CHAPTER XX.
FLEUR-DE-MARIE.
During the scene which we have just described, Claire, Still in her fainting fit, was delivered to the tender care and attentions of Clémence and the sisters; one of the latter sustained her drooping head, while Lady d'Harville, leaning over the bed, wiped away with her handkerchief the cold sweat from the brow of the patient. Profoundly affected, Saint Rémy contemplated this touching picture, when a sudden thought struck him, and he drew near Clémence, and said in a low tone: "And the mother of this unfortunate, madame?"
The marchioness turned toward Saint Rémy, and answered, with sadness, "She has no longer a mother, my lord."
"Dead!"
"I only learned last night, on my return, the address of Madame de Fermont, and her alarming situation. At one o'clock in the morning I was with her, accompanied by my physician. Oh! sir, what a picture! poverty in all its horrors—and no hope of saving the expiring mother!"
"Oh! how frightful must have been her agony, if the thought of her daughter was present!"
"Her last words were—my daughter!"
"What a death! she, the tender mother, so devoted. It is terrible!"
Here one of the sisters entered, interrupting the conversation, and said to the lady: "The young lady is very feeble—she scarcely has any consciousness; in a short time she may revive. If you do not fear to remain here, madame, and wait until she comes to herself, I will offer you my chair."
"Give it to me," said Clémence, taking a seat along-side of the bed. "I will not take my eyes from her; I wish that she should, at least, see a friendly face when she recovers; then I will take her with me, since the doctor decides that she can be removed without danger."
"Oh! madame, may God bless you for what you do," said Saint Rémy; "but pardon me for not having told you my name—so much sorrow! so much emotion!—I am the Count de Saint Rémy; the husband of Madame de Fermont was my most intimate friend. I live at Angers. I left that city because I was uneasy at not having received any news from these two noble and worthy women. I have since heard that they have been completely ruined."
"Oh! sir, you do not know all. Madame Fermont has been most cruelly despoiled!"
"By her notary, perhaps? For a moment I had such a suspicion."
"The man was a monster, sir! Alas! this cruel crime is not his only one. But, happily," said Clémence, thinking of Rudolph, "he has been compelled to make restitution; and while closing the eyes of Madame de Fermont, I have been able to assure her that her daughter is provided for. Her death thus had fewer pangs."
"I comprehend; knowing that her daughter was under your protection, madame, my poor friend died more tranquilly."
"Not only is my protection forever secured to Miss de Fermont, but her fortune will also be restored."
"Her fortune! How? The notary—"
"Has been forced to restore her money, which he had appropriated to himself by a horrid crime!"
"A crime?"
"This man assassinated the brother of Madame de Fermont, and made her believe that this unfortunate man had committed suicide, after having dissipated her fortune."
"This is horrible; it can hardly be credited; and yet I have had my doubts about this notary, for Renneville was honor itself. And this money—"
"Is deposited with a venerable priest, M. le Curé of Bonne-Nouvelle; he will hand it to Miss de Fermont."
"This restitution is not sufficient for human justice, madame! The scaffold claims this notary, for he has not only committed one murder, but two. The death of Madame de Fermont, the sufferings which her daughter has endured on this hospital bed, have been caused by the infamous abuse of confidence of this wretch!"
"And this wretch has committed another murder, quite as frightful!"
"What do you say, madame?"
"If he made away with the brother of Madame de Fermont by a pretended suicide, only a few days since he cruelly murdered a young girl, in whose destruction he was interested, by causing her to be drowned, certain that this would be attributed to accident."
Saint Rémy shuddered, looked at Madame d'Harville with surprise, and thinking of Fleur-de-Marie, cried: "Oh! what a strange coincidence!"
"What is the matter, my lord?"
"That young girl! Where was it he wished to drown her?"
"In the Seine, near Asnières, I am told."
"It is she! it is the same!" cried Saint Rémy.
"Of whom do you speak, my lord?"
"Of the girl this monster had an interest in."
"Fleur-de-Marie?"
"Do you know her, my lady?"
