DENUNCIATION.
About ten o'clock in the evening of the day on which Fleur-de-Marie
had been carried off by Screech-owl and the Schoolmaster, a man on
horseback arrived at the farm, coming, as he said, on the part of
Rudolph, to reassure Mrs. George as to the disappearance of her young
_protegee_, who would return to her in a few days. For several
very important reasons, added this man, Rudolph begged Mrs. George, in
the event of her having anything to send him, not to write him at
Paris, but to hand the letter to the courier, who would take charge of
it.
This courier was an emissary of Sarah's. By this she tranquilized Mrs.
George, and retarded thus for some days the moment when Rudolph must
hear of the abduction. In this interval, Sarah hoped to force the
notary to favor the unworthy scheme of which we have spoken. This was
not all. Sarah wished also to get rid of Madame d'Harville, who
inspired her with serious fears, and who would have been lost but for
Rudolph's rescue.
On the day when the marquis had followed his wife to the house in the
Rue du Temple, where she was to meet Charles Robert, but where Rudolph
led her to the Morels, and thus changed the assignation into a call in
charity, Sarah's brother Tom went there, easily set Mrs. Pipelet
jabbering, and learned that a young lady, on the point of being
surprised by her husband, had been saved, thanks to a lodger in the
house named Rudolph. Informed of this circumstance, Sarah, possessing
no material proof of the rendezvous that Lady d'Harville had given to
Charles Robert, conceived another odious plan. It was concocted to
send an anonymous letter to the marquis, in order to effect a complete
rupture between him and Rudolph, or, at least, to make the marquis so
suspicious as to forbid any further intercourse between the prince and
his wife.
This letter was thus couched:
"You have been deceived most shamefully. The other day, your wife,
advised that you were following her, pretended an imaginary visit of
charity; she went to meet a very _august personage_, who has
hired in the Rue du Temple a room in the fourth story, under the name
of Rudolph. If you doubt these facts, strange as they may appear, go
to the Rue du Temple, No. 17, and inform yourself; paint to yourself
the features of the _august person_ spoken of, and you will easily
acknowledge that you are the most credulous, good-natured husband
who has ever been so _sovereignly_ deceived. Do not neglect
this advice; otherwise it will be supposed that you, also are too much.
"THE FRIEND OF PRINCES."
This note was put in the post at five o'clock by Sarah, on the day of
her interview with the notary. The same evening, Rudolph went to pay a
visit to a foreign embassy: after which it was his intention to go to
Madame d'Harville's to announce to her that he had found a charitable
intrigue worthy of her. We will conduct the reader to Madame
d'Harville's. It will be seen, from the following conversation, that
this young lady, in showing herself generous and compassionate towards
her husband, whom she had until then treated with extreme coldness,
followed already the noble counsels of Rudolph.
The marquis and his wife had just left the table; the scene passed in
the little saloon of which we have spoken; the expression of Clemence
d'Harville was affectionate and kind; D'Harville seemed less sad than
usual. He had not yet received the now infamous letter from Sarah.
"What are you going to do to-night?" said he, mechanically, to his
wife.
"I shall not go out; pray what are your plans?"
"I do not know," answered he, with a sigh. "Society is insupportable
to me. I will pass this evening, like so many other evenings, alone."
"Why alone, since I am not going out?"
M. d'Harville looked at his wife with surprise. "Doubtless, but--"
"Well?"
"I know that you often prefer solitude when you do not go out."
"Yes; but as I am very capricious," said Clemence, smiling, "at
present I prefer to partake my solitude with you, if it is agreeable
to you."
"Really," cried D'Harville, with emotion, "how kind you are to
anticipate what I dared not express."
"Do you know, dear, that your astonishment has almost an air of
reproach?"
"A reproach? Oh, no, no! not after my unjust and cruel suspicions the
other day. To find you so forgiving, it is, I confess, a surprise for
me; but a surprise the most delightful."
"Let us forget the past," said she to her husband, with an angelic
smile.
"Clemence, can you forget?" answered he, sadly. "Have I not dared to
suspect you? To tell you to what extremity a blind jealousy has
impelled me? But what is all this compared to other wrongs, still
greater, more irreparable?"
"Let us forget the past, I say," repeated Clemence, restraining her
emotion.
"What do I hear? The past also--can you forget it?"
"I hope to do so."
