As he who was first of the wayfaring men

Advanced, the mute burden was lowered, and then

As he touched the white grave‐cloths that covered the bier

The bearers shrank back, but the mother drew near.

V.

Her snow‐sprinkled tresses had loosened their strands,

Great tears fell unchecked on the tightly clasped hands;

But hushed the wild sobbing, and stifled her cries,

As Jesus of Nazareth lifted his eyes.

VI.

Eyes wet with compassion as slowly they fell—

Eyes potent to soften grief’s tremulous swell,

As, sweetly and tenderly, “Weep not,” he said,

And turned to the passionless face of the dead.

VII.

White, white gleamed his forehead, loose rippled the hair,

Bronze‐tinted, o’er temples transparently fair;

And a glory stole up from the earth to the skies,

As he called to the voiceless one, “Young man, arise!”

VIII.

The hard, rigid outlines grew fervid with breath,

The dull eyes unclosed from the midnight of death;

Weep, weep, happy mother, and fall at his feet:

Life’s pale, blighted promise grown hopeful and sweet.

IX.

The morning had passed, and the midday heats burned:

Once more to the pathway the wayfarers turned.

The conqueror of kings had been conquered again:

There was joy in the house of the widow of Nain.

Fleurange.

By Mrs. Craven, Author Of “A Sister’s Story.”

Translated From The French, With Permission.

Part IV. The Immolation.

LIX.

Several hours had passed since Fleurange’s return. Anxiety, horror,

sadness, and emotion, which by turns filled her heart during the affecting

scene we have just described, now gave place to a feeling in which a

sweet, profound sense of gratitude predominated.

Ah! no one could comprehend, without the experience faith alone gives, the

mysterious joy that penetrates the heart when the salvation of a soul

seems assured; when, in a tangible manner, as it were, the abyss of divine

mercy which ever surrounds us, opens and allows us to sound its depths;

when, in answer to our tears, we almost behold the heavens open; when, in

return for _pardon implored_, we are made to comprehend the ineffable

signification of two other words, sweet as mercy and boundless as

infinitude—_pardon obtained_.

Fleurange therefore felt, if not happy—for the impressions of the day had

been too solemn not to have left a veil of sadness on her soul—at least

calm and serene. The sight of that death‐bed had put to flight some of the

dreams she so often abandoned herself to now without scruple—dreams of

passionate joy at her approaching sacrifice, mingled with the perspective

of a brighter future, in which her happiness with George would be

increased and consecrated by the sufferings they first shared together—the

cherished theme on which lingered her imagination, her heart, and even her

soul, which had faith in the efficacy of sacrifice, and instinctively made

it the basis of its hopes. Everything, even this, was forgotten for the

moment. It was as if a graver, purer, holier strain had put to flight the

mingled harmony in which heaven and earth seemed almost confounded.

Hitherto, the idea of immolating herself with and for another had seemed

noble; but at this quiet hour, after a day of so much agitation, a

sublimer thought sprang up in her soul in spite of herself; it was that of

a sacrifice unknown to the person for whom one immolates one’s self!

Was not the greatest of sacrifices—the sacrifice which is our example—of

such a nature? Was it not made for those who were unaware of it? And has

not this very ignorance been regarded by the eternal goodness as a plea

for disarming eternal justice?

Fleurange did not attempt to thus define her confused thoughts; she

allowed them to float in her mind without welcoming or rejecting them. She

was in that frame of mind which unconsciously enfolds a latent disposition

in the depths of the soul, that suddenly develops into efforts and

sacrifices which seem impossible an hour before they have to be made.

She was alone in one corner of a large, white marble fireplace in which

blazed a good fire. She preferred this salon to the others, which were

heated invisibly, though it was the smallest in the house, and it was the

one she habitually occupied. Clement, after accompanying her home, had

returned to the sad place they visited together to obtain, if not an

honorable, at least a separate burial of his unfortunate cousin’s remains.

Mademoiselle Josephine, at her usual hour, had gone to her fine chamber,

which she now occupied with less uneasiness than the first night, and had

been for an hour in the capacious bed, where she had learned to sleep as

comfortably as under the muslin curtains which generally guarded her

slumbers.

It was nearly ten o’clock, and Fleurange in her turn was about to retire,

when the noise of a carriage was heard, the bell rang, and a few minutes

after a card was brought her. She looked at it: “The Countess Vera de

Liningen”—and beneath, written with a pencil: “Will Mademoiselle Fleurange

d’Yves have the kindness to see me a moment?”

“Vera!—the Countess Vera!—”

Fleurange repeated the name twice. It was the first time she had thought

of it since she left Florence. She remembered hearing it once in a

conversation between the Princess Catherine and the marquis, the first

time she ever saw the latter. From that time, Vera’s name had never been

mentioned before her. The marquis instinctively avoided it in talking with

her the day before, as he did that of Gabrielle in conversing with Vera,

and no one mentioned it at the palace. Fleurange’s surprise was therefore

inexpressible. She remained with her eyes fixed on the card, till the

valet de chambre took the liberty of reminding her the Countess Vera was

waiting in her carriage for an answer.

“Certainly. Ask her to come up.” Then she waited, with a mixture of

curiosity and embarrassment, for the entrance of the visitor, without

knowing exactly why. She was almost breathless from agitation; but when

the door opened, and she saw the beautiful maid of honor, she felt

partially relieved.

“Ah! it is you, mademoiselle,” she exclaimed joyfully. “Pardon me for not

having divined it immediately, but I did not know this morning the name of

her who received me so kindly.”

It now occurred to Fleurange that the maid of honor had been sent by the

empress sooner than she expected with the favorable reply promised, but

the visitor’s pale face and silence struck her and checked the words on

her lips.

“You were unaware of my name this morning, but did you never hear it

before?”

Fleurange blushed. “Never would be incorrect,” replied she.—And she

stopped.

“No matter,” continued Vera. “I do not care to know when or how you heard

it. I can imagine they did not say much to you about me. But allow me to

ask you in my turn if you have not another name besides that under which I

had the honor of presenting you to her majesty!”

“My name is Fleurange,” replied the young girl simply, “but it is not the

one I habitually bear.”

“And your other name?” asked Vera, with a trembling voice.

Fleurange was astonished at the manner in which this question was asked,

and still more so at the effect of her reply, which produced a frightful

change in the listener’s face.

“Gabrielle!” repeated she. “I guessed rightly, then.”

An embarrassing silence followed this exclamation. Fleurange did not know

what to say. She awaited an explanation of the scene which appeared more

and more strange. But while she was looking at Vera with increased

surprise during this long silence, a sudden apprehension seized her, and a

faint glimpse of the truth flashed across her mind. Nothing could have

been more vague than the remembrance of the name mentioned before her but

once, but that time it was in a conversation respecting George, and she

bethought herself that she understood it to be a question of a marriage

the princess desired for her son. Was it with reluctance Vera had now

brought the permission for another to accompany him? Such was the question

Fleurange asked herself. Approaching Vera, therefore, she said to her

softly:

“If you have come with a message, how can I thank you sufficiently,

mademoiselle, for taking the trouble of bringing it yourself!”

Vera hastily withdrew her hand, and retreated several steps; then, as if

suffering from an emotion she could not overcome, she fell into an arm‐

chair beside the table, and for some moments remained pale and breathless,

with a gloomy, forbidding air, wiping away from time to time with an

abrupt gesture the tears which, in spite of all her efforts, escaped from

her eyes.

Fleurange, motionless with surprise, looked at her with mingled interest

and astonishment, but, the frank decision of her character prevailing over

her timidity, she came at once to the point.

“Countess Vera,” said she, “if I have not guessed the motive that brings

you here, tell me the real one; there is something in all this which I do

not understand. Be frank; I will be likewise. Let us not remain thus

towards one another. Above all, do not look at me as if we were not only

strangers, but enemies.”

At this word, Vera raised her head. “Enemies!” she said. “Well, yes, at

present we are.”

What did she mean? Fleurange crossed her arms, and looked at her

attentively, trying to guess the meaning of her enigmatical words, and the

still more obscure enigma of her face, which expressed by turns the most

contradictory sentiments; the enigma of her eyes, which sometimes gazed at

her with hatred, and then with sweetness and a humble, beseeching look. At

length Vera seemed decided to continue. “You are right,” she said; “I must

put an end to your suspense, and explain my strange conduct; but I need

courage to do this. To come here as I have, to appeal to you as I am going

to do, I must—I must, without knowing why—”

“Well,” said Fleurange with a faint smile, “continue. You must what?”

Vera went on in a low tone, as if affected: “I must have had a secret

instinct that you were kind and generous.”

This result of so much hesitation did not throw any light on the subject,

but only made it more obscure.

“There has been preamble enough,” said Fleurange, with a calm accent of

firmness. “Speak clearly now, Countess Vera, tell me everything without

reservation. You may believe nothing to fear. Though your words do me an

injury I can neither foresee nor comprehend, speak, I insist upon it.

Hesitate no longer.”

“Well, here,” said Vera, suddenly throwing on the table a paper till now

concealed.

Fleurange took it, looked at it, and blushed at first, then turned pale.

“My petition!” she said. “You have brought it back? It has been refused,

then?”

“No; it was not sent.”

“You mean that the empress, after showing me so much kindness, changed her

mind and refused to present it?”

“No; on the contrary, she ordered me to forward your petition, and to add

her recommendation.”

“Well?”

“I disobeyed her orders.”

“I await the explanation you doubtless intend giving me. Go on without any

interruption; I am listening.”

“Well, first, did you know that George de Walden was the husband promised

me—to whom my father destined me from infancy?”

“Who was promised you!—from infancy! No, I did not know that. No matter;

go on.”

“No matter, indeed; that is not the point, though it is proper to inform

you of it. Neither is it a question of his misfortune, or his frightful

sentence, or that terrible Siberia where you wished to accompany him and

participate in a lot the severities of which you could neither alleviate

nor perhaps endure. This is the point: to preserve him from that destiny,

to save him, to enable him to regain life, honor, and liberty—in a word,

all he has lost. His property, name, and rank can all be restored to him.

It is this I have come to tell you and ask you to second.”

“All can be restored to him?” repeated Fleurange, in a strange voice. “By

what means?—what authority?”

“The emperor’s. I have appealed to his clemency, and my prayers have

prevailed, but on two conditions, one of which is imposed on George, and

the other depends on me. To these two conditions, there is a third which

depends on you—you alone!”

Fleurange’s large eyes fastened on Vera with an expression of profound

astonishment and anguish.

“Finish, I conjure you, if you are not mad in speaking to me so, or I in

listening to you—if we are not both deprived of our reason!”

Vera clasped her hands, and passionately exclaimed: “Oh! I beg you to have

pity on him!” She stopped, choked with emotion.

Fleurange continued to gaze at her with the same expression, and, without

speaking, made a sign for her to continue. She seemed to concentrate her

attention in order to comprehend the words addressed her.

“I am waiting,” she said at last. “I am listening attentively and calmly;

speak to me in the same manner.”

Vera resumed in a calmer tone: “Well, this morning just as I had finished

reading your petition and learned for the first time who the exile was you

wished to accompany—at that very moment the emperor arrived at the palace

and sent for me.”

“The emperor!” said Fleurange, with surprise.

“Yes, and can you imagine what he wished to say to me? You could not, and

I am not surprised, for you are not aware how earnestly I had solicited

George’s pardon, and, to this end, how zealously I had sought out every

circumstance calculated to conciliate his sovereign. Well, what the

emperor wished to inform me was that this pardon would be granted me—_me_,

do you understand?—but on two conditions.”

“His pardon!” exclaimed Fleurange. “Go on, I am listening.—”

“The first, that he should pass four years on his estates in Livonia

without leaving them.—” Vera stopped.

“I hear; and next?” said Fleurange, raising her eyes.

“Next,” said Vera slowly and anxiously, “that the will of my father and

his should be fulfilled before his departure.”

Fleurange shuddered. An icy chill struck to her heart, and her head swam

as if with dizziness. But she remained perfectly motionless.

