you wish,--I will not forget one."
"I am sure you will not, dearest father."
"Is there no other person present to your memory?"
The dear child understood me, and pressed my hand, whilst a
slight blush tinged her pale cheeks as I said, "He is
better--out of danger."
"And his father?"
"Better as his son is better. And what will you give to Henry? A
souvenir from you will be a consolation so dear and precious!"
"My father, offer him my _prie-Dieu_. Alas! I have often watered
it with my tears when begging from Heaven for strength to forget
Henry, as I was unworthy of his love."
"How happy it will make him to see that you have had one thought
of him!"
"As to the asylum for the orphans and young girls abandoned by
their parents, I should wish, my dear father, that--"
Here Rodolph's letter was broken off by these words, almost
illegible:
"Clemence, Murphy will conclude this letter! I am lost,--bereft
of sense! Ah, the thirteenth of January!"
At the end of this letter Murphy had written as follows:
_Madame_:--By the order of his royal highness I complete this
sorrowful recital. The two letters of monseigneur will have
prepared your royal highness for the overwhelming news I have to
communicate. Three hours since, whilst monseigneur was writing
to your royal highness, I was waiting in the antechamber for a
letter to be despatched by a courier, when suddenly I saw the
Princess Juliana enter in the greatest consternation.
"Where is his royal highness?" she said to me, in an agitated
voice.
"Writing to the grand duchess," I replied.
"Sir Walter," she said, "you must inform monseigneur of a
terrible event. You are his friend,--you should tell him; from
you the blow may be less terrible!"
I understood all, and thought it most prudent to charge myself
with the distressing intelligence. The superior having added
that the Princess Amelie was sinking gradually, and that
monseigneur must hasten to receive his daughter's last sigh, I
went into the duke's room, who saw how pale I was.
"You have some bad news for me?"
"Terrible, monseigneur! But courage! Courage!"
"Ah, my forebodings!" he exclaimed; and, without adding a word,
he ran to the cloisters. I followed him.
From the apartment of the superior, the Princess Amelie had been
conveyed to her cell, after her last interview with monseigneur.
One of the sisters watched over her, and at the end of an hour
she perceived that the Princess Amelie's voice, who spoke to her
at intervals, was weaker, and more and more oppressed. The
sister hastened to inform the superior, who sent for Doctor
David, who administered a cordial; but it was useless, the pulse
was scarcely perceptible. He saw with despair that the
reiterated emotions having probably exhausted the little
strength of the Princess Amelie, there was not a hope of saving
her left. Monseigneur arrived at this moment. The Princess
Amelie had just received the last sacrament; a slight degree of
consciousness remained. In one hand, crossed over her chest, she
held the remains of her little rose-tree.
Monseigneur fell on his knees at the foot of the bed, and
sobbed, "My child! My beloved child!" in a voice of piercing
agony. The Princess Amelie heard him, turned her head a little
towards him, opened her eyes, tried to smile, and said, in a
faint voice, "My dearest father, pardon!--Henry, too!--and my
beloved mother!--pardon!"
These were her last words. After a slight struggle of one hour,
she rendered her soul to God.
When his daughter had breathed her last sigh, monseigneur did
not say a word; his calmness and silence were frightful. He
closed the eyelids of the princess, kissed her forehead several
times, took piously from her hands the relics of the little
rose-tree, and left the cell. I followed him, and he returned to
the house outside the cloister, when, showing me the letter he
had commenced writing to your royal highness, and to which he in
vain endeavoured to add a few words, for his hand trembled too
convulsively, he said to me, "I cannot write! I am crushed! My
senses are gone! Write to the grand duchess that I have no
longer a daughter!"
I have executed the orders of monseigneur. May I be allowed, as
his old servant, to entreat your royal highness to hasten your
return as soon as the health of M. d'Orbigny will permit?
Nothing but the presence of your royal highness can calm
monseigneur's despair. He will watch his daughter's remains
every night until the day when she is to be buried in the
grand-ducal chapel.
I have accomplished my sad task, madame. Deign, to excuse the
incoherence of this letter, and to receive the expression of
respectful devotion with which I have the honour to be
Your royal highness's most obedient servant,
WALTER MURPHY.
On the evening before the funeral of the Princess Amelie, Clemence
arrived at Gerolstein with her father. Rodolph was not alone on the day
of Fleur-de-Marie's interment.
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
This e-text was prepared from numbered edition 505 of the 1000 printed.
Minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made without
comment.
Minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled correctly
throughout the text have been made without comment.
Word Variations appearing in the original text which have been retained:
"ante-room" (1) and "anteroom" (1)
"death-like" (1) and "deathlike" (1)
"for ever" (1) and "forever" (1)
"proteges" (1) and "protegees" (1)
"work-girl" (1) and "workwoman" (1)
Throughout the text, illustrations and their captions were placed on
facing pages. For the purpose of this e-text these pages have been
combined into one entry.
Footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed
directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears.