Collected works of eugen.., p.170
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 170
“I have the honour to be, monseigneur, your respectful and most grateful servant,
“Rigolette Germain.
“P.S. Ah, monseigneur, in reading my letter over again, I see I have often written M. Rodolph, but you will excuse me, for you know, monseigneur, that under any and every name we respect and bless you alike.”
“Dear little Rigolette!” said Clémence, affected by the letter; “how full of good and right feeling is her letter!”
“It is, indeed!” replied Rodolph. “She has an admirable disposition, her heart is all that is good; and our dear daughter appreciates her as we do,” he added, addressing Fleur-de-Marie, when, struck by her pale countenance, he exclaimed, “But what ails you, dearest?”
“Alas! what a painful contrast between my position and that of Rigolette. ‘Labour and discretion, honour and happiness,’ these four words declare all that my life has been, all that it ought to have been, — a young, industrious, and discreet girl, a beloved wife, a happy mother, an honoured woman, such is her destiny; whilst I—”
“What do you say?”
“Forgive me, my dear father; do not accuse me of ingratitude. But in spite of your unspeakable tenderness and that of my second mother, in spite of the splendour with which I am surrounded, in spite of your sovereign power, my shame is incurable. Nothing can destroy the past. Forgive me, dear father. Until now I have concealed this from you; but the recollection of my original degradation drives me to despair — kills me—”
“Clémence, do you hear?” cried Rodolph, in extreme distress. “Oh, fatality — fatality! Now I curse my fears, my silence. This sad idea, so long and deeply rooted in her mind, has, unknown to us, made fearful ravages; and it is too late to contend against this sad error. Oh, I am indeed wretched!”
“Courage, my dearest!” said Clémence to Rodolph. “You said but now that it is best to know the enemy that threatens us. We know now the cause of our child’s sorrow, and will triumph over it, because we shall have with us reason, justice, and our excessive love for her.”
“And then she will see, too, that her affliction, if it be, indeed, incurable, will render ours incurable,” said Rodolph.
After a protracted silence, during which Fleur-de-Marie appeared to recover herself, she took Rodolph’s and Clémence’s hands in her own, and said in a voice deeply affected, “Hear me, beloved father, and you my best of mothers. God has willed it, and I thank him for it, that I should no longer conceal from you all that I feel. I must have done so shortly, and told you what I will now avow, for I could not longer have kept it concealed.”
“Ah, now I comprehend!” ejaculated Rodolph, “and there is no longer any hope for her.”
“I hope in the future, my dear father, and this hope gives me strength to speak thus to you.”
“And what can you hope for the future, poor child, since your present fate only causes you grief and torment?”
“I will tell you; but before I do so let me recall to you the past, and confess before God, who hears me, what I have felt to this time.”
“Speak — speak — we listen!” was Rodolph’s reply.
“As long as I was in Paris with you, my dearest father, I was so happy that such days of bliss cannot be paid for too dearly by years of suffering. You see I have at least known happiness.”
“For some days, perhaps.”
“Yes, but what pure and unmingled happiness! The future dazzled me, — a father to adore, a second mother to cherish doubly, for she replaced mine, whom I never knew. Then — for I will confess all — my pride was roused in spite of myself. So greatly did I rejoice in belonging to you. If then I sometimes thought vaguely of the past, it was to say to myself, ‘I, formerly so debased, am the beloved daughter of a sovereign prince, whom everybody blesses and reveres; I, formerly so wretched, now enjoy all the splendours of luxury, and an existence almost royal.’ Alas! my father, my good fortune was so unlooked for, your power surrounded me with so much brilliancy, that I was, perhaps, excusable in allowing myself to be thus blinded.”
“Excusable! Nothing could be more natural, my angelic girl. What was there wrong in being proud of a rank which was your own, in enjoying the advantages of a position to which I had restored you? I remember at this time you were so delightfully gay, and said to me in accents I never can again hope to hear, ‘Dearest father, this is too, too much happiness!’ Unfortunately it was these recollections that begat in me this deceitful security.”
“Do you remember, my father,” said Fleur-de-Marie, unable to overcome a shudder of horror, “do you remember the terrible scene that preceded our departure from Paris when your carriage was stopped?”
“Yes,” answered Rodolph; in a tone of melancholy. “Brave Chourineur! after having once more saved my life — he died — there, before our eyes.”
“Well, my father, at the moment when that unhappy man expired, do you know whom I saw looking steadfastly at me? Ah, that look — that look! it has haunted me ever since!” added Fleur-de-Marie, with a shudder.
“What look? Of whom do you speak?” cried Rodolph.
“Of the ogress of the tapis-franc!” answered Fleur-de-Marie.
“That monster! You saw her! — and where?”
“Did you not see her in the tavern where the Chourineur died? She was amongst the women who surrounded us.”
“Ah, now,” said Rodolph, in a tone of despair, “I understand. Struck with horror as you were at the murder of the Chourineur, you must have imagined that you saw something prophetic in the sinister rencontre!”
“Yes, indeed, father, it was so. At the sight of the ogress I felt a death-like shiver, and it seemed that under her scowl my heart, which, until then, had been light, joyous, bounding, was instantly chilled to ice. Yes, to meet that woman at the very instant when the Chourineur died, saying, ‘Heaven is just!’ it seemed to me as a rebuke from Providence for my proud forgetfulness of the past, which I was hereafter to expiate by humility and repentance.”
“But the past was forced on you, and you are not responsible for that in the sight of God!”
“You were driven to it — overcome — my poor child!”
“Once precipitated into the abyss in spite of yourself, and unable to quit it in spite of your remorse and despair, through the atrocious recklessness of the society of which you were a victim, you saw yourself for ever chained to this den, and it required that chance should throw you in my way to rescue you from such thraldom.”
“Then, too, my child, your father says you were the victim and not the accomplice of this infamy,” said Clémence.
“But yet, my mother, I have known this infamy!” replied Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone of deepest grief. “Nothing can destroy these fearful recollections, — they pursue me incessantly, not as formerly, in the midst of the peaceful inhabitants of the farm, or the fallen women who were my companions in St. Lazare, but they pursue me even in this palace, filled with the élite of Germany; they pursue me even to my father’s arms, even to the steps of his throne!” And Fleur-de-Marie burst into an agony of tears.
Rodolph and Clémence remained silent in presence of this fearful expression of unextinguishable remorse; they wept, too, for they perceived that their consolations were vain.
“Since then,” continued Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears, “I say to myself every moment in the day, with bitter shame, ‘I am honoured, revered, and the most eminent and venerated persons surround me with respect and attention. In the eyes of a whole court the sister of an emperor has deigned to fasten my bandeau on my forehead, and I have lived in the mire of the Cité, familiar with thieves and murderers.’ Forgive me, dearest father, but the more elevated my position, the more deeply sensitive have I been to the deep degradation into which I had fallen; and at every homage paid me I feel myself guilty of profanation, and think it sacrilege to receive such attentions, knowing what I have been; and then I say to myself, ‘If God should please that the past were all known, with what deserved scorn would she be treated whom now they elevate so high! What a just and fearful punishment!’”
“But, poor girl, my wife and I know the past; we are worthy of our rank, and yet we cherish you.”
“Because you feel for me the tenderness of a father and mother.”
“But remember all the good you have done since your residence here, and the excellent and holy institution you have founded for orphans and poor forsaken girls! Then, too, the affection which the worthy abbess of Ste. Hermangeld evinces towards you, ought not that to be attributed to your unfeigned piety?”
“Whilst the praises of the abbess of Ste. Hermangeld refer only to my present conduct, I accept it without scruple; but when she cites my example to the noble young ladies who have taken vows in the abbey, I feel as if I were the accomplice of an infamous falsehood.”
After a long silence Rodolph resumed, with deep melancholy:
“I see it is unavailing to persuade you! Reasoning is impotent against a conviction the more steadfast as it is derived from a noble and generous feeling. The contrast of your past and present position must be a perpetual punishment; forgive me for saying so, my beloved one!”
“Forgive you! And for what, my dear father?”
“For not having foreseen your excessive susceptibility, which, from the delicacy of your heart, I should have anticipated. And yet what could I have done? It was my duty solemnly to recognise you as my daughter; yet I was wrong — wrong to be too proud of you! I should have concealed my treasure, and lived in retirement with Clémence and you, instead of raising you high, so high that the past would disappear as I hoped from your eyes.”
Several knocks were heard at this moment, which interrupted the conversation. Rodolph opened the door, and saw Murphy, who said:
“I beg your your royal highness’s pardon for thus disturbing you, but a courier from the Prince of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal has just arrived with this letter, which he says is very important, and must be delivered immediately to your royal highness.”
“Thanks, good Murphy. Do not go away,” said Rodolph, with a sigh, “I shall want you presently.” And the prince, closing the door, remained a moment in the ante-room to read the letter which Murphy had brought him, and which was as follows:
“My Lord: — Trusting that the bonds of relationship existing between us, as well as the friendship with which you have ever honoured me, will excuse the boldness of the step I am about to take, I will at once enter upon the purport of my letter, dictated as it is by a conscientious desire to act as becomes the man your highness deigns to style his friend.
“Fifteen months have now elapsed since you returned from France, bringing with you your long-lost daughter, whom you so happily discovered living with that mother from whom she had never been parted, and whom you espoused when in extremis, in order to legitimise the Princess Amelie.
“Thus ennobled, of matchless beauty, and, as I learn from my sister, the abbess of Ste. Hermangeld, endowed with a character pure and elevated as the princely race from which she springs, who would not envy your happiness in possessing such a treasure?
“I will now candidly state the purport of my letter, although I should certainly have been the bearer of the request it contains, were it not that a severe indisposition detains me at Oldenzaal.
“During the time my son passed at Gerolstein he had frequent opportunities of seeing the Princess Amelie, whom he loves with a passionate but carefully concealed affection. This fact I have considered it right to acquaint you with, the more especially as, after having received and entertained my son as affectionately as though he had been your own, you added to your kindness by inviting him to return, as quickly as his duties would allow, to enjoy that sweet companionship so precious to his heart; and it is probable that my apprising you of this circumstance may induce you to withdraw your intended hospitality to one who has presumed to aspire to the affections of your peerless child.
“I am perfectly well aware that the daughter of whom you are so justly proud might aspire to the first alliance in Europe, but I also know that so tender and devoted a parent as yourself would not hesitate to bestow the hand of the Princess Amelie on my son, if you believed by so doing her happiness would be secured.
“It is not for me to dwell upon Henry’s merits, — you have been graciously pleased to bestow your approval on his conduct thus far, and I venture to hope he will never give you cause to change the favourable opinion you have deigned to express concerning him.
“Of this be assured, that whatever may be your determination, we shall bow in respectful and implicit submission to it, and that I shall never be otherwise than your royal highness’s most humble and obedient servant,
“Gustave Paul,
“Prince of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal.”
After the perusal of this letter Rodolph remained for some time sad and pensive; then a gleam of hope darting across his mind, he returned to his daughter, whom Clémence was most tenderly consoling.
“My dear child,” said he, as he entered, “you yourself observed that this day seemed destined to be one of important discoveries and solemn explanations, but I did not then think your words would be so strikingly verified as they seem likely to be.”
“Dear father, what has happened?”
“Fresh sources of uneasiness have arisen.”
“On whose account?”
“On yours, my child. I fear you have only revealed to us a portion of your griefs.”
“Be kind enough to explain yourself,” said Fleur-de-Marie, blushing.
“Then hearken to me, my beloved child. You have, perhaps, good cause to fancy yourself unhappy. When, at the commencement of our conversation, you spoke of the hopes you still entertained, I understood your meaning, and my heart seemed broken by the blow with which I was menaced, for I read but too clearly that you desired to quit me for ever, and to bury yourself in the eternal seclusion of a cloister. My child, say, have I not divined your intentions?”
“If you would consent,” murmured forth Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint, gasping voice.
“Would you, then, quit us?” exclaimed Clémence.
“The abbey of Ste. Hermangeld is in the immediate neighbourhood of Gerolstein, and I should frequently see yourself and my father.”
“Remember, my child, that vows such as you would take are not to be recalled. You are scarcely eighteen years of age, and one day you may — possibly—”
“Oh, think not I should ever regret my choice! There is no rest or peace for me save in the solitude of a cloister. There I may be happy, if you and my second mother will but continue to me your affection.”
“The duties and consolations of a religious life,” said Rodolph, “might, certainly, if not cure, at least alleviate the anguish of your lacerated and desponding mind, and although your resolution will cost me dear, I cannot but approve of it.”
“Rodolph!” cried the astonished Clémence, “do I hear aright? Is it possible you—”
“Allow me more fully to explain myself,” replied Rodolph. Then addressing his daughter, he said, “But before an irrevocable decision is pronounced, it would be well to ascertain if nothing more suitable, both to your inclinations and our own, could be found for you than the life of a nun.”
Fleur-de-Marie and Clémence started at Rodolph’s words and manner, while, fixing an earnest gaze on his daughter, the prince said, abruptly:
“What think you, my child, of your cousin, Prince Henry?”
The brightest blush spread over the fair face of Fleur-de-Marie, who, after a momentary hesitation, threw herself weeping in her father’s arms.
“Then you love him, do you not, my darling child?” cried Rodolph, tenderly pressing her hands. “Fear not to confide the truth to your best friends.”
“Alas!” replied Fleur-de-Marie, “you know not what it has cost me to conceal from you the state of my heart! Had you questioned me on the subject, I would gladly have told you all, but shame closed my lips, and would still have done so, but for your inquiry into the nature of my feelings.”
“And have you any suspicion that Henry is aware of your love?”
“Gracious heavens, dearest father!” exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, shrinking back in terror, “I trust not!”
“Do you believe he returns your affection?”
“Oh, no, no! I trust he does not! He would suffer too deeply.”
“And what gave rise to the love you entertained for your cousin?”
“Alas, I know not! It grew upon me almost unconsciously. Do you remember a portrait of a youth dressed as a page, in the apartments of the Abbess de Ste. Hermangeld?”
“I know; it was the portrait of Henry.”
“Believing the picture to be of distant date, I one day in your presence remarked upon the extreme beauty of the countenance, when you jestingly replied that it was the likeness of an ancestor who, in his youth, had displayed an extraordinary share of sense, courage, and every estimable quality; this strengthened my first impression, and frequently after that day I used to delight in recalling to my mind the fine countenance and noble features of one I believed to have been long numbered with the dead. By degrees these reveries began to form one of my greatest pleasures, and many an hour have I passed gazing, amid smiles and tears, on one I fondly hoped I might be permitted to know and to love in another world. For in this,” continued poor Fleur-de-Marie, with a most touching expression, “I well know I am unworthy to aspire to the love of any one but you, my kind, indulgent parents.”
“I can now understand the nature of the reproof you once gave me for having misled you on the subject of the portrait.”