“His pardon is at this price?” said she in a low voice.

“Yes; the emperor has taken an interest in me from my childhood; he loved

my father, and it has pleased him to make this act of clemency depend on

the accomplishment of my father’s wish.”

There was a long silence. Vera herself trembled at seeing Fleurange’s pale

lips, and colorless cheeks, and her eyes looking straightforward, lost in

space.

“And he?”—she said at last. “He accepts his pardon on this

condition—without hesitation?”

“Without hesitation!” repeated Vera, blushing with new emotion. “That is

what I cannot say. It is this doubt that humiliates and alarms me, for the

emperor would regard the least hesitation as fresh ingratitude, and

perhaps would annul his pardon.”

“But why should he hesitate?” said Fleurange, in an almost inaudible tone.

“Fleurange,” said Vera, in that passionate tone she had used two or three

times during this interview, “let us rend each other’s hearts, if need be,

but let us go on to the end. Have you had permission to see George since

you came?”

“No.”

“But he expects you; he knows you have arrived, and the devotedness that

has brought you here?”

“No, he is still ignorant of all this; he was to be informed of it to‐

morrow.”

A flash of joy lit up Vera’s black eyes. “Then it depends on you whether

he hesitates or not—whether he is saved.—Yes, Fleurange, let him remain

ignorant of your arrival, let him not see you again—let him never behold

you again,” she continued, looking at her with a jealous terror she could

not conceal, “and his life will again become brilliant and happy—as it

was—as it always should be—and the remembrance of the last few months will

disappear like a dream!”

“Like a dream!” repeated Fleurange mechanically, passing her hand over her

brow.

“I have told you everything now,” said Vera. “I have done you an injury I

can understand better than any one else. But,” she continued, with an

accent that resounded in the depths of the listener’s soul, “I wished to

save George, I wished to win him back to me! And I thought, I know not

why, for I am generally distrustful—yes, I thought I could induce you to

aid me against yourself!”

Fleurange, with her hands clasped on her knees, and her eyes gazing before

her with a fixed expression, seemed for some moments insensible to

everything. She was listening, however—she was listening to that clear,

distinct voice which resounded in her soul in a tone so pure—a voice she

had never failed to recognize and obey.

If George were free, if he recovered his name, rank, and former position,

would she not still be in the same position as before? In that case, could

she treacherously usurp the consent obtained from his mother, and that to

the detriment of the one before her—the wife chosen from his infancy?

Would it not be treachery to him to present herself before him at the

moment of recovering his liberty, and thereby endanger its loss with the

momentary favor that conferred it?

She placed her icy hand on Vera’s, and turned towards her with a sweet

expression of resolution. “That is enough,” she said, in a calm tone. “You

have done right. Be easy, I understand it all.”

Vera, astonished at her expression and accent, looked at her with

surprise.

“Do not be afraid,” continued Fleurange, in the same tone. “Act as if I

were far away—as if I had never come.” And, taking the petition lying on

the table, she tore it in pieces, and threw it into the fire! There was a

momentary blaze, which died away, and she looked at the ashes as they

flew.

Vera, with an irresistible impulse, pressed her lips to the hand she

seized, then remained mute and confounded. She had come determined to

prevail over her rival, to convince her, to use every means of contending

if she failed in her first efforts, but her victory suddenly assumed an

aspect she had not anticipated. It had certainly been an easy one, and yet

Vera felt it had left a bleeding wound. She experienced for a moment more

uneasiness than joy, and her attitude expressed no more of triumph than

that of Fleurange of defeat. While one remained with her head and eyes

cast down, the other had risen. A passing emotion colored Fleurange’s

cheek, the struggle of the sacrifice gave animation and an unusual

brilliancy to her face.

“I think,” said she, “you have nothing more to say to me.”

“No—for what I would like to say I cannot, dare not.”

Vera rose and turned towards the door. A thought occurred to her. She

approached Fleurange. “Excuse my forgetfulness,” said she; “here is the

bracelet you lost this morning. I was commissioned to restore it to you.”

At the sight of the talisman, Fleurange started; her momentary color faded

away, she became deadly pale, and, as she looked at it silently, some

tears, the only ones she shed during the interview, ran down her cheeks.

But it was only for an instant. Before Vera realized what she was doing,

Fleurange clasped the bracelet around her rival’s arm.

“This talisman was a present from the Princess Catherine to her son’s

betrothed. She said it would bring her good luck. It no longer belongs to

me. I return it to you; it is yours.”

Fleurange held out her hand. “We shall never see each other again,” she

continued; “let us not bear away any bitter remembrance of each other.”

Vera took her hand without looking at her. She had never felt touched and

humiliated to such a degree; gratitude itself was wounding to her pride.

But Fleurange’s sweet, grave voice was now irresistible, and spoke to her

heart in spite of herself. She hesitated between these two feelings.

Fleurange resumed: “You are right. It is not my place to wait for you at

this time—you have nothing more to forgive me for, I believe, and I

forgive you everything.”

And as Vera still remained motionless with her head bent down, Fleurange

leaned forward and embraced her.

LX.

The Marquis Adelardi often declared he had witnessed so many extraordinary

and unexpected events that he was seldom surprised at anything that

happened. But the day that now dawned brought a surprise of the liveliest

kind, and even a second one in the course of a few hours. He rose late,

according to his custom, and was breakfasting beside the fire when a note

was brought him which put a premature end to the repast just begun. After

reading it, he fell into deep thought, then rose and strode around his

room. Finally he went to the window, and read the following note a second

time.

“MY KIND FRIEND: I have changed my mind. I earnestly beg you when you see

Count George not to mention my name, and, above all, to take the greatest

precaution to keep him for ever ignorant of the plans I formed and the

journey I have made. This will be easy, for no one knows I am here, and

tomorrow, before night, I shall have left St. Petersburg. Everything will

be explained to you, but I only write now what is most essential for you

to know without any delay.”

In vain he read and re‐read. Such were the words, signed _Fleurange_,

which he held in his hands. For once the marquis was completely at a loss.

Nothing—absolutely nothing—could account for this sudden change. The

success of her petition presented the empress the day before was certain.

He recalled every detail of his recent interview with her, during which,

having nothing more to conceal, she naïvely revealed all the depth and

sincerity of her sentiments towards George. He had long been aware of her

firmness and courage, and the idea of her drawing back at the last moment

in view of the trial never occurred to him. There was, then, an

impenetrable mystery, and he impatiently awaited the hour he could go for

the promised explanation. But he must first keep his engagement with

George. Poor George! he inspired him now with fresh pity, though he had

doubted, the evening before, if he was worthy of the consolation in store

for him. It seemed now as if he could not live without it, and that a new

and more frightful sentence had been pronounced against him. The marquis

was about to start for the fortress to fulfil more sadly than ever the

painful duty of his powerless friendship, when another letter was brought

him. The mere sight of this second missive made him start, and he examined

with extreme astonishment the address and the very envelope that bore it,

the impression on the seal, and the slight perfume it gave out. All this

was a source of surprise, and, for once, it was not unreasonable, as it

generally is, to dwell on these exterior signs before solving the mystery

by opening the letter. The reader may judge, after learning that the

Marquis Adelardi recognized his friend’s writing in the address. Since

George’s imprisonment, he had neither had permission to write, nor the

means. In the second place, the paper, the arms on the seal, the

perfume—all these things belonged to a different condition, for certainly

none of these elegances had been allowed him in prison. The mere exterior

of the letter, therefore, had something inexplicable, and, when he opened

it to solve the enigma, he read as follows:

“MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: Perhaps the very sight of this letter has given you

a suspicion of its contents. If not, know that I am free, or, at least, I

shall be so to‐morrow! Meanwhile, I have left the frightful cell where you

found me yesterday, and now, thanks to the governor of the fortress, am

established in his own apartment and surrounded once more by all the

delightful accessories of civilized life of which I thought myself for

ever deprived—accessories which are only a dawn of the delightful day

before me. Yes, Adelardi, free! by the favor of the emperor, against whom

I eagerly pledge myself never to enter into a conspiracy as long as I

live. Free on two conditions: one to live at my home in Livonia four

years; the other—guess what it is! It is not more severe than the first:

it is to return to my first love—to her to whom I owe my pardon. In a

word, to end where I began, by marrying Vera de Liningen! What do you say

to that? Is not this a _dénoûment_ worthy of a romance? You predicted it

once, do you remember it? ‘You will renounce this folly which tempts you,

and keep the promise you made.’ I was far from believing it then, and

perhaps it is well even now that that beautiful siren is seven hundred

leagues off, for I know not what would be the result were I subjected to

the fascination of those eyes which turned my head, whereas I am now

wholly absorbed in the happiness that awaits me. Vera still loves me. She

is also beautiful in her way, and, above all, possesses a charm which

makes me forget all others. She has the beautiful eyes of liberty which I

owe her. Therefore I am not tempted to refuse the hand she is ready to

accept, or even my heart, though somewhat _blasé_, but now filled with

gratitude strong enough to sufficiently resemble the love she has a right

to expect.

“_Au revoir_, Adelardi! Come when you please; I am no longer a prisoner,

though I have pledged myself not to leave here till I go to the empress’

chapel to meet her who is to accompany me into the mitigated exile to

which _we_ are condemned.”

It would be difficult to describe the strange effect of this letter,

coming so soon after the other, upon the person to whom they were both

addressed. It would be impossible to say whether he was glad or sorry,

indignant or affected, relieved or overwhelmed, by such sudden news; and,

though only imperfectly enlightened respecting some of the circumstances

he wished to know, he felt that somehow Fleurange had been informed of

George’s pardon before himself, and the conditions attached to it. This

was the evident meaning of her note, which now seemed to the marquis so

generous, so touching, and even so sublime, that his whole interest

centred, with a kind of passion, in this charming, noble girl. Her letter,

which lay beside George’s before him, displayed the greatest contrast

imaginable to the cold, selfish levity of the latter. At all events, he

had no reason now to be anxious about him on whom everything seemed to

smile, but rather about her who was immolating herself to‐day as much as

yesterday—unsuspected by the object—and with a devotedness a thousand

times more disinterested and more generous than before.

At that moment the door opened, and the marquis uttered an exclamation of

joy and welcome at hearing Clement announced. He was just thinking of him,

and wishing he could see him at once. As soon as he looked at him he

perceived he was unaware of what had occurred. Clement returned home at a

late hour the night before, and had not seen Fleurange since their return

from the hospital. He now came from the burial of his unfortunate cousin

in a distant, obscure spot, to beg the marquis to use his influence to

obtain permission to place a simple stone cross on his forlorn grave. But

he could not find any opportunity of introducing the subject, the marquis

was so eager to enter on that which absorbed him. He informed Clement of

George’s pardon and the conditions on which it was granted; but in his

eagerness he did not at first perceive the effect of the news on his

listener. The latter remained motionless, and for moments his excessive

surprise prevented him from replying. The aspect of everything was so

changed by the intelligence that his mind refused to take it in. He looked

at the marquis with so singular an expression that he was struck by it,

and clearly saw he had unguardedly touched a deeper and more vital point

than he supposed.

“Pardon me, Dornthal, I have excited you more than I wished or expected.”

“Yes,” said Clement, in a strange voice, “I acknowledge it; but does she

know what you have just informed me of?”

The marquis in reply gave him Fleurange’s note. He read it with a still

more lively emotion than he had just experienced; but he succeeded better

in controlling it.

“Poor Gabrielle! This is evidently a generous, spontaneous impulse, worthy

of her. But,” continued he, in quite a different accent, in which trembled

an indignation he repressed with difficulty, “I cannot comprehend how

this—how Count George can unhesitatingly consent to the conditions

_proposed_, for really I can never believe them rigorously _imposed_ by

the emperor, still less that they could be accepted if he appreciates as

he ought the sentiments which I should suppose would prevent him from

accepting them.”

The marquis hesitated a moment, and then said: “Here, Dornthal, time

presses; it is better you should know everything without delay.” And he

gave him George’s letter.

As Clement read it, contempt and anger were so clearly displayed in his

face that the marquis was confounded at the flash of indignation with

which he crushed the letter and threw it on the table. “That is exactly

what I should have expected from the man you told me of yesterday. Poor

Gabrielle!” he continued, in a voice trembling with emotion and

tenderness, “it is thus that the precious treasures of thy heart have been

lavished and wasted!”

He leaned on the table, and hid his face in his hands. For some instants

there was a silence neither sought to break. At length Clement returned to

himself. “Once more pardon me, M. le Marquis. I really do not know what

you will think of me after the weakness I have shown before you. But no

matter, it is not a question of myself, but of her. There is one point I

recommend to you which there is no need of insisting upon: she must remain

ignorant of the contents of this letter. She must never know—_never_, do

you understand?—what kind of a love she thought worthy of hers.”

The marquis looked at him with astonishment. “And it is you, Dornthal, who

are so anxious as to your cousin’s remembrance of Count George!”

This total absence of vulgar triumph and selfish hope added another

notable surprise to those of the morning. Clement neither noticed

Adelardi’s tone nor the kind, affectionate expression of regard which

accompanied the words he had just uttered.

“I wish her to suffer as little as possible,” said he briefly; “that is my

only aim and thought.”

He rose to go out. The marquis pressed his hand with a cordiality he

rarely manifested, and after Clement’s departure he remained a long time

thoughtful. Perhaps at that moment he was thinking how much more

satisfaction there was in meeting and studying such a noble heart than

most of those whose acquaintance he had hitherto sought and cultivated

with so much eagerness.

LXI.

At Clement’s return, he learned that his cousin had asked for him several

times. He immediately went up to the room she occupied. His emotion at

seeing her again, though less sudden than that he had just experienced,

was deeper than he anticipated, for he was unprepared for the change

wrought within so short a time. She was, however, as calm and resolute as

the night before, though she had passed through what might be called the

agony of sacrifice—that hour of inexpressible suffering, not when the

sacrifice of one’s self is decided upon, not even that in which it is

consummated, but the intermediate hour in which repugnance still struggles

against the will. It was this hour endured by our common Master in the

order of his sufferings after he took upon himself our likeness.

Fleurange had only taken a short hour of repose before day. The remainder

of the night she passed wholly in conflict with suffering. She then

allowed the repressed sobs that filled her breast during her interview

with Vera to burst forth without restraint as soon as she was alone for

the night; she gave herself up to the poor solace of tasting at leisure

the bitterness of sacrifice, repelling every consoling thought—almost

allowing the waves of despair to gather round her, and, if not to break

over her, at least to threaten her.

The chamber she occupied was more spacious and sumptuous than Mademoiselle

Josephine’s, being that of the Princess Catherine herself. It was lighted

only by a lamp which burned before the holy images enshrined in gold and

silver in one corner, according to the Russian custom. Fleurange threw

herself on a couch, and there, with her head buried in the cushions, her

long hair dishevelled, and her hands clasped to her face inundated with

tears, she gave vent to her grief for a long time without any attempt to

moderate it.

Once before in her life she had abandoned herself to a similar transport

of grief, though certainly with much less reason. It was when she left

Paris two years before, and it seemed as if she was alone in the world,

and all the joys of life had come to an end. Those who have not forgotten

the beginning of this story may remember that on that occasion the sight

of a star suddenly appearing in the clear sky brought her a message of

peace. God knows, when it pleaseth him, how to give a voice to everything

in nature, and to speak to his creatures by the work of his hands, and

even of theirs. An impression of such a nature now infused the first ray

of calmness into the tempest that completely overwhelmed her soul.

Suddenly raising her head from the attitude in which she had so long

remained, her eyes naturally turned towards the light diffused by the lamp

before the images in the corner of the chamber, the richest of which

sparkled in its ray. In these Greek paintings, as we are aware, the heads

alone on the canvas stand out from the gold and precious stones that

surround them. That which now attracted Fleurange’s attention was the

image of Christ—that sacred face of the well‐known type common to all the

representations of Byzantine art. That long, grave face, those mild eyes,

with their calmness and depth, have a thrilling, mysterious effect which

surpasses a thousand times every reproduction of human beauty. This

impression, which a pious love of art enables every one to comprehend, was

associated with a tender remembrance of Fleurange’s childhood. She had

often prayed before a face of similar aspect in the chapel of Santa Maria

al Prato. She now looked steadfastly into those divine eyes gazing at her,

and it seemed as if that sweet penetrating look pierced to the depths of

her soul, and infused a sudden, marvellous, inexpressible consolation.

Changing gradually her previous attitude, she remained for some time

seated with clasped hands, transfixed. At last, her eyes still fastened on

the holy face, she fell on her knees, bent down her head, and remained a

long time buried in profound recollection. Her immoderate grief seemed to

diminish and change its character. Her tears, without ceasing to flow,

lost their bitterness and changed their object; for in the mildness of

that majestic look she read a reproach which she comprehended!—

“O my Saviour and my God! pardon me!” exclaimed she, with fervor, bending

down till her forehead touched the floor.

Pardon!—Yes, in spite of her purity, her piety, and the uprightness of her

soul, it was a word Fleurange was likewise obliged to utter. In it she

felt lay solace and peace for her heart. She perceived it now for the

first time. A new light began to rise in her soul, like the faint flush of

aurora which precedes day, and her grief seemed a punishment merited for

forgetfulness, her tears an expiation. These thoughts were still confused;

but their influence was already beneficent, and she soon felt really

springing up within her the courage and fortitude which she outwardly

manifested during her interview with Vera. She had always been capable of

action in spite of suffering, and she now sought it, realizing its

benefit. The night was far advanced, but she did not feel the need of

repose, and before seeking it she would give her heart and mind, even more

fatigued than her body, the relief they needed. Under the impression of

all the incidents and varied emotions of the day, she wrote the Madre

Maddalena a letter which was the faithful transcript of all she had passed

through. The joy of the morning, the sacrifice of the evening, her despair

scarcely subsided, nothing was concealed or suppressed, not even a fresh

ardent aspiration towards the cloister which she thought could no longer

be shut against her, and which now seemed the only refuge of her broken

heart.

There is a certain art in reading the hearts of others; but it is as great

a one to be able to read one’s own, and this art Fleurange possessed in

the highest degree when in the presence of that great soul which afar off

as well as near watched over hers. This outpouring soothed her. She

afterwards slept awhile, and, on awaking, courageously despatched the

letter which we have just seen the Marquis Adelardi read and communicate

to Clement.

But such a night leaves its traces. Fleurange’s swollen eyes, her

contracted features, her pale, trembling lips, and her sad expression

indicated suffering which was an insupportable torture to Clement. He

would have spared her this at the expense of his life, as it is allowable

to say he had proved. But now that the arduous duty of earnestly desiring

her happiness through the affection of another was no longer required of

him, the impetuous cry of his own heart became almost irresistible in its

power, and Clement never manifested more self‐control than this morning in

subduing the impulse which prompted him a thousand times to throw himself

at his cousin’s feet, and passionately tell her she loved and regretted an

ungrateful man, and that she herself was even more ungrateful than he! But

instead of that, he silently pressed her hand. Fleurange saw he was aware

of everything, and it was a relief to have nothing to tell. In a few words

they made arrangements for their departure, and Clement promised her to

start within twenty‐four hours.

Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Josephine appeared, and Clement, too preoccupied

to use any circumlocution, simply announced the change in his cousin’s

intentions, without giving her any explanation. But when, in the height of

her joy, mademoiselle exclaimed, “She is going back with us!—O mon Dieu!

what happiness!” Clement frowned and pressed her hand in so expressive a

manner that the poor demoiselle stopped short and, according to her

custom, buried her joy in utter silence, saying to herself that the day

would perhaps come when she would understand all these inexplicable

things, and, among others, why, when she wept at Gabrielle’s leaving them,

it was necessary to conceal her sorrow; and now she was to remain, it was

not permitted to manifest her joy.

“All this is very singular—I always seem to take aim at the wrong moment.

And yet, Clement allow me to say that I suspect that, as to this Monsieur

le Comte, it was I—and I alone—who was right.”

This last reflection did not escape her, it is reasonable to suppose, till

later, at one of those seasons of special unburdening her mind to Clement

which she sought now and then, and we should add that the smile in return

amply repaid her for the frown we have just noted.

The evening passed away almost in silence. The Marquis Adelardi spent it

with them. The frightful alteration in Fleurange’s features did not allow

him to mistake the extent of her sufferings; and her calm, simple manner

redoubled the enthusiasm she had always inspired him with—an enthusiasm

which gradually ripened into solid friendship, and ultimately wrought a

durable, beneficent effect on his life.

Before Clement and his cousin separated for the night, they spoke of

Felix’s sad burial, and its lack of any religious ceremony. The marquis

had promised to obtain the last favor Clement asked—that a cross should

mark the spot where he reposed. The following morning Mass was to be

celebrated for him in the Catholic church.

“We will attend this Mass together,” said Fleurange.

“Yes, Gabrielle, that was my expectation.”

The next morning, at an early hour, Fleurange and her cousin were

prostrate at the foot of the altar in the large Catholic church on the

Nevskoi Prospekt. After all the sorrow that had overwhelmed the young

girl’s soul since the night before, this was an hour of sad consolation

and repose. Her long journey, after all, in spite of the bitter deception,

in spite of the grief and sacrifice at the end, had not been made in vain.

He whose last hours she had consoled, and for whom they were now praying,

had carried away with him the blessed influence of her presence into those

regions to which repentance opens the door! Repentance! the salvation of

the soul that feels it, the benediction of the soul that seconds it, the

mysterious joy of the angels that inspire it and rejoice over it as one of

the delights of their eternal beatitude!

They left the church, and slowly descended the long avenue bordered by

trees called the Nevskoi Prospekt. They found their way impeded by a

numerous crowd in front of the gate of the Anitschkoff Palace, which they

had to pass. Fleurange, lost in thought, was walking slowly along without

looking around, and Clement also was absorbed in his own reflections, when

they were both startled as if by an electric shock.

“The newly married pair are coming out,” said a voice.

“Married!—condemned, you mean,” replied another, laughing. “You know they

are both going into exile.”

They heard no more. Clement’s sudden effort to lead Fleurange away was

powerless. She resisted it, and, leaving his arm without his being able to

prevent it, she swiftly made her way to the front, and leaned against a

tree. She saw the _grille_ open—the carriage appeared; it drew near; at

last she saw him! Yes; she saw Count George’s noble features, his smiling

face, his radiant look, and she caught a glimpse of the black eyes and

golden locks of the bride. Then it seemed to grow dark around her, and

everything vanished from her thoughts as well as from her sight!

Epilogue.

—“No, my Fior Angela, I once more say no, as when you made the same

request at Santa Maria that lovely evening in May while we were gazing at

the setting sun over the cloisters. What has been changed? And why should

God call you now to this retreat if he did not call you then?—Because you

suffer still more? But, my poor child, you were suffering then. Life, you

said, seemed ‘empty and cheerless, unsatisfactory and imperfect.’ And,

indeed, you were not wrong. That is its real aspect when we compare it

with the true life that awaits us. From that point of view nothing truly

can give it the least attraction; but with this kind of disgust there is

no sadness mingled. We are not sad when an object seems poor and valueless

compared with another object wonderful and divine of which we are sure. As

I have already told you, this is the disgust of the world whence springs

the irresistible call to the cloister; but, as I likewise said, this

divine voice, when it speaks to the soul, resounds alone, to the exclusion

of all earthly voices. A flame is kindled that absorbs and extinguishes

all others, even those earthly lights that are attractive and pure. That

divine call has not been made to you. The earthly happiness you dreamed of

has failed you, that is all. And this disappointment for the second time

has inspired you with the same wish as before; but, as on that occasion, I

believe if God claimed your life he would not have permitted such a heart

as that of my Fleurange to be divided for a day!

“This time, it is true, everything is at an end, and without remedy. You

are irrevocably separated from him to whom you gave your heart—allow me to

say now, to whom you gave it unreasonably!—You shudder, my poor child, you

find me cruel, and all the false brilliancy which fascinated you, now

lights up anew the image still present and still dear to your imagination;

nevertheless, I will go on.

“There is an earthly love which, if it lengthens the road that leads to

God, does not, however, turn one from it—which, by the very virtues it

requires, the sacrifices it imposes, and the sufferings that spring from

it, often seconds the noblest impulses of the soul.

“Do you not feel now, Fleurange, that the foundation of such a love was

wanting to yours? I perceived it at Santa Maria as soon as I heard your

story to the end, and looked into the most secret recesses of your heart.

I then understood why God had placed obstacles in your way, and imposed a

sacrifice on you. Your sufferings appeared to me the expiation of an

idolatry you did not realize the extent of.

“If you had shown any doubt or hesitation as to the course to be pursued,

if you had been weakly desirous of sparing yourself and escaping the

sacrifice imposed, perhaps I should at that time have expressed myself

more severely. But you acted with firmness and uprightness, and I deferred

revealing to you the secret malady of your heart till, with time, peace

should be restored to you. Till then, what you suffered seemed to me a

sufficient punishment.

“But it was not to be so. The temptation was to be renewed, and under a

form impossible for my poor child to resist. She yielded to the generous,

passionate impulse of her heart, and found in the very excess of her

devotedness a means of satisfying her conscience which she confusedly felt

the need of. But something more was essential: she must suffer still

more—more than before. In short, the idol must be shattered, and this

destruction seemed to involve the very breaking of her own heart!—

“But it is not so, Fleurange. Across the distance that separates us I

would make my voice heard, and wish it possessed a divine power when I say

to you: ‘Rise up and walk.’ Yes; resume your course through the life God

gives you, and courageously bless him for having snatched you from the

snare of a love not founded on him, which must have proved hollow sooner

or later. Then look around, see whom you can console and aid; see also

whom you can love; especially notice who loves you, and banish from your

heart the thought, equivalent to blasphemy, which you express in saying,

‘My life is stripped of all that made it desirable!’—

“Some day, my Fior Angela, you will again recall these bitter, ungrateful

words, and will, I assure you, see their falsity. If God did not create

you to love him to the exclusion of those lawful affections which reflect

a ray of his love, you were still less created to find rest in a love

deprived of that light—a love whose sudden rending and keen anguish

preserved you from proving its perishable nature and spared you the pain

of irreparable deception!

“Once more, Fleurange, prostrate yourself before God, and give thanks:

then rise up and act. No lingering pity over yourself, no dwelling

regretfully on your deceived hopes and the pain you have suffered.

Courage! Your heart has been weak, it yielded to fascination; but your

volition as yet has never ceased to be strong. However rough the path of

duty, it was enough for you to see it in order to walk in it without

faltering. Courage, I say! You will live. You will do better than live—you

will recover from all this, and recall the time that seemed so dark as

that which preceded the real day that is to illumine your life.

“At first this letter will add to your sadness. You will feel yourself

deprived of everything, even of the consolation you expected of me; but do

not yield to the temptation of burning this letter after reading it. Keep

it to read over again, and be sure that sooner or later the day will come

when a sweet promise of happiness will respond at the bottom of your heart

at reading it. You will then comprehend what were the prayers of your

Madre Maddalena for you, dear Fleurange, for they will on that day have

been heard!—”

This reply to the letter Fleurange wrote during the night of agitation

which followed her interview with Vera we lay before our readers at its

arrival at Rosenheim after her return from her sad journey; but one summer

evening, two years after, the young girl, seated on a bench overlooking

the river, read it over the second time. She was in her old seat, but her

appearance was somewhat changed. A severe illness, resulting from the

emotion and fatigue endured two years before, endangered her life, and to

her convalescence had succeeded a malady slower, deeper, and more

difficult to heal, against which all remedies, though energetically

seconded by a resolute will, long remained ineffectual.

During this period of weakness Fleurange had never known before, life

assumed a new and formidable aspect. For a long time she was unable to

struggle actively against the double languor of illness and depression;

she had to endure inaction without making it an additional torture to

herself and others; in short, she was obliged to be constantly and

silently on her guard against herself. She succeeded, however, accepting

with grateful docility all the care that surrounded her. She did not repel

her friends from her crushed heart, but, on the contrary, endeavored to

convince them that their affection was sufficient, and that, once more

with them, nothing was wanting. By degrees, it required no effort to say

this. As the sun in spring‐time melts away the snow, then warms the earth

and covers it with flowers, so, under the influence of their beneficent

tenderness, everything began to revive in her heart and soul. Was it not

delightful, as she lay half asleep on her _chaise longue_ for long hours,

to hear around her, like the warblings of birds, Frida’s caressing voice

mingled with the tones of her cousin’s little children whom she loved to

hold in her arms and caress when they awoke her? Was it not a consolation

to rest her weary head on a bosom almost maternal? Was it not salutary to

converse with her Uncle Ludwig when he wheeled his chair near the young

invalid, and spoke of so many things worthy of her attention without ever

turning it away from the highest of all? And Hilda? And Clara? And Julian

and Hansfelt? Did they not all come with their constant affectionate

interest, each one bringing, as it were, a flower to add its perfume to

the air she breathed? Finally, was it nothing when she opened her eyes to

meet the kind glance of her old friend who, after fearing to lose her, was

never weary of gazing at her now she was again restored to life?

And what shall we say of him whom we have not yet named—him whose

solicitude for her was not apparently greater than that of his parents and

sisters, but who, during her long convalescence, ended by taking a place

beside her which no one thought of disputing? Clement’s character has been

badly delineated if, after the unexpected occurrence that restored freedom

to his hopes, it is supposed he was prompt to admit them, and especially

to express them. Nevertheless, since it was no longer an absolute duty to

maintain a strong, constant control over himself; since the fear of

betraying himself no longer obliged him to a restraint with his cousin

which had extended to every subject, and ended by frequently obliging him

to partially conceal from her the superiority of his mind and the rare

nature of his intelligence, a change was wrought in him which he did not

realize himself, and now gave to his physiognomy, the tone of his voice,

and his whole person a wholly different character than before in the eyes

of her to whom he thus appeared for the first time. She noticed it with

surprise, and, when he stopped reading to express the thoughts that sprang

spontaneously from his heart when moved, or his mind unimpeded in its

flight, and touched on a thousand subjects hitherto deemed forbidden, she

became thoughtful, and, in spite of herself, compared his eloquence of

soul, whose source was so profound, and whose flight was sometimes so

elevated, with the eloquence of another which once dazzled her, the only

charm of which sprang from his carefully cultivated mind, and his mind

alone. Every day she impatiently awaited this hour for reading or

conversation. She already appreciated her cousin’s devotedness, the

incomparable kindness of his heart, his trustworthiness, his energy, and

his courage. She had given him credit for all these qualities before, and

yet, all at once, it seemed as if she had never known him. She even asked

herself one day if she had ever looked at him, so completely did the

expression of his countenance—which beamed with what is most divine here

on earth—a double nobleness of mind and soul—so fully did his look and

smile atone for the imperfections already alluded to in Clement’s

features, but which time had greatly modified to his advantage. She soon

felt that, though she had always cherished a strong regard for her cousin,

she had been unjust to him and never appreciated his real worth.

But the day, the hour, the moment when she discovered she had been not

only unjust, but ungrateful, and even cruel, we cannot state, and perhaps

she did not know herself. Was it the day when, after reading in a

tremulous tone a passage that expressed what he dared not utter, he

suddenly raised his eyes and looked at her as he had never done before?

Was it on another occasion, when, playing one tune after another on his

violin, he ended with that song without words which Hansfelt called

_Hidden Love_, and suddenly stopped, incapable of continuing? Or was it

when, towards the end of the second spring after their return, she had

fully recovered, and he saw her for the first time in the open air

standing near a rose‐bush with her hands full of flowers? Was it when he

knelt to pick up one that had fallen at her feet, and remained in that

position till she extended her hand and blushingly bade him rise? No

matter. That day came, and not long before the one when we find her seated

on the bench by the river‐side, attentively reading over the letter Madre

Maddalena had written her two years before.

The young girl, as we have said, had changed somewhat since we last saw

her. Her long illness had left some traces, but those traces which are an

additional charm in youth, betokening the complete return of brilliant

health. Fleurange’s form was more slender and supple; her complexion more

transparent; her long hair, cut off during her illness, and now growing

out again, encircled her youthful face with thick, silky curls—all this

gave her something of the grace of childhood, and when she stood beside

her cousin, whose tall stature and manly, energetic expression added the

appearance of several years to his real age, it would never have been

supposed she was not the younger of the two.

Motionless and absorbed, from time to time as she read her face colored

and expressed a variety of emotions. But when she came to her own words:

“My life is now stripped of all that made it desirable,” and what follows,

“Some day, my Fior Angela, you will recall these bitter, ungrateful words,

and will, I assure you, see their falsity,” she stopped short, and,

raising her eyes full of tears to heaven, she said:

“Yes, Madre mia, you were right!” She covered her face with her hands, and

remained a long time absorbed and overpowered by a flood of thoughts. In

the depths of her memory, there were vague recollections of the past

traced as if by lightning; and some almost forgotten scenes now rose

before her like a confused dream.

That violent outburst of grief; the sobs he could not repress when he

learned she was determined to go to George; and, later on, the words

murmured on the ice when he thought the last hour of his life had come,

scarcely heard at the time, and then speedily forgotten, came back to‐day

like invisible writing brought out by the application of heat. The

sentiments she had discovered only within a few days perhaps had long been

experienced by Clement, if not always—and, if so, oh! then, how great had

been his love and constancy, and what sufferings had he not endured for

her sake! Alas! what had she not inflicted on that noble, faithful soul!

“Oh!” cried she aloud, “was there ever a person more blind, more

ungrateful, more cruel than I?”

She stopped, started, and raised her head; she thought she heard her

cousin’s step. She was not mistaken. He sought her in her favorite seat,

and now stood before her in the same place where, three years before, she

unwittingly caused him so much suffering as he looked at her. It was the

same place, and the same season, and also the same hour. Daylight was

fading away, and now, as then, the rising moon cast a silver ray over the

charming face which he was again seeking to read. But this time his

questioning look was comprehended, and the silent response of her

beautiful eyes, as expressive as words, imparted to the heart that

understood it one of those human joys reserved here below for those alone

who are capable of a pure, constant, peculiar love—a love only worthy of

being named after that for God.

We might now end this story, and lay down our pen, without attempting to

describe the joy of the family when, as night came on, they saw the two

absent ones return, and each one divined from their looks the nature of

the conversation which tonight had detained them so long on the banks of

the river. But towards the end of an evening so happy, Mademoiselle

Josephine unintentionally made an exclamation it may not be useless to

add:

“See! see!” she cried, in the exultation of her happiness, mingled with

secret pride at her penetration, “how right I was in thinking Count

George!—” She stopped confounded, suddenly recalling all past precautions,

and fearing she had been imprudent in neglecting them.

But Fleurange unhesitatingly exclaimed: “Go on, dear mademoiselle, go on

without any fear, and boldly pronounce a name I now neither shrink from

nor seek to hear.” And, as she spoke, the remembrance of his past tortures

crossed Clement’s memory, giving him a keener sense of his present

happiness. She asked him, in a calm tone, “Is he still in exile, or has he

been pardoned?”

Clement replied with a smile: “No, he has not been pardoned; he is still

undergoing his sentence to the full extent.” After a moment’s silence, he

added: “I had a letter from Adelardi this very morning which speaks of

him.—Would you like to read it?”

At an affirmative nod from her, he took out his pocket‐book to find the

letter. As he opened it, a little sprig of myrtle fell out. Fleurange

immediately recognized it. “What! you still keep that?” said she,

blushing.

Clement made no reply. He looked at it with emotion; it was a part of a

carefully hoarded treasure, and for a long time the only joy of his hidden

love! “Never, no never!” murmured he. “That was my reply that evening,

Gabrielle, when you promised me a beautiful bride. Do you remember it?”

“Yes, for I had said the same words an hour before, and the coincidence

struck me.”

“What can we think of it, now you are really the _fiancée_ I dreamed of as

impossible?”

“That our presentiments are often illusory—and our sentiments also,

Clement,” added she, turning towards him her eyes veiled with tears which

seemed to implore his pardon.

We will not say what Clement’s reply was; only, that it made them both

completely forget Adelardi’s letter. We will, however, lay it before our

readers, who may be less indifferent to its contents than he to whom it

was addressed was for the moment. It was dated at Florence. The marquis,

whose visits at Rosenheim had become annual, announced his speedy arrival,

after which he continued:

“The poor Princess Catherine, after whom you inquire, has had a return of

her malady, so many times cured, and it is now increased by

dissatisfaction and annoyance more than by age. No one succeeds in taking

care of her so well as she whom she still remembers. Each new attack

renews her regrets, which have found no compensation in the gratification

of her wishes. I have often remarked, however, that there is nothing like

the realization of a desire to efface the remembrance of the ardor with

which it was sought, and even the transport that hailed its fulfilment. It

is certain the princess’ actual relations with her son are by no means

satisfactory; they are affected by the ill‐humor of both parties. George’s

exile would seem enviable to many; for the place he inhabits has

everything to make it delightful excepting the liberty of leaving it, and

this mars the whole. He can enjoy nothing, he says, because everything is

forced upon him. There is reason, therefore, to fear the future he is

preparing for himself and his wife is very ominous.

“The Countess Vera is a beautiful, noble woman, capable of self‐sacrifice

to a certain point, but haughty, high‐tempered, and jealous to the last

degree. She thought the sacrifice she made in marrying George in the

position he was then in, would secure his unsteady heart, and bind him

faithfully to her through gratitude. She saw only too soon it was not so,

and that the comparative liberty he had regained was soon regarded as a

weary bondage. Thence resulted scenes which more than once have disturbed

the life whose monotony they are not allowed to break. Will you credit it?

In one of them, Vera, in the height of her irritation and jealousy,

betrayed the secret hitherto so well guarded, and declared in her anger

that _she regretted not having left him to the fate another was so ready

to share with him_. She afterwards had reason to regret her imprudence,

for George exacted a complete revelation, and the remembrance thus

suddenly revived and clad with the double charm of the past and the

unattainable caused him in his turn to overwhelm her with the most bitter

reproaches. I am not sure but he had the cruelty to tell her he should a

thousand times have preferred the fate she saved him from to that he now

had to endure with her!—There can only be one opinion as to this mirage of

his imagination; but, after all this, you will not be surprised to hear

that they both long with equal ardor for their liberty, which they must

wait for two years longer. According to appearances, it will be as

dangerous for one as for the other. The princess has realized and

predicted this since her visit to Livonia last summer, where I accompanied

her.

“During her stay, George did not spare her any reproaches, and they were

the more keenly felt because she had for a long time seen that the result

of her wishes had been a sacrifice of her own comfort and happiness

through her opposition to what had at once deprived her of her son and the

only companion that had ever satisfied her. And when she is dissatisfied,

she must always vent her anger on some one besides herself. Whom do you

think she reproached the other day before me for all her troubles?

Gabrielle!—who, she said, did not know how to avail herself of her

ascendency three years ago as she should, and to retain it!

“Since she has seen that I by no means sympathize in her regrets—which

will not be shared by you either, I suppose, nor, I like to think, by her

who inspires them—she is offended with me in my turn, and declares in a

melancholy tone that all friends are unfeeling and all children

ungrateful!—”

Clement’s reply to this letter hastened the marquis’ arrival. He had seen

his young friend’s hopes spring up and develop, and would not for the

world have been absent from Rosenheim on the day of their realization.

William and Bertha, the discreet confidant who knew how to console Clement

in his sufferings without questioning him, were the only friends, besides

the marquis, who were admitted that day into this happy family. The

wedding was as gay as Clara’s, but the newly married pair were graver and

more thoughtful. They had both passed through severe trials, which now

gave a certain completeness to their happiness, often wanting here below

in the most joyful of festivals.

And they also, in their turn, set off for Italy, and it may be imagined

that, among the places they visited together, the first to which their

hearts led them was that where awaited the Madre Maddalena’s welcome and

blessing. At their return, Mademoiselle Josephine’s house, improved and

embellished, became their home, on the condition imposed by their old

friend that she should dwell under their roof the remainder of her days.

Was their destiny a happy one? We can safely reply in the affirmative. Was

it exempt from pains, sufferings, and sacrifices? We can deny that still

more positively. But it was, however, enviable; for of all earthly

happiness, they possessed what was most desirable, without ever forgetting

that “life can never be perfectly happy because it is not heaven, nor

wholly unhappy because it is the way thither.”(231)

American Catholics And Partisan Newspapers.

To Catholics, as such, the political discussions of a Presidential

campaign have no special significance. Thus far no issues between the two

chief parties have particularly affected us. Both have generally been

careful not to offend us; and although in local elections questions

touching our schools and charities have sometimes become prominent, in the

larger contest our votes have been fairly divided between the Republican

and the Democratic candidates. If there ever unfortunately arise a

distinctively Catholic party in American politics, it will not be because

Catholics are unwilling to co‐operate freely with their Protestant fellow‐

citizens in secular affairs, but because we have been thrown upon the

defensive by some combination directly and designedly hostile to our

religious interests. None know better than we do that there is no excuse

in this country for uniting religious with political issues. Our

constitution gives equal liberty and protection to all, and we should be

sorry to have it otherwise, for we know that the church makes all the more

rapid progress in the United States by reason of her absolute

independence. Asking nothing of the state but fair play, she gives no

excuse to her enemies for making any discrimination against her children.

Her position has been generally understood and approved; and although

there are fiery bigots at all times who rave about the dangerous designs

of the papists, and affect to dread a crusade with torch and sword as soon

as we get to be a little stronger, the good sense of the American people

has usually treated these sectaries with the indifference they deserve.

We have intimated, however, in former numbers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, that

the chronic anti‐Catholic agitation might assume a new character which

would require on our part a new attitude of resistance. A few years ago,

when the settlement of the issues of the war first seemed to menace the

dissolution of the Republican party, the most active leaders of that party

began to cast about for a “new departure,” and one of their favorite plans

for keeping the organization alive was the scheme of compulsory education

by the general government. Of this project the Hon. Henry Wilson was a

prominent advocate. It has not yet been formally brought into politics,

for the party has been able to get along without it; but it has not been

abandoned, and we need not be surprised if it be strongly pushed within

the next few years. Now, Catholics look upon the question of religious

education as one of paramount importance. They will not surrender the

teaching of their children into the hands of Protestants and infidels;

they will not consent, so far as _their_ young people are concerned, to

the separation of religious and secular instruction. Any party which seeks

directly or indirectly to limit the usefulness or hamper the operations of

Catholic schools, must prepare to encounter in Catholics a united and

determined resistance.

Thus far no such conflict has arisen. We may hope that it never will

arise. And yet, during the canvass that has recently closed, two of the

leading organs of Republican opinion have opened a bitter and apparently

concerted warfare upon the Catholics of the United States which we cannot

help regarding as highly significant. In the midst of a Presidential

campaign, political organs never make such attacks except for political

reasons. The papers to which we refer are in close relations with the

party leaders. _The New York Times_ became for a time, when _The Tribune_

abandoned orthodoxy, the principal Republican newspaper of the principal

state in the Union. It is known to have reflected with tolerable accuracy

the sentiments of the Republican managers in New York, and it has always

said what it assumed to be acceptable at the White House. For a long time

it has been notoriously unfriendly to Catholics. It has amused itself, in

its heavy, witless way, laughing at what they hold sacred and abusing all

that they respect. Until a few months ago, its offensive utterances seemed

to be merely the occasional vulgarities of a bigotry that, did not know

enough to hold its tongue. But when Mr. Francis Kernan was nominated for

Governor of the State of New York, its assaults became more methodical,

more vehement, and apparently more malicious. Mr. Kernan is a Catholic; so

_The Times_ instantly denounced him as “a bigot.” An utterly untrue

pretence was made that Democrats were asking Irishmen to vote for him on

account of his religion, and thus the point was insinuated rather than

openly pressed that on account of his religion Protestants ought to vote

against him. For the first time, to our knowledge, since Know‐Nothing

days, the question of religious belief was dragged into the dirty arena of

politics. Happily, the Catholics as a body kept their temper and their

judgment during these infamous proceedings. They refused to be drawn into

the discussion which _The Times_ wanted to provoke, and even when that

paper surpassed all its former disreputable acts by reproducing in its

columns a forged handbill, showing the name of Francis Kernan surrounding

a huge black cross, and told the public that such were the devices by

which the Democratic candidate sought to inflame the fanatical zeal of his

followers, the Catholics contented themselves with one word of indignant

denial. It would have been a rash display of political courage to which we

do not believe _The Times_ capable of rising, if an open attack had been

made upon the Catholic faith or Catholic morals. _The Times_ was even

frightened at its own frankness in scolding at Mr. Kernan for a bigot. It

professed to be shocked at the introduction of religious affairs into the

discussions of the campaign, and carried on a cowardly anti‐Catholic

warfare under cover of repelling purely imaginary assaults. Of course this

subterfuge was well understood by all parties. The Catholics knew that

they had done nothing to draw this fire; the Protestants also knew it, and

a great many of them were indignant at the transaction. Was _The Times_

itself deceived? That is a question which perhaps we should not attempt to

answer. In its wild bigotry, it is capable of believing almost any

preposterous falsehood against us; but it is equally capable of inventing

one. Some familiarity with the course of political controversies in the

United States has convinced us that in a fight _The Times_ sticks at

nothing. It would rather stab an enemy in the back than kill him in open

battle. It never gives fair‐play; it never makes amends for a wrong‐doing;

it never withdraws a calumny. Everybody who has had a controversy with it

will bear witness that it is not in the habit of telling the truth about

its adversaries. That it is in the habit of consciously, or, to speak more

correctly, deliberately, lying we do not go so far as to say. But there is

a kind of falsehood very common with people of strong prejudices to which

_The Times_ is greatly addicted. It bears about the same relation to truth

that hyperbole bears to historical statement. Let us suppose that _The

Times_ really imagines the Catholic Church to be a dangerous and immoral

organization, and its bishops and supporters in this country to be engaged

in an enterprise which ought to be resisted; with this conviction of the

general wickedness of Catholic principles, it imagines itself justified in

charging upon individual Catholics a variety of specific crimes for which

it has no evidence whatever. Catholics are none too good to commit murder,

we can imagine it saying; therefore let us accuse Francis Kernan of

killing his grandmother. The Pope is an impostor; therefore it cannot be

wrong to call Archbishop McCloskey a thief. Indeed, men who would blush to

tell an untruth in private intercourse with their fellow‐men have no

hesitation in publishing slanderous accusations which they suppose may

“help their party”; and, if we should say that their conduct in doing so

was to the last degree infamous, they would affect to be shocked by our

strong language. The editor of _The Times_ would think twice before he

went into a club parlor, and publicly accused some prominent citizen of a

criminal action, unless he had the strongest possible proof of the

commission of the offence. But he makes such accusations every day in his

newspaper, without knowing, and we presume without caring, whether they

are true or not. Anybody whom he dislikes he regards as an outlaw. Anybody

who comes in his way is a fit subject for the penitentiary. We saw a

striking illustration of his entire insensibility to the demands of truth

and honor in his behavior towards a rival newspaper a few weeks ago. At

the close of the year, _The Times_ made great efforts to secure the old

subscribers of _The Tribune_, who were supposed to be dissatisfied with

that paper’s recent declaration of political independence, and the means

which it took to secure them was one which in any other business would

have resulted in a suit for slander and a verdict in very heavy damages.

_The Times_ first circulated a report that _The Tribune_ had sold itself

to one of the most disreputable stock‐gamblers in Wall Street, and then

assured the public that the circulation of its competitor had fallen away

more than half, and was rapidly going down to nothing at all. Both these

stories were well known to be entirely untrue, and, if the editor of _The

Times_ was not conscious of their falsity when he penned them, he might

easily have learned the truth by a moment’s inquiry. But he did not want

the truth. He wanted to say something damaging, and these were the most

damaging things he could think of.

How much he succeeded in damaging Mr. Kernan by his campaign slanders

against Catholics, we can guess from the figures of the election. Mr.

Kernan received about 5,000 more votes for Governor than Mr. Greeley

received in this State for President; but he received 5,000 fewer than the

candidate for Lieutenant‐Governor on the same ticket. This loss is

probably attributable directly to the anti‐Catholic feeling, for Mr.

Kernan is a gentleman to whom no personal objection could possibly be made

except on religious grounds. No doubt an equally large number of voters

were repelled, by the bigotry _The Times_ fostered, from supporting the

Democratic and Liberal ticket at all; so that we shall not pass the bounds

of probability if we estimate the fruit of prejudice and falsehood in this

case as equivalent to ten thousand votes.

Catholics are used to injustice, and they are not quick to resent it. In

America, the church has prospered under every sort of obstacle and

discouragement short of the direct hostility of the government, and it is

not likely that her course will be stayed by _The New York Times_. But it

is well for us to look at the situation carefully, and judge who are our

friends. If any political party is to make bigotry part of its stock in

trade, we cannot help taking notice of such a declaration of hostilities,

and we shall govern ourselves accordingly.

We have said that _The Times_ and _Harper’s Weekly_ appear in this matter

to have acted in concert. Perhaps it is unfair to hold the party managers

fully responsible for the utterances of these two violent newspapers; but

we cannot forget that both journals are in close communion with the

Republican administration, and that both have been governed during the

campaign by the judgment of the Republican leaders. The editor of _The

Times_ enjoys the most intimate association with the federal organization

popularly known as the “Custom‐house faction” in New York City; the editor

of _Harper’s Weekly_ is the personal friend of the President, and speaks

the mind of the President’s chief advisers in Washington. If, then, these

two papers have made a systematic assault upon the Catholic Church in the

midst of a sharp political controversy, and have taken pains to give their

furious Protestantism a direct political bearing, the party for which they

speak must be prepared to face the responsibility. It should be observed,

however, in justice to the sensible and unprejudiced members of the party,

that _Harper’s Weekly_, though it may have been encouraged in its

bitterness by partisan considerations, did not draw from such motives its

first anti‐Catholic inspiration. It has always been our enemy. A spirit,

of commercial fanaticism, the hatred of a religion which it will pay to

abuse, has distinguished the firm of the Harpers ever since the public has

known anything about them. The political campaign of 1872 made no

difference in the tone of their paper; it merely gave force, and

concentration, and regularity to the attacks which had previously been

spasmodic.

How coarsely it attempted to turn to political account the religious

bigotry upon which it had always traded may be seen in an article entitled

“Our Foreign Church,” published in _Harper’s Weekly_ of the 14th of

September last. The writer starts with the assumption that all religious

denominations in this country, except “the Romish Church,” patriotically

renounced the authority of their European rulers when the American

republic was founded. The Methodists “rejected the control in political

and ecclesiastical matters of their founders”; the Presbyterians

repudiated the General Assembly of Scotland; Episcopalians revolted from

the Archbishop of Canterbury; the Jews “threw themselves boldly into the

tide of American progress”; while the Catholic Church alone stood aloof,

and “refused to separate itself from its European masters,” and conform

its organization to the Declaration of Independence and the constitution

of the United States. Ridiculous as this complaint sounds, it is no

burlesque, but a faithful synopsis of the nonsense which Mr. Eugene

Lawrence is permitted to print in _Harper’s Weekly_. A church of divine

origin, according to this preposterous person, is to change its divine

laws to conform to the requirements of temporary human institutions; and

the political theories of Thomas Jefferson are to govern the ordinances of

Jesus Christ. It is the glory of the true church that she is above all

secular constitutions. She has seen the rise and fall of countless

dynasties and states; she will survive the ruin, if every form of

government now known upon earth shall be eventually overthrown. Empires,

kingdoms, republics, are all alike to her. She was founded for all ages

and all climes; she was not created, as Mr. Eugene Lawrence seems to think

she ought to have been, for the exclusive benefit of the United States of

America. This is a great country; but we presume that our constitution,

amendments and all, occupies but an insignificant place in the divine

order of the universe.

Obeying its heaven‐appointed head, who did not see fit to choose either

Europe or America for the place of his human birth, the Roman Catholic

Church in America, according to _Harper’s Weekly_, is a foreign body, and,

therefore, dangerous (as all foreigners are) to the peace of society. “It

is loud in its denunciations of American civilization;” it “furnishes

three‐fourths of the criminals and the paupers who prey upon the

Protestant community”; it never intermits its “attacks upon the principles

of freedom”; and “its great mass of ignorant voters have been the chief

source of our political ills.” Moreover, “the unpatriotic conduct of the

Romish population in our chief cities during the rebellion is well known.

They formed a constant menace and terror to the loyal citizens; they

thronged the ‘peace meetings’; they strove to divide the Union; and when

the war was over they placed in office their corrupt leaders, and

plundered the impoverished community.” We are almost ashamed to copy, even

for the purpose of denouncing it, this insult to the memory of our dead

Catholic soldiers. There is not a man in the United States who does not

know of the noble share of these outraged “Romish” troops in the terrible

struggles of the civil war; not a man who is ignorant of the splendid

record of the Irish regiments under the Union flag on every hard‐fought

field from the first Bull Run to the last conflict before Richmond. “The

Romish population of our chief cities” furnished the bone and sinew of

more than one gallant army during those four sad years. They gave up their

lives for the country of their birth or their adoption with a heroism that

stirs every sensitive heart. Their priests followed the army on the march

and into the fight. Their Sisters of Charity nursed the wounded and the

sick. The greatest of their prelates, aided by another bishop who is still

living, spent the last remains of his strength in defending the cause of

the Union in hostile foreign capitals. Nothing, in fine, could be more

magnificent than the patriotism with which the adherents of this “foreign

church” sacrificed life and fortune for their country during its hour of

need; and we have no language to define the infamy of endeavoring to make

capital for Gen. Grant by maligning the devoted men whom he led to death

at Shiloh and in the wilderness, and whose bravery, we are sure, he would

be the last man to depreciate.

And now, continues the writer in the _Weekly_, as the Presidential

election approaches, “our foreign church has assumed more openly than ever

before the form of a political faction.” “Romish priests” and “Romish

bishops” have taken the field as the partisans of Mr. Greeley, “the

candidate of disunion _and of religious bigotry_”!—the italics are

ours—and the church is engaged in an attempt “to place the fallen

slaveholders once more in power.” For these statements we deliberately

declare that there is no justification whatever. Mr. Eugene Lawrence

invented them out of his own bigotry and malice; and when he had the folly

and insolence to threaten us, as he did at the close of his article, with

“the vengeance of the people,” he added to his untruthfulness a degree of

hypocrisy which we have rarely seen equalled even in the publications of

the house of Harper & Brothers. We say hypocrisy; but perhaps that is

unfair. Mr. Lawrence may be silly enough to tremble at the bogies of his

own devising. He may imagine that the rest of the world is as much afraid

of the Pope as he is. He may fancy that the whole party of which he is

such a hard‐working member is burning with desire to take the Jesuits by

the throat and hang them on the nearest lamp‐post. If he did not suppose

that a profitable market could be found for his sensational wares, he

probably would not be at the trouble of the manufacture. If the “vengeance

of the people” do not menace the Jesuits, it will certainly not be the

fault of Mr. Lawrence. In the issue of the _Weekly_ for Oct. 12, he had a

furious narrative of “The Jesuit Crusade against Germany,” the points of

which are substantially these: The Jesuits, with the aid of the

Inquisition (of which they are the directors) and of a hired band of

convicts and brigands, obtained the absolute mastery of the city of Rome

and the papal government. The wretched people “cowered before their Jesuit

rulers,” and within the crumbling walls of the guilty capital “priests and

cardinals perpetrated their enormities unchecked and unseen.” They then,

by means of their “lawless police,” overpowered the Œcumenical Council,

and forced it, “by intimidation and bribes,” to accept the doctrine of

infallibility, to curse liberty and education, and to set on foot a bloody

crusade against political and intellectual freedom. This was in accordance

with the Jesuits’ time‐honored policy. “The fierce and fanatical Loyola”

used to burn heretics in Spain and Italy, and taught his followers that no

mercy should be shown to such offenders. It was the Jesuits who set on

foot the persecutions under Charles V. and Philip II., and “excited the

unparalleled horrors of the Thirty Years’ War.” In 1870, they were getting

ready for a new religious war. Napoleon III. was their chief backer. In

fact, the attack upon Germany in 1870 was the result of a conspiracy

between Rome and Paris, concluded at the council, and the purpose of the

war was nothing less than the establishment of the Jesuit Order on the

ruins of prostrate Germany! For this scheme _the Irish Catholics of

Dublin, London, and New York __“__furnished men, sympathy, and possibly

money.__”_ And now that the conspiracy has failed, and that the papists of

France have been beaten (in spite of all the sinews of war so lavishly

furnished by the Irish laborers and servant‐girls of New York), the

Jesuits are getting, up another European convulsion. “The Romish Church,

organized into a vast political faction, is stirring up war in Europe,

calls upon France to lead another religious crusade, and promises the aid

of all the chivalry of Catholicism in avenging the fall of Napoleon upon

the German Empire.” It purposes to involve all the great states of Europe

in a common ruin, “and erect the Romish See upon the wrecks of the

temporal empires.” The pilgrimage of Lourdes is a part of this scheme. The

Catholic Union is another. The International Society of Workingmen (of

which the Jesuits are the secret instigators!) is another. Mr. Lawrence

exhibits the venerable fathers in the unfamiliar garb of communists, and

substitutes the red cap for the beretta with all the effrontery and

_nonchalance_ in the world. The Order which in one column is the detested

safeguard of absolutism becomes in the next the raving propagandist of

social anarchy, revolution, and universal democracy. Can any rational

person after this condescend to dispute with Mr. Lawrence?

As in the other cases to which we have referred, there was a political

moral to this story also. If we would avert this horrible era of blood and

fire, said _Harper’s Weekly_, we must vote for General Grant, and stand up

for the straight Republican ticket. Grant is the firm ally of Germany

against Jesuitism. Grant is the champion of public schools against

religious education. Grant is the enemy of all manner of Romish fraud and

violence. Greeley is the friend of priests and persecutors, the foe of the

Bible and education, the accomplice of that infamous “Jesuit faction”

which “would rejoice to tear the vitals of American freedom, and rend the

breast that has offered it a shelter”; and if he should be elected the

“Jesuit Society” would celebrate the victory “like a new S. Bartholomew,

with bells, cannon, processions, prayers at the Vatican,” and hasten “the

rising of the Catholic chivalry ... in their sanguinary schemes against

the peace and independence of Germany.” Such was the wicked nonsense with

which _Harper’s Weekly_ in the autumn of 1872 attempted to make political

capital out of the ignorance and bigotry of its readers.

But this was not the worst. The Jesuits were not only conspirators against

political and mental freedom, they were the principal enemies of the freed

people of the South. Their society (_risum teneatis, amici_) had “allied

itself with the Ku‐klux of Georgia and Mississippi”! And so infatuated was

the _Weekly_ with the monstrous folly of this tale that week after week it

returned to the same slander. On Oct. 26 it printed a portrait of the Most

Reverend Father‐General, accompanied with one of the most outrageous pages

of falsehood and defamation ever put into type. “In our country,” says the

author of the article, “the Jesuit faction has allied itself with the Ku‐

klux.” “The Jesuit Society assumes the guise of liberalism, and cheers on

the rebel and Ku‐klux in their plots against the Union.” “In America the

Jesuits link themselves with the Ku‐klux.” They do this because they hate

the republic. They denounce, “with maledictions and threatenings, the

course of modern civilization.”

“The world is in danger from the mad schemes of the triumphant

society; it is rousing France to a new crusade with omens and

pilgrimages; it threatens the German Empire with a war more

disastrous and destructive than Europe has ever seen. It summons

its adherents to the polls in Italy; it guides the elections of

Ireland, terrifies Spain, and even disturbs the repose of London;

and in our own country, so recently torn by civil war, the papal

crusaders, linked by the tie of perfect obedience, stand ready to

profit by our misfortunes, and to stimulate our internal

dissensions; to crush those institutions that have ever reproached

their own despotism, and destroy that freedom which is the chief

obstacle to their perpetual sway.”

The picture which the _Weekly_ draws of these dangerous brethren is

horrible enough to throw a child into fits:

“A dreadful mystery still hangs over them. Their proceedings are

secret, their purposes unknown. At the command of an absolute

master, they wander swiftly among the throngs of their fellow‐men,

eager only to obey his voice. Obedience is to the Jesuit the first

principle of his faith, instilled into his mind in youth,

perfected by the labors of his later years; he hears in the

slightest intimations of his chief at Rome the voice of his God,

the commands from heaven; and in the long catalogue of fearful

deeds which history ascribes to the disciples of Loyola, the first

impulse to crime must always have come from the absolute head of

the Order, and its single aim has always been to advance the power

of the Romish Church. Scarcely had its founder gained the favor of

the Pope, and fixed his seat at Rome, when he revived the

Inquisition. Italy trembled before the spectacle of ceaseless

_autos‐da‐fe_; the tortures and the cries of dying heretics, the

ruin of countless families, the flight of terrified and hopeless

throngs from their native land to the friendly shelter of Germany

and Switzerland, were the earliest fruits of the relentless

teachings of Loyola. The Jesuits led the armies of the persecutors

into the beautiful Vaudois valleys, and the worst atrocities of

that mournful example of human wickedness are due to their brutal

fanaticism. Soon they spread from Italy through all the kingdoms

of Europe; everywhere they brought with them their fierce and

cruel hatred of religious freedom, their cunning, their moral

degradation, their bold and desperate policy. They ruled in

courts; they terrified the people into submission; they were the

most active politicians of their time; their wealth was enormous;

their schools and colleges spread from Paris to Japan; and for

three centuries the name of the Jesuits, covered with the infamy

of the massacres of the Vaudois, the Huguenots, the Hollanders,

and the Germans, surrounded by its terrible mystery, the symbol of

a dark and dreadful association, has filled mankind with horror

and affright.”

The practical conclusion to be drawn from all this rhetoric was that

everybody, and especially every German, ought to vote for Gen. Grant and

the straight Republican anti‐Jesuit ticket. It was the Jesuits who

“nominated Mr. Greeley, a person known to be in friendly connection with

the Romish leaders and closely linked to the Papal Church.” The Jesuits

“cover Grant with monstrous calumnies, and celebrate the erratic Greeley.”

“Let every German beware lest he lend aid to the enemies of his country.

Let him shrink from the support of any candidate who is maintained by the

influence of the Jesuits.” “We trust every sincere Protestant ... will

labor ceaselessly to defeat the schemes of the Jesuits, and drive their

candidate back to a merited obscurity.” And in the same number we find the

following wicked paragraph:

“A Jesuit, the Rev. Mr. Renaud, was appointed some time ago by

Archbishop McCloskey to superintend the Romish interest in our

city charities. The result was at once apparent. The Jesuits

excited a revolt in the House of Refuge. One of the keepers was

murdered. One of the convicts was sent to the State prison. The

rebellion was subdued; but the Jesuits still defend the murderer,

and assail with calumnies the House of Refuge, one of the most

valuable and successful of our city institutions. This is a

curious confirmation of that dangerous character of the Jesuit

Society which is painted upon a larger scale in our article in the

present number on ‘The Jesuits.’ ”

The next slander of the _Weekly_ was to identify Tweed with the Jesuits.

“When the Romish priests,” says this astonishing journal (Nov. 2, 1872),

“at the command of their foreign master, began their assaults upon the

public schools, they found a ready ally in the Tammany Society.... Tammany

became the representative of a foreign influence and a foreign church. It

was European rather than American. It teemed with the coarse prejudices,

the dull ignorance, the intense moral blindness that to American sentiment

are so repulsive, with that mental and moral feebleness that belongs to

populations racked by the despot and oppressed by the priest.” An infamous

compact was now struck between Tammany and the Papal Church. The

“Romanists” supported the political leaders in riotous license, gross

vices, and indecent corruption; while an enormous debt was laid upon the

city “to satisfy the demands of the Romish priests.” Thus Tammany, by the

aid of its foreign allies, became despotic master of New York.

“Covered with the ineffaceable stains of treason and of public

robbery, its members attempted to rule by force, and in the spring

of 1871 New York lay at the mercy of rebels, peculators, and

foreign priests. The press was threatened, whenever it complained,

with violence, lawsuits, and the frowns of infamous courts. The

Common Council was imported from Ireland, and foreign assassins

threatened the lives of those ardent citizens who planned reform.”

The overthrow of the Tweed and Connolly Ring was a stunning defeat for the

Pope and his agents. The nomination of Greeley and Kernan (the one openly,

the other secretly; a slave of the Jesuits and the Inquisition) was a

desperate attempt of the Jesuits to recover what they had lost. And then

followed the usual homily, “Vote for Grant,” etc.

In this bitter political campaign against the church the writers for

_Harper’s Weekly_ were zealously assisted by their artist, Mr. Thomas

Nast. This individual has done more to degrade his profession than any

other draughtsman we know of, except, perhaps, the makers of lascivious

pictures for some of the flash newspapers. He has made a practice of

ridiculing the religious belief of hundreds of thousands of honest people

who came to America, as he did, from a foreign land, because America

offers to all immigrants the fullest measure of political equality and

religious freedom. It has been his pleasure to depict the priest

invariably as a sleek, sensual, brutal, and repulsive rogue; the bishop as

a grim, overbearing, and cunning despot, or now and then as a crocodile

crawling with open jaws towards a group of children. In the _Weekly_ of

Oct. 12, he represents Brother Jonathan attempting to sever the tie which

binds an American bishop to the Pope, holding out, as he does so, a

naturalization paper inscribed “This ends the foreign allegiance.” The

Pope has his arms full of papers: “Orders to all state officials that are

Roman Catholics”; “Down with the American public schools”; “The promised

land, U. S.,” etc.; and the bishop carries similar documents: “Orders from

the Pope of Rome to the Catholics in America”; “Vote for Horace Greeley”;

“Vote for Kernan; he is a Roman Catholic, and will obey the orders of the

church.” Another picture, entitled “Swinging around the circle,” was

intended to represent all the disreputable supporters of Mr. Greeley in

company. “Free love and Catholicism” were side by side, in the persons of

Theodore Tilton and a priest, and “Mass and S. C.” figured as a

conventional Irishman with one of the Ku‐klux. Mr. Kernan was drawn (Nov.

2) kneeling, in an abject attitude, at the feet of the Pope (“Our Foreign

Ruler”), and swearing, “I will do your bidding, as you are infallible”; in

the background stood a priest loaded with papal orders against the public

schools; and on the wall was a copy of the forged handbill, with the

legend, “For governor, Francis Kernan,” surrounding a black cross. In a

picture of the “Pirates under False Colors,” a priest with a cross held

aloft in one hand, and a tomahawk half hidden in the other, is a

conspicuous figure in a gang of ruffians. In another cartoon a vulgar‐

looking priest is seen sprinkling the ruins of Tammany Hall with holy‐

water.

Now, we know very well that from one point of view the introduction of

these calumnies into politics was fraudulent. Mr. Greeley certainly had no

leaning towards the Catholic Church and no affiliations with Catholic

leaders, and Gen. Grant, we venture to affirm, is insensible to the

bigotry which his unworthy followers brought up as a reason for his re‐

election. We have nothing to ask of any President, and we give our votes

according to our individual preferences. But while we do not purpose

acting as a religious body in any political movement, we do not purpose

either to be set aside by any political party as an outlawed and degraded

people, upon whom venal pamphleteers and ignorant politicians may trample

at pleasure. If party organs take pains to attack us, and pour out, day

after day, and week after week, their filthy libels upon us, the party

which sanctions such a warfare and tries to reap the fruits of it shall

bear the responsibility. The Catholics of the United States are too

numerous, too intelligent, and too public‐spirited to be treated with

contempt by any faction, whether that faction call itself Liberal, or

Republican, or Democratic. We prefer, as we have often said before, to let

the politicians alone, and go our various ways in quiet, some after one

leader, some after another. But it may as well be understood that, if any

of these parties invite an irrepressible conflict with us, they will find

out, we trust, that we are not disposed to flinch from the defence of our

rights, which are identical with the rights of all other American

citizens.

Brussels.

“There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then

Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men.

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spoke again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!”

_Childe Harold._

The roar of cannon that ushered in the day of Waterloo—the deadly

Waterloo, big with the fate of empires—the fatal Waterloo, that sealed the

doom of the mighty conqueror, that hurled him on the prison‐island in the

far‐distant ocean, where expiation could be the only consolation of the

proud, haughty heart that knew no law but the iron will, which,

irresistible to all else, was shivered on the Rock of Peter—was not the

first, and may not be the last, sound of fearful strife there heard, as

Belgium has ever been the chosen battlefield of Europe.

And so well is the fact recognized, that the sole condition on which she

now exists as an independent state, is that of perfect neutrality. No

matter what may be her sympathies, what may be her interests, she cannot

take the sword: she can only defend her frontier, and prevent the entrance

of either friend or foe. This it is that gives her importance; her central

position, which makes her the key of the Continent, causes England to

watch over her with tender interest, gives the mistress of the seas a

_pied‐à‐terre_ in case of a general war—a contingency which may arise at

any moment.

The late King Leopold I., the Nestor of the European sovereigns, held an

exceptional position; the head of one of the smallest states, he had

perhaps the largest personal influence. His sagacity and experience made

his advice sought and respected by all. When, in the revolution of 1848,

thrones were tumbling down, and kings flying in every direction, of course

Brussels had to follow the prevailing fashion, and, without knowing

exactly what was wanted, the Bruxellois assembled around the palace; but

before they could state their grievances, Leopold appeared upon the

balcony, told them there was no necessity of any demonstration; he had

come to Brussels at their invitation, and was ready to leave, if his

departure would make them happier. Whereupon they reconsidered the

question, and concluded to let well enough alone.

After the separation of Holland and Belgium, Brussels increased rapidly,

and is now one of the pleasantest capitals in Europe. The new part of the

city, the Quartier Leopold, is a beautiful faubourg, and the boulevards

that encircle the city with a belt of green verdure, furnish a delightful

promenade. The park, a portion of the forest of Soignes, is charming; the

great trees meet in arches, and shade the crowds of ladies and children,

who live in the open air on fine days. On Sundays, the military bands play

from 2 to 3 P.M.; and every summer evening, from the 1st of June to the

1st of September, the orchestra of the Grand Opera gives concerts in the

kiosk of the _Quinconce_, the flower‐garden of the park.

Life in Brussels is very pleasant, easy, and independent; all the

appliances of modern civilization are within reach, botanical and

zoological gardens, picture galleries, theatres; the opera is a permanent

fact, at a reasonable rate; the orchestra led by Hanssens (recently

departed for another world) was admirable; numbered among the violinists

De Beriot, blind, but playing always with rare skill, and the other

artists were of equal merit. Of late years Brussels has become a _foyer_

for discontented spirits—

“Black spirits and white,

Red spirits and gray.

Mingle, mingle, mingle,

You that mingle may.”