"Can it be true, Clemence, you can be so generous? But no, no, I
cannot believe in so much happiness; I had renounced it forever."
"You were wrong, you see."
"What a change! Is it a dream? Oh, tell me I am not mistaken."
"No, no, you are not mistaken."
"And, truly, your look is less cold; your voice almost falters. Oh,
say, is it true? Am I not under an illusion?"
"No; for I also have need of pardon."
"You!"
"Have I not been cruel towards you! Ought I not to have thought that
you must have needed a rare courage, a virtue more than human, to act
differently from what you did? Isolated, unhappy, how resist the
desire of seeking some consolation in a marriage which pleased you?
Alas! when one suffers, one is so disposed to believe in the
generosity of others! Your error has been, until now, to count on
mine. Well, henceforth I will try to give you reason."
"Oh, speak, speak once more!" said D'Harville, his hands clasped in a
kind of ecstasy.
"Our existence is forever united. I will do all in my power to render
your life less bitter."
"Is it you I hear?"
"I beg you do not be so much astonished; it gives me pain; it is a
bitter censure on my past conduct. Who else should pity you? Who
should lend you a friendly and helping hand, if not I? A happy
inspiration I have received. I have reflected, well reflected, on the
past, on the future. I have seen my errors, and I have found, I
believe, the means to repair them."
"Your errors, poor wife?"
"Yes; I should have, the next day after our marriage, appealed to your
honor, and frankly demanded a separation."
"Ah, Clemence, pity, pity!"
"Otherwise, since I accepted my position, I should have augmented it
by submission, instead of causing you constant self-reproach by my
haughty and taciturn coldness. I should have endeavored to console you
for a fearful malady, by only remembering your misfortune. By degrees
I should have become attached to my work of commiseration, by reason
even of the cares, perhaps the sacrifices, which it would have cost
me; your gratitude had rewarded me, and then--but what is the matter?
You weep!"
"Yes, I weep--weep with joy. You do not know how many new emotions
your words cause me. Oh, Clemence, let me weep!"
"Never more than at this moment have I comprehended how culpable I
have been in chaining you to my sad destiny!"
"And never have I felt more decided to forget. These gentle tears that
you shed make me acquainted with a happiness of which I was ignorant.
Courage, dear, courage; in default of a fortunate and smiling destiny,
let us seek our satisfaction in the accomplishment of the serious
duties that fate imposes. Let us be indulgent to one another; if we
falter, let us regard the cradle of our child, let us concentrate on
her all our affections, and we shall yet have some joys, melancholy
and holy."
"An angel, she is an angel!" cried D'Harville, joining his hands and
looking at his wife with affectionate admiration. "Oh! you do not know
the pain and pleasure you cause me, Clemence! you do not know that
your harshest words formerly, your most severe reproaches, alas! the
most merited, have never so much overwhelmed me as this adorable,
generous resignation, and yet, in spite of myself, you make hope
spring up again. You do not know the future that I dare imagine."
"And you can have blind and entire faith in what I tell you, Albert.
This resolution is taken firmly; it shall never fail, I swear it to
you. Before long I may give you new guarantees of my word."
"Guarantees?" cried D'Harville, more and more excited by happiness so
unlooked for, "guarantees! have I need of them? Your look, your voice,
this beaming expression of goodness which still graces you, the
throbbings of my heart, all, all prove to me that what you say is
true. But you know, Clemence, man is insatiable in his hopes," added
the marquis. "Your noble and touching words give me courage to hope,
yes, to hope what yesterday I regarded as an insensate dream."
"Albert, I swear to you I shall always be the most devoted of friends,
the most tender of sisters; but nothing more. Pardon, pardon, if
unknowingly my words have ever given you hopes which can never be
realized."
"Never?" cried D'Harville, fixing on her a desperate and supplicating
look.
"Never!" answered Clemence.
This single word, the tone of voice, revealed an irrevocable
resolution. Clemence, brought back to noble resolutions by the
influence of Rudolph, was firmly resolved to surround her husband with
the most touching attentions; but she felt that she was incapable of
ever loving him. An impression still stronger than fright, contempt,
hatred, separated Clemence from her husband forever. It was a
repugnance invincible. After a moment of mournful silence, D'Harville
passed his hand over his eyes, and said to his wife, bitterly:
"Pardon me for deceiving myself; pardon me for having abandoned myself
to a hope, mad as it was foolish. Oh! I am very unfortunate!"
"My friend," said Clemence to him gently, "I do not wish to reproach
you; yet do you reckon as nothing my promise to be for you the most
tender of sisters? You will owe to the most devoted friendship
attentions that love could not give you. Hope for better days. Until
now you have found me almost indifferent to your sorrows; you shall
see how I shall compassionate you, and what consolations you will find
in my affection."
A servant entered, and said to Clemence, "His Royal Highness the Grand
Duke of Gerolstein asks if your ladyship will receive him?"
Clemence looked at her husband, who, recovering his coolness, said to
her, "Of course." The servant retired.
"Pardon me, my friend," said Clemence; "I did not say that I would not
receive. Besides, it is a long time since you have seen the prince; he
will be happy to find you here. I shall, also, be much pleased to see
him; yet I avow, that just now I am so agitated that I should have
preferred to receive his visit some other day."
"I can comprehend it; but what could we do? Here he is." At the same
moment, Rudolph was announced.
"I am a thousand times happy, madame, to have the honor to meet you,"
said Rudolph; "and I doubly appreciate my good fortune, since it also
procures me the pleasure of seeing you, my dear Albert," added he,
turning toward the marquis, whom he cordially shook by the hand.
"It is a long time since I have had the honor to pay your highness my
respects."
"And whose fault is it, invisible lord? The last time I came to pay my
respects to Madame d'Harville, I asked for you; you were absent. It is
now three weeks that you have forgotten me; it is very wrong."
"Be merciless, your highness," said Clemence, smiling: "M. d'Harville
is the more guilty, since he has for your highness the most profound
respect, and he might make that doubted by his negligence."
"Well! see my vanity, madame; whatever D'Harville might do, it would
always be impossible for me to doubt his affection; but I ought not to
say this. I am encouraging him in such conduct."
"Believe me, your highness, that some unforeseen circumstances alone
have prevented me from profiting oftener by your kindness toward me."
"Between ourselves, my dear Albert, I believe you a little too
platonic in friendship; very sure that you are loved, you are not
pliant enough to give or receive proofs of attachment."
Through a breach of etiquette, which rather annoyed Madame d'Harville,
a servant entered, bringing a letter to the marquis. It was the
anonymous denunciation of Sarah, which accused the prince of being the
lover of Madame d'Harville.
The marquis, out of deference to the prince, pushed back with his hand
the silver salver which the servant handed him, and said, in an
undertone, "Not now, not now."
"My dear Albert," said the prince, in the most affectionate tone, "do
you stand on ceremony with me?"
"But, your highness--"
"With the permission of Madame d'Harville, I beg you to read this
letter!"
"I assure your highness that there is nothing pressing."
"Once more, Albert, read this letter!"
"But--"
"I entreat you--I wish it."
"Since your royal highness requires it," said the marquis, taking the
letter from the salver.
"Certainly. I require you to treat me as a friend."
Then turning toward the marchioness, while M. d'Harville broke the
seal of this fatal letter, the contents of which Rudolph could not
have imagined, he added, smiling, "What a triumph for you, madame, to
cause this will, so stern, always to yield!"
D'Harville drew near one of the candelabra on the chimney-piece, and
opened the letter. Rudolph and Clemence conversed together, while
D'Harville twice read the letter. His countenance remained composed; a
nervous trembling, almost imperceptible, agitated his hands alone;
after a moment's hesitation, he put the note into his waistcoat
pocket.
"At the risk of passing for a savage," said he to Rudolph, smiling, "I
shall ask permission to go and answer this letter--more important than
I thought at first."
"Shall I not see you again to-night?"
"I do not think that I can have that honor; I hope your royal highness
will excuse me."
"What a man!" said Rudolph gayly. "Will you not try to retain him,
madame!"
"I dare not attempt what your highness has attempted in vain."
"Seriously, my dear Albert, try to return to us as soon as your letter
is written; if not, promise to grant me an interview some morning. I
have a thousand things to say to you."
"Your royal highness overwhelms me," said the marquis, bowing
profoundly as he retired.
"Your husband is preoccupied," said Rudolph to the marchioness, "his
smile appeared constrained."
"When your royal highness arrived D'Harville was profoundly affected;
he had great trouble to conceal it."
"I have arrived, perhaps, at an inopportune moment."
"No, you have even spared me the conclusion of a painful
conversation."
"How is that?"
"I have told D'Harville the new line of conduct that I was resolved to
follow, promising him support and consolation."
"How happy he should be!"
"At first he was as much so as myself; for his tears and joy produced
an emotion to which I had, as yet, been a stranger. Formerly I thought
I revenged myself by addressing him a reproach, a sarcasm. Sad
revenge! My sorrow afterward has only been more bitter. While just
now--what a difference! I asked my husband if he were going out: he
answered me sadly, that he should pass the evening alone, as was
usually the case. When I offered to remain with him--Oh! if you could
have seen his astonishment! how his expression, always sad, became at
once radiant. Ah! you were right--nothing is more pleasing than to
contrive such surprises of happiness!"
"But how did these proofs of goodness on your part lead to this
painful conversation of which you have spoken?"
"Alas!" said Clemence, blushing, "to these hopes succeeded hopes more
tender, which I was very guarded not to excite, because it will always
be impossible for me to realize them."
"I comprehend; he loves you tenderly."
"As much as I was at first touched with his gratitude, so much was I
alarmed at his protestations of love. I could not conceal my alarm. I
caused him a sad blow in manifesting thus my invincible repugnance to
his love, I regret it. But, at least, D'Harville is now forever
convinced that he has only to expect from me the most devoted
friendship."
"I pity him, without being able to blame you; there are
susceptibilities, thus to speak, which are sacred. Poor Albert, so
good, so kind! If you knew how much I have been afflicted, for a long
time past, with his sadness and dejection, although ignorant of the
cause. Let us leave all to time, to reason. By degrees he will
recognize the value of the affection you offer him, and he will be
resigned to it, as he was resigned before having the touching
consolations which you offer him."
"And which shall never be wanting, I swear to your highness."
"Now let us think of the other unfortunates. I have promised you a
good work, having all the charm of a romance in action. I come to
fulfill my engagement."
"Already! what happiness!"
"Ah! it was a kind of happy inspiration that induced me to take that
poor room in the house of the Rue du Temple, of which I have spoken to
you. You cannot imagine all that I find curious and interesting! In
the first place, your _proteges_ of the garret enjoy the comforts
your presence had promised them; they have, however, yet to undergo
some sad trials; but I do not wish to make you sad. Some day you shall
know how many horrible calamities may overwhelm one single family."
"What must be their gratitude toward you!" "It is your name they
bless."
"Your highness has succored them in my name?"
"To render the charity sweeter to them. Besides, I have only realized
your promises."
"Oh! I will go and undeceive them: tell them it is to you they owe--"
"Do not do that! you know I have a room in that house: be guarded
against any new cowardly acts of your enemies, or of mine; and since
the Morels are now out of the reach of want, think of others. Let us
think of our intrigue. It concerns a poor mother and her daughter,
who, formerly in affluence, are at this time, in consequence of an
infamous spoliation, reduced to the most frightful misery."
"Unfortunate women! and where do they live, your highness?"
"I do not know."
"But how did you find out their situation?"
"Yesterday I went to the temple. Your ladyship does not know what the
Temple is?"
"No, my lord."
"It is a bazaar very amusing to see. I went there to make some
purchases with my neighbor of the fourth floor."
"Your neighbor?"
"Have I not my room in the Rue du Temple?"
"I forgot."
"This neighbor is a charming little grisette; she calls herself
Rigolette; this Miss Dimpleton is always laughing, and never had a
lover."
"What virtue for a grisette!"
"It is not exactly from virtue that she is virtuous, but because, she
says, she has no time to be in love; for she must work from twelve to
fifteen hours a-day to earn twenty-five sous, on which she lives."
"She can live on so small an amount?"
"Rather; and she has even articles of luxury; two birds who eat more
than she does; her little room is as neat as possible, and her dress
really quite coquettish."
"Live on twenty-five sous a-day! she is a prodigy."
"A real prodigy of order, labor, economy, and practical philosophy, I
assure you; hence, I recommend her to you. She is, she says, a very
skillful seamstress. At all events, you would not be ashamed to wear
the clothes she may make."
"To-morrow I will send her some work. Poor girl! to live on so small a
sum, and, so to speak, be unknown to us, who are rich, whose smallest
caprices cost a hundred times that amount."