"Poor child! I loved her tenderly. Ah! if you had known how beautiful she was! But how did your lordship—"
"Dr. Griffon and myself gave her the first assistance."
"The first assistance? to her? where?"
"On Ravageurs' Island, where she was saved."
"Saved! Fleur-de-Marie! saved?"
"By a good creature, who, at the risk of her life, drew her out of the
Seine. But what is the matter, madame?"
"Oh! sir, I dare not believe in so much happiness. I entreat you, tell me—describe the girl!"
"Of admirable beauty, and angelic face—"
"Large blue eyes—flaxen hair?"
"Yes, my lady."
"And when they tried to drown her, was she with an aged woman?"
"In fact it was only yesterday she could speak. She then mentioned that an old woman accompanied her."
"God be praised!" cried Clémence, clasping her hands fervently. "I can inform him that his favorite still lives. What joy for him, who in his last letter spoke of this poor child with such painful regret! Pardon me, sir; but if your lordship only knew how happy your information makes me, as well as another, who, still more than myself, has loved and protected Fleur-de-Marie! But I pray you, where is she at this moment?"
"Near Asnières, in the house of one of the physicians of this hospital—Dr. Griffon, who, notwithstanding some oddities which I deplore, has excellent qualities."
"And she is now out of danger?"
"Yes, madame; but only since two or three days. Today she is allowed to write to her protectors."
"Oh! it is I, my lord, I who will do this, or rather, it is I who will have the joy of conducting her to those, who, believing her dead, regret her so bitterly."
"I appreciate those regrets, madame; for it is impossible to know Fleur-de-Marie without being charmed with her angelic qualities: her grace and sweetness exercise on all those who approach her an unbounded influence. The woman who saved her, and who has since watched her night and day, as she would have watched her own child, is a courageous and determined person, but of a temper so habitually violent, that she has been called La Louve—judge! Well! a word from Fleur-de-Marie can calm her. I have heard her sob and utter cries of despair, when, at one time, Dr. Griffon had but little hopes of saving Fleur-de-Marie."
"That does not astonish me—I know La Louve."
"You, madame?" said Saint Rémy, surprised; "you know La Louve?"
"It must surprise you, truly, my lord," said the marchioness, smiling sweetly, for Clémence was happy—oh! very happy—in thinking of the joyful surprise she would cause the prince. What would have been her delight, if she had known that it was a daughter whom he believed dead—that she was about to restore to Rudolph. "Oh! this is so joyful a day for me, that I wish it to be so for others; it seems to me that there must be many unfortunate persons here to succor; this would be an excellent way to express my gratitude, my joy, for the news you have given me." Then, addressing one of the sisters, who had just given a drink to Miss de Fermont, she said, "Well, sister, is she yet sensible?"
[Illustration: THE CONVALESCENT]
"Not yet, madame—she is so weak. Poor thing! her pulse can hardly be felt."
"I will wait until she is able to be removed in my carriage. But tell me, sister, among all these unhappy sick, do you not know some who particularly merit my interest and pity, and to whom I can be useful before I leave the hospital?"
"Oh! madame, it is heaven sends you," said the sister; "there is," added she, pointing to the bed of Pique-Vinaigre's sister, "a poor woman, very sick, and very much to be pitied; she mourns continually about two small children, who have no one to look to for support but herself. She told the doctor just now that she would leave here, cured or not cured, in a week, as her neighbor had promised to take care of her children for that time only."
"Conduct me to her bed, I pray you, sister," said Lady d'Harville, rising, and following the nun.
Jeanne Duport, scarcely recovered from the violent attack caused by the treatment of Dr. Griffon, had not perceived the entrance of the noble lady into the hospital. What was her surprise, then, when the latter, lifting up the curtains of her bed, said to her, with a look full of kindness and commiseration, "My good mother, you must not be any longer uneasy about your children; I will take care of them; only think of being soon cured, so that you can join them."
Jeanne Duport thought that she was in a dream. In the same place where Dr. Griffon and his students had made her submit to such a cruel ordeal, she saw a lady of surpassing beauty come to her with words of pity, consolation, and hope.
The emotion of Pique-Vinaigre's sister was so great that she could not utter a word; she clasped her hands as if in prayer, looking at her unknown benefactress with adoration.
"Jeanne, Jeanne," whispered La Lorraine, "speak to this good lady." Then, addressing the marchioness, she said, "Ah! madame, you save her; she would have died with despair in thinking of her poor destitute children."
"Once more reassure yourself, my good mother—have no uneasiness," repeated the marchioness, pressing in her small white hand the burning one of Jeanne Duport. "Reassure yourself; be no longer uneasy concerning your children; and if you prefer it, you shall leave the hospital today; you shall be nursed at home—nothing shall be wanting. in this way you shall not leave your dear children; from this time I will see that you do not want for work, and I will attend to the future welfare of your children."
"Ah! what do I hear? The cherubim descend, then, from heaven, as is written in the church books," said Jeanne Duport, trembling, and scarcely daring to look at her benefactress. "Why so much goodness for me? How have I deserved this? It cannot be possible! I leave the hospital, where I have wept so much, suffered so much! not leave my children any more! have a nurse! why, it is a miracle from above!"
And the poor woman spoke the truth. If one only knew how sweet and easy it is to perform often, and at a small expense, such miracles! Alas! for those poor unfortunates, abandoned and repulsed on all sides—an instantaneous, unhoped-for assistance, accompanied by benevolent words of consideration, tenderly commiserative, may easily wear the supernatural appearance of a miracle.
"It is not a miracle, my good mother," answered Clémence, much affected; "that which I do for you," added she, slightly blushing at the recollection of Rudolph, "that which I do for you is inspired by a generous being, who has taught me to relieve the unfortunate; it is he whom you must bless and thank."
"Ah! madame! I shall bless you and yours," said Jeanne Duport, weeping. "I ask your pardon for expressing myself so badly. I am not accustomed to such great joy; it is the first time it has happened to me."
"Well! do you see, Jeanne," said La Lorraine, weeping, "there are also among the sick some Rigolettes and Goualeuses—on a large scale, it is true; but as to the good heart, it is the same thing!"
Lady d'Harville turned toward La Lorraine, much surprised at hearing her pronounce these two names.
"You know La Goualeuse and a young workwoman named Rigolette?" demanded
Clémence of La Lorraine.
"Yes, madame. La Goualeuse—dear little angel—did last year for me—bless her! according to her poor means—that which you do for poor Jeanne. Yes, madame—oh! it does me good to say and repeat to every one, that La Goualeuse took me from a cellar where I was confined on some straw; and the dear little angel removed me and my child to a room where there was a good bed and a cradle. La Goualeuse did this out of pure charity; for she scarcely knew me, and was very poor herself. That was very kind, was it not, madame?" said La Lorraine excited.
"Oh! yes; the charity of the poor toward the poor is holy," said Clémence, her eyes bathed in tears.
"It was just the same with Rigolette, who, according to her means," replied
La Lorraine, "offered her services, a few days since, to Jeanne."
"What a singular coincidence!" said Clémence to herself, more and more affected, for each of these two names, La Goualeuse and Rigolette, recalled a noble action of Rudolph. "And you, my child—what can I do for you?" said she to La Lorraine. "I wish the names that you have just pronounced with so much gratitude may bring you good fortune."
"Thank you, madame," said La Lorraine, with a smile of bitter resignation. "I had a child—it is dead. I am in a consumption, and am in a hopeless state. I have no longer need of anything."
"What gloomy thoughts! At your age—so young—there is always some remedy."
"Oh! no, madame, I know my fate: I do not complain. I saw a person die last night—here—with the same disease; it is an easy death I thank you for your goodness."
"You may magnify your danger."
"I am not mistaken, madame, I know it well. But since you are so kind—a great lady like you is all-powerful—"
"Speak—say, what do you wish?"
"I have asked a service of Jeanne; but, since, thanks to the good God and you, she is going away—"
"Ah! well, this service—can I not render it?"
"Certainly, madame; one word from you to the sisters, or to the physician, would arrange all."
"This word? I will speak it, be assured."