And mingle they do without fear of _mouchards_, and air their opinions, no

matter how wild and dangerous. If they go a little too far, the government

or persons attacked interchange a few diplomatic notes with the Belgian

authorities, and then the police politely request them either to be silent

or try another dwelling‐place. Prim was for a long time resident, but one

fine morning was advised to take his departure, as his intrigues were

becoming too open and dangerous, but had been kept secret long enough to

lay the mine that exploded and blew the Queen of Spain into France; and

Henri Rochefort, driven from France, issued his _Lanterne_, which threw

light on many facts then thought to be false, but which events proved to

have been only too true.

Brussels is a paradise for women of taste; for where else can be found

such laces and fairy webs, such garnitures of _point de Bruxelles_, of

Valenciennes, of Malines, of Duchesse? A morning stroll down the Montagne

de la Cour and the Madeleine is a feast for the eye, for lace‐making is

one of the fine arts; the large houses employ three or four first‐class

artists to draw the designs, and, as the competition is great, the efforts

to surpass are immense. In making up a bride’s trousseau, it is etiquette

for the mother of the bride to give the white laces, the happy bridegroom

the black; and the prices where the parties are wealthy run up to an

enormous amount.

The gold embroideries are equally beautiful; in one _fabrique_ we saw a

set of vestments just finished for the Cathedral of Tournai; they were for

Lent, and were violet, with the instruments of the Passion exquisitely

done in raised embroidery. The effect was admirable; on the back of the

chasuble was the cross with the spear and the sponge, and so perfect was

the sponge it seemed as though it could be grasped. The column was on the

front of the vestment. It was a complete set for priest, deacon, and sub‐

deacon, with five copes, so that the artist had full opportunity for the

display of his talent. The same house had recently sent off the dresses

for the Empress of Austria and the ladies of her court, to be worn when

they walked in the procession on the Feast of Corpus Christi. Specimens of

the embroidery, which was of silver on white satin, were shown us, and,

judging by what we saw, the effect of the whole must have been charming.

The Musée Ancien is devoted to the artists of the past. Hubert and Jean

Van Eyck, whose discovery of the use of oil in mixing colors

revolutionized art, are represented by the “Adam and Eve” and the

“Adoration of the Magi.” Holbein’s portrait of Sir Thomas More is worthy

of the subject and the artist. Crayer’s Saints and Martyrdoms abound; one,

the “Apparition of Our Lord to S. Julien,” illustrates the beautiful

legend of S. Julien and his wife, S. Basilisse, who founded a hospital,

where they received and tended the sick poor. One winter night, hearing

sighs and groans at the door, S. Julien went out, and found a man nearly

frozen to death. He carried him in, warmed him before the fire, restored

him to consciousness, and then laid him in his own bed. The next morning

the holy couple went in to see their guest. The bed was empty, and, as

they approached it, Jesus, for it was he who had taken the form of the

poor sick man to try their charity, appeared to them, and said, “Julien, I

am your Lord and Saviour, who announces to you that ere long you and your

wife will repose in God.”

The “Martyrdom of S. Peter,” by Van Dyck, is terrible. The saint is

fastened to the cross, and three men are placing it in the ground. One,

kneeling, is endeavoring to push the end of the cross into the hole

prepared to receive it, another supports the cross on his shoulders, the

third steadies it. Meanwhile, all the blood in S. Peter’s body seems to

have descended into his head and face, which is brick‐dust color, and

looks as though it would burst. Altogether it is a fearful picture, so

lifelike that one waits to hear the thump the cross will give when finally

placed. Such pictures make us appreciate our feather‐bed Christianity, the

comfortable way we try to gain heaven and at the same time keep up an

agreeable acquaintance with the world, and perhaps its friend, the devil.

The finest Rubens in this Musée is “Christ ascending Calvary.” It is when

he is met by S. Veronica and some other women, who are magnificently

dressed, thus making the contrast greater between them and the exhausted,

blood‐stained figure of Our Lord, who is sinking beneath the weight of the

cross, and the agonized face of his blessed Mother, who, supported by S.

John, is advancing with outstretched hands to the assistance of her

beloved One.

The flower‐pieces by Seghers, the famous Jesuit painter, are exquisite;

interiors by Cuyp and Teniers, displaying their delicate care and finish,

are numerous; pictures by Rembrandt, with all his wonderful effects of

light and shade; some charming faces by Velasquez—two lovely little girls

hand‐in‐hand, who look as if they would step out of the frame and speak;

two splendid half‐lengths of Albert and Isabella, by Rubens, whose

portraits are always admirable; and some very good specimens of the

Italian school, among which are a Madonna of Sassoferrato, and a portrait

of a young woman, by Guercina, which is very beautiful.

The Musée Moderne is a collection of the modern Belgian school, which

deservedly ranks among the first. “Hagar in the Desert,” by Navez, is as

touchingly beautiful as any of the masterpieces of the great past; Leys,

Wiertz, Gallait, Portaels, whose “Fuite en Egypte” is found everywhere,

are men whose genius is recognized by all Europe; Van Schendel has

produced effects of light as remarkable as Rembrandt; Willems and Stevens

in finish rival Cuyp and Teniers; and Verboekhoven’s cattle‐pieces are

unsurpassed. Art is encouraged and fostered by the government; every year

there is a grand competition for the “Prix de Rome”; a committee is

appointed by the crown to decide upon the merit of the pictures, and the

successful one receives the Prix de Rome, which is four thousand francs, a

sum sufficient to maintain a student in Rome, in artist style, three

years, while he continues his studies.

Brussels is comparatively modern; it was a mere village when Malines,

Louvain, and other towns had acquired importance. In 1005, it passed by

marriage into the possession of the Comtes de Louvain, under whom it

rapidly increased; in 1040, it was surrounded by massive walls, of which

some portions still remain in the garden of the Curé of S. Gudule. In

1106, Comte Godfrey le Barbu acquired the title of Duc de Brabant, but

Louvain continued the most important town in the duchy, and preserved the

title of capital until the time of Albert and Isabella, who preferred

Brussels on account of its healthful climate and the vicinity of the well‐

stocked forest of Soignies.

The Grande Place of Brussels is unique; any change is forbidden by law; as

it has been for generations, so it must remain; and when one descends

suddenly from the park and boulevards, brilliant and gay with all the

sparkle of modern life, into the Grande Place, it is like another world.

The Hôtel de Ville is on one side; opposite is the Maison du Roi, adorned

with a statue of the Blessed Virgin, beneath which is the legend, _A

Feste, Fame et Bello, libera nos, Maria Pacis_, placed there in 1625 by

Isabella in gratitude to our Lady of Peace, for having delivered the city

from plague, famine, and war. In the place immediately below, is the noble

monument erected in reparation to the memory of the unfortunate Comtes

d’Egmont and de Hornes, on the spot on which, as the inscription runs,

“they were unjustly executed by the decree of the cruel Duc d’Albe.”

It was unjust and cruel, but still we cannot judge the past by the

present. Then, principles were positive facts, not vagaries expected to

give way at any moment to expediency, but realities plain and palpable,

upon which depended not only this perishable present, but the never‐ending

future, with its eternity of weal or woe. As men were expected to live up

to their principles, so were they expected to die for them. It is a high

standard by which to live, but it is the safest. We fancy nowadays that

the cruelty then dealt out for thoughts and opinions was abominable, but

we forget that those ideas, those thoughts, produced the frightful effects

of the ravages of the Gueux, of the orgies of John of Leyden; that from

religious they degenerated into social excesses of the lowest

kind—excesses which, if prolonged, would have reduced Christian Europe to

Vandal barbarism.

And so the brave, unfortunate Comte d’Egmont, the hero, whose valor

contributed so signally to the brilliant victory of Philip II. at St.

Quentin, lost his life for having tampered with the political sectaries,

or rather by being led into the snare by the Prince of Orange; when too

late, he saw his error, which was only political; his faith he ever kept

pure and untarnished. The Prince of Orange, on the eve of leaving Brussels

to join the enemy in Germany, urged him to go, but Egmont refused; the

prince told him if he remained he would be lost; that he was a fool to run

the risk. Friends until then, they parted in anger. Egmont spurned him,

and said, “Adieu, prince sans terre”; the prince replied, “Adieu, comte

sans tête”—words which were too fatally verified soon after. The Maison du

Roi is now occupied by the Cercle Artistique et Littéraire, and it was in

a small room in the second story that Comte d’Egmont passed the night

preceding his death, and wrote those touching farewell letters to his wife

and the King of Spain which reveal the nobleness of his character. The

famous picture by Gallait, “La tête d’un supplicié,” is a portrait of

Egmont. We have seen the original in the _atelier_ of Gallait, and he

assured us it was an accurate resemblance. _Requiescat in pace._

The Hôtel de Ville on the Grande Place is the finest of the municipal

palaces found in almost every city of Belgium. It is built round a

quadrangle, and the oldest part is the wing to the east of the tower,

commenced in 1402, at the angles of which are elegant turrets; the façade

consists of a gallery of open arches, surmounted by the Grande Brétèque, a

balcony from whence proclamations were made; above this are two rows of

windows, and an enormous battlemented roof, pierced with thirty‐seven

dormer windows.

The tower is 330 feet high; the lower half, from the basement to the

summit of the roof, is square; the upper part, built in 1444, is

octagonal, surmounted by a magnificent spire of open‐work, remarkable for

its lightness and delicacy; on its apex is fixed a table of stone, twelve

feet in circumference, and on this stone a globe of copper, supporting a

colossal figure of S. Michael trampling on the devil, thirteen feet high,

made of a number of thin plates of copper‐gilt, in 1454, which serves as a

weathercock, and turns with the least breath of wind. There is a shocking

tradition, currently reported, but not positively confirmed, that the

architect of the beautiful tower hung himself on its completion, because

he had not placed it exactly in the centre of the façade; which certainly

did not remedy the evil, as putting himself out of the world did not put

the tower in the right place.

The first story of the Hôtel de Ville contains a gallery in which are

magnificent full‐length portraits of Philippe le Beau, Charles V., Philip

II., Albert and Isabella, and other dignitaries; the council‐room,

audience‐chamber, and all the other apartments are splendidly ornamented,

the walls hung with Gobelin tapestry, representing scenes in the life of

Clovis and Clotilda. The ceiling of the council‐chamber is a masterpiece

of Janssens, in which the most extraordinary effects of light and shade

are produced; it represents an assembly of the gods, and their majesties

vary in their positions as they are seen from different points.

The remainder of the Grande Place is lined with venerable old houses,

terminating in fantastic gables, most of which were originally the halls

of various guilds and corporations; their façades pierced with numerous

odd little windows and covered with quaint designs, bas‐reliefs,

pilasters, balustrades, and inscriptions; some of the houses are gilded,

which adds to the picturesque appearance of the place, and on the summit

of the Brewers’ Guild is a fine equestrian statue of Prince Charles of

Lorraine—the good prince, as he is still affectionately called. In

mediæval times, the Grande Place was the ordinary scene of tournaments and

executions; here the Knights of the Golden Fleece held their brilliant

_réunions_, and Philip l’Asseuré and Charles V. gave splendid fêtes, which

in the reign of Philip II. were succeeded by very different scenes, under

the stern rule of the Duc d’Albe.

Just behind the Hôtel de Ville, at the corner of the Rue du Chêne and the

Rue de l’Etuve, is the beloved little statue of the “Premier Bourgeois de

Bruxelles.” The present bronze statue, after a model by Duquesnoy, was

made in 1619, and this replaced an old stone statue which is said to have

existed in the IXth century. Its origin is not known, but the favorite

tradition is that it represents a youthful Duc de Brabant, whose father

dying left him an infant of three years under the regency of his mother,

the Duchesse Lutgarde. The neighboring Comte de Malines coveted the fair

inheritance, declared war against the boy‐duc, and approached Brussels,

determined to take it by force of arms. The Brabançons flew to defend the

rightful heir, and, when the decisive day arrived, they besought the

duchesse to let them carry the little fellow in his cradle, and suspend it

from a great oak‐tree that overlooked the battle‐field. The duchesse in

tears consented, accompanied them to the field of Ransbeek, and remained

by the tree, from the highest branch of which the cradle was suspended.