"I am rejoiced that you have determined to interest yourself in my
little _protegee_. I will now explain our new adventure. I had
gone to the Temple with Rigolette, to purchase some furniture designed
for the poor people in the garret, when, upon accidentally examining
an old secretary which was for sale, I found the draft of a letter
written by a female to some individual, in which she complained that
herself and daughter were reduced to the greatest misery, on account
of the dishonesty of a lawyer. The secretary was part of a lot of
furniture, which a woman of middle age had been compelled by her
penury to sell; and I was told by the dealer that the woman and her
daughter seemed to belong to the upper classes of society, and to bear
their reverses with great fortitude and pride."
"And you do not know their abode?"
"Unfortunately, no. But I have given orders to M. de Graun to endeavor
to discover it, even if he is obliged to apply to the police. It is
possible that, stripped of every thing, the mother and daughter have
sought refuge in some miserably furnished lodgings. If it should be
so, we have some hope, for the landlords report every evening the
strangers who arrive in the course of the day."
"What a singular concurrence of circumstances!" said Madame
d'Harville, with astonishment.
"This is not all. In a corner of this letter, found in the old
secretary were these words, '_Write to Madame de Lucenay_.'"
"What good fortune! perhaps we can find out something from the
duchess," cried Madame d'Harville, with vivacity; then she continued,
with a sigh, "But I am ignorant of the name of this woman--how
designate her to Madame de Lucenay?"
"You must ask if she does not know a widow, still young, of
distinguished appearance, whose daughter, aged sixteen or seventeen,
is named Claire."
"I remember the name. The name of my own daughter! It seems to me a
motive the more to interest me in their misfortunes."
"I forgot to tell you that the brother of this widow committed suicide
some months ago."
"If Madame de Lucenay knows this family," said Madame d'Harville,
"such information will suffice to bring them to her mind. How desirous
I am of going to see her. I will write her a note to-night, so that I
shall be sure to find her to-morrow morning. Who can these women be?
From what you know of them, they appear to belong to the upper classes
of society. And to find themselves reduced to such distress! Ah! for
them poverty must be doubly frightful!"
"By the robbery of a notary, a miserable scoundrel, of whom I already
know many other misdeeds--Jacques Ferrand."
"My husband's notary!" cried Clemence; "the notary of my step-mother!
But you are deceived, my lord; he is looked upon as one of the most
honorable men in the world."
"I have proofs to the contrary. But do not, I pray you, say a word on
this subject to any one; he is as crafty as he is criminal, and to
unmask him, I have need that he shall not suspect, or rather, that he
shall go on with impunity a short time longer. Yes; it is he who has
despoiled these unfortunates, by denying a deposit which, from all
appearances, had been placed in his hands by the brother of this
widow."
"And this sum?"
"Was their sole resource! Oh! what a crime--what a crime!" cried
Rudolph; "a crime that nothing can excuse--neither want nor passion.
Often does hunger cause robbery, vengeance, murder. But this notary
was already rich; and, clothed by society with a character almost
holy, which imposes, ay, forces confidence, this man is induced to
crime by a cold and implacable cupidity. The assassin only kills you
once, and quickly, with his knife; he kills you slowly, by all the
horrors of despair and misery into which he plunges you. For a man
like this Ferrand, no patrimony of the orphan or savings of the poor
are sacred! You confide to him gold; this gold tempts him; he makes
you a beggar. By the force of privations and toil, you have assured to
yourself bread, and an asylum for your old age; _the will_ of
this man tears from your old age this bread and shelter. This is not
all. See the fearful effects of these infamous spoliations; this widow
of whom we speak may die of sorrow and distress; her daughter, young
and handsome, without support, without resources, accustomed to a
competency, unfit, from her education, to gain a living, soon finds
herself between starvation and dishonor! she is lost! By this robbery,
Jacques Ferrand is the cause of the death of the mother, the ruin of
the child! he has killed the body of one, he has killed the soul of
the other; and this, once more I say it, not at once, like other
homicides, but with cruelty, and slowly."
[Illustration: BETWEEN DISHONOR AND HUNGER]
Clemence had never heard Rudolph speak with so much bitterness and
indignation; she listened in silence, struck by these words of
eloquence, doubtless very sad, but which discovered a vigorous hatred
of evil.
"Pardon me, madame," said Rudolph, after a moment's pause; "I cannot
restrain my indignation in thinking of the cruel fate which your
future _protegees_ may have realized. Ah! believe me, the
consequences of ruin and poverty are very seldom exaggerated."
"Oh! on the contrary, I thank your highness for having, by these
terrible words, still more augmented, if that is possible, the sincere
commiseration I feel for these unfortunates. Alas! it is above all for
her daughter she must suffer! oh! it is frightful. But we will save
them--we will assure their future. I am rich, but not as much so as I
could wish, now that I see a new use for money; but, if it is
necessary, I will speak to D'Harville; I will make him so happy that
he cannot refuse any of my new caprices. Our _protegees_ are
proud, your highness says; I like them better for it: pride in
misfortune always proves an elevated mind. I will find the means to
save them, without their knowing that they owe the succor they receive
to a benefactor. It will be difficult; so much the better! Oh! I have
already a project; you shall see, your highness, you shall see that I
am not wanting in address and cunning."
"I already foresee the most Machiavelian combinations," said Rudolph,
smiling.
"But we must first discover them; how I wish it was to-morrow! On
having Madame de Lucenay I will go to their old lodgings, I will
question their neighbors; I will see for myself. I will ask
information from everybody. I will compromise myself, if it is
necessary! I shall be so proud to obtain by myself, and by myself
alone, the result I desire: oh! I will succeed; this adventure is so
touching. Poor women: it seems to me I feel more interest in them when
I think of my child."
Rudolph, touched with this charitable eagerness, smiled sadly on
seeing this lady, so handsome, so lovely, trying to forget in noble
occupations the domestic troubles which afflicted her; the eyes of
Clemence sparkled with vivacity, her cheeks were slightly suffused;
the animation of her gesture, of her speech, gave new attraction to
her ravishing countenance. She perceived that Rudolph was
contemplating her in silence. She blushed, cast down her eyes; then,
raising them in charming confusion, she said, "You laugh at my
enthusiasm? It is because I am impatient to taste those holy joys
which are about to reanimate my existence, until now sad and useless.
Such, without doubt, was not the life I dreamed of; there is a
sentiment, a happiness, more lively still that I can never know;
although still very young, I must renounce it!" added Clemence,
suppressing a sigh. "But thanks to you, my deliverer, always thanks to
you, I have created for myself other interests; charity shall replace
love. I am already indebted to your advice for such touching emotions!
Your words, your highness, have so much influence! The more I
meditate, the more I reflect on your ideas, the more I find them just,
great, and fruitful. Oh! how much goodness your mind discloses! from
what source have you, then, drawn these feelings of tender
commiseration?"
"I have suffered much, I still suffer! This is the reason I know the
cause of many sorrows."
"Your highness unhappy!"
"Yes, for one would say that, to prepare me to solace all kinds of
sorrow, fate has willed I should undergo them all. A lover, it has
struck me through the first woman that I loved with all the blind
confidence of youth; a husband, through my wife; a son, it has struck
me through my father; a father, through my child!"
"I thought that the grand duchess did not leave you any child?"
"She did not; but before my marriage with her I had a daughter, who
died very young. Well! strange as it may appear to you, the loss of
this child, whom I had hardly seen, is the sorrow of my life. The
older I become, the more profound my regrets! Each year redoubles the
bitterness. It seems to increase as her years would have increased.
Now she would have been seventeen!"
"And does her mother still live?" asked Clemence.
"Oh! do not speak of her!" cried Rudolph. "Her mother is an unworthy
creature, a being bronzed by egotism and ambition. Sometimes I ask
myself if it were not better my child should be dead, than to have
remained in the hands of her mother."
Clemence experienced a kind of satisfaction in hearing Rudolph express
himself thus. "Oh! I conceive," cried she, "how you doubly regret your
daughter!"
"I should have loved her so well! and, besides, it seems to me that
among us princes there is always in our love for a son a kind of
interest of race and name; but a daughter is loved for herself alone.
And when one has seen, alas! humanity under the most sinister aspects,
what delight to contemplate a pure and lovely being! to inhale her
virgin purity, to watch over her with tender care! A mother the most
fond and most proud of her daughter cannot experience this feeling;
she is herself too similar to taste these ineffable delights; she will
appreciate much more the manly qualities of a bold and noble boy. For,
do you not find that that which renders, perhaps, still more touching
the love of a mother for her son, a father for his daughter, is, that
there is always in these affections a feeble being who has need of
protection. The son protects the mother, the father protects the
daughter."
"Oh, it is true."
"But, alas! why understand the ineffable joys, when one can never
experience them?" said Rudolph, dejectedly. "But pardon me, madame; my
regrets and my souvenirs have, in spite of myself, carried me away;
you will excuse me?"
"Ah! believe I partake of your sorrows. Have I not the right? Have you
not partaken of mine? Unfortunately, the consolations that I can offer
you are in vain."
"No, no; the expression of your interest is sweet and salutary to me.
It is weakness, but I cannot hear a young girl spoken of without
thinking of her whom I have lost."
"These thoughts are so natural! Hold, my lord; since I have seen you,
I have accompanied, in visits to the prisons, a lady of my
acquaintance, who is a patroness of the work of the young women
confined at Saint Lazare; this house contains many culprits. If I were
not a mother, I should have judged them, doubtless, with still more
severity, while I now feel for them pity; much softened in thinking
that, perhaps, they had not been lost, except for the state of poverty
and neglect they had been in from their infancy. I do not know why,
but after these thoughts it seemed to me I loved my child the more."
"Come, courage," said Rudolph, with a melancholy smile: "this
conversation leaves me quite reassured as to you. A salutary path is
open to you; in following it, you will pass through, without
stumbling, these years of trial, so dangerous for women, above all for
a woman gifted as you are; your reward shall be great; you will still
have to struggle and suffer-for you are very young--but you will renew
your strength in thinking of the good you have done--of that which you
still do."
Madame d'Harville burst into tears. "At least," said she, "your
assistance, your counsels, will never fail me?" "Far or near, I shall
always take the deepest interest in all that concerns you; always, as
much as depends upon me, I will contribute to your happiness: to the
man's to whom I have vowed the most constant friendship."
"Oh! thank your highness for this promise," said Clemence, drying her
tears; "without your generous support, my strength would abandon me;
but, believe me, I swear it here, I will constantly accomplish my
duty."
On these words, a small door, concealed behind the tapestry, was
opened roughly. Clemence uttered a cry. Rudolph shuddered. D'Harville
appeared pale and profoundly affected: his eyes were wet with tears.
The first astonishment over, the marquis said to Rudolph, giving him
Sarah's letter, "Your highness, here is the infamous letter which I
received just now before you. I pray you to burn it after you have
read it."
Clemence looked at her husband with alarm. "Oh, this is infamous!"
cried Rudolph, indignantly. "Yet there is something still more
infamous than this anonymous scurrility--it is my own conduct." "What
do you mean to say?" "A little while ago, instead of showing you this
letter frankly, boldly, I concealed it from you; I pretended to be
calm, while I had jealousy, anger, and despair in my heart; this is
not all. Do you know what I did, my lord? I shamefully went and
concealed myself behind this door to listen to you--to spy--yes, I
have been wretch enough to doubt your honor. Oh! the author of this
letter knows to whom he addresses it; he knows how weak my head is.
Well, my lord, say, after hearing what I have just heard--for I have
not lost a word of your conversation, and know why you go to the Rue
du Temple--ought I not, on my knees, ask for pardon and pity? and I do
it, my lord. I do it, Clemence; I have no more hope but in your
generosity."
"My dear Albert, what have I to pardon?" said Rudolph, extending both
hands with the most touching cordiality. "_Now_ you know our
secrets, I am delighted. I can preach to you at my leisure. I am your
confidant by compulsion, and, what is still better, you are the
confidant of Madeline d'Harville; that is to say, you now know all you
have to expect from that noble heart."
"And, Clemence, will you pardon me also?"
"Yes: on condition that you will assist me in assuring your own
happiness," and she extended her hand to her husband, who pressed it
with emotion.
"My dear marquis," cried Rudolph, "our enemies are unlucky; thanks to
them, we are only the more intimate from the past. You never have more
justly appreciated Madame d'Harville: she has never been more devoted
to you; acknowledge that we are well avenged of the envious and
wicked. That will answer while waiting for something better, for I
divine from whence this came, and I am not accustomed to suffer
patiently the injuries done to my friends. But this regards me. Adieu,
madame; here is our _intrigue_ discovered; you will no longer be
alone in assisting your _protegees_: be assured we will get up
some new mysterious enterprise, which the marquis must be very cunning
to discover."
After having accompanied the prince to his carriage, to thank him
again, the marquis retired to his own apartments without seeing
Clemence again.