"Since I have seen the actress who is dead, so tormented by the fear of being cut up after her death, I have had the same fear. Jeanne promised to come and claim my body, and have me buried."
"Ah! it is horrible!" said Clémence, shuddering with affright. "One must come here to know that there are, for the poor, misery and alarms even beyond the tomb."
"Pardon, madame," said La Lorraine, timidly; "for a great lady, rich and happy as you deserve to be, this request is a very sad one; I ought not to have made it!"
"I thank you, on the contrary, my child; it teaches me a misery of which I was ignorant, and this knowledge shall not be fruitless. Be comforted; although this fatal moment may be far off, when it does arrive, you may be sure to repose in holy ground."
"Oh! thank you, madame!" cried La Lorraine. "If I might dare to ask permission to kiss your hand."
Clémence presented her hand to the parched lips of La Lorraine.
"Oh! thank you, madame. I shall have some one to pray for and bless to the end, with La Goualeuse, and shall be no longer sad, for after my death—-"
This resignation, and the fears far beyond the grave, had painfully affected Lady d'Harville; she whispered to the sister who came to inform her that Miss de Fermont was completely restored, "Is the condition of this young woman really desperate?"
"Alas! yes, madame; La Lorraine is given up; she has not perhaps, a week to live."
Half an hour afterward, Madame d'Harville, accompanied by Saint Rémy, took with her, to her own house, the young orphan, from whom she had concealed the death of her mother.
The same day an agent of Lady d'Harville, after having visited in the Rue de Barillerie the miserable abode of Jeanne Duport, and having received the most favorable accounts of this worthy woman, immediately hired on the Quai de l'École two large rooms and a bedroom; thanks to the resources of the Temple, they were furnished in two hours, and the same evening, Jeanne Duport was removed to this dwelling, where she found her children and an excellent nurse. The same agent was instructed to claim the body of La Lorraine, whenever she should sink under her malady, and have it decently interred. After having installed Claire de Fermont in her apartment, Lady d'Harville set out at once for Asnières, accompanied by Saint Rémy, in order to conduct Fleur-de-Marie to Rudolph.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOPE.
The early days of spring approached, the sun began to resume his power, the sky was pure, the air soft and mild. Fleur-de-Marie, leaning on the arm of La Louve, tried her strength by walking in Dr Griffon's garden. The vivifying warmth of the sun and the action of walking colored with a rosy tint the pale, thin cheeks of Goualeuse; her peasant's costume having been torn in the agitation attending the first assistance that had been rendered her, she wore a dress of dark-blue merino, made loose, and only confined around her delicate and slender waist by a woolen girdle.
"How pleasant the sun is!" said she to La Louve, stopping at the foot of a hedge of green trees exposed to the south, and which surrounded a stone bench. "Will you sit down here a moment, La Louve?"
"Is there any need of asking me if I will?" answered the wife of Martial, shrugging her shoulders.
Then, taking from her neck her shawl, she folded it carefully, knelt down, laid it on the slightly damp gravel of the walk, and said to La Goualeuse:
"Place yourself there."
"But, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, who had perceived the design of her companion too late to prevent its execution, "but, La Louve, you will ruin your shawl."
"None of your arguments! the ground is damp," said La Louve, and taking the small feet of Fleur-de-Marie in her hands, she placed them on the shawl.
"How you spoil me, La Louve!"
"Hum! do you not deserve it; always contending against that which I wish to do for your good. Are you not fatigued? here is a good half-hour that we have been walking. Noon has just struck at Asnières."
"I am slightly tired; but I feel that this walk has done me good."
"You see, you were tired—you could not ask me sooner to sit down!"
"Do not scold me—I did not know that I was so weak. It is so pleasant to walk after having been confined to the bed so long—to see the sun, the trees, the country, when one has thought never to see them again!"
"The fact is, that you have been in a very dangerous state for two days.
Poor Goualeuse! Yes, now we can tell you that your life was dispaired of."
"And then imagine, that on finding myself under the water, the recollection flashed across my mind that a wicked woman, who had badly treated me when I was very little, had always threatened to throw me to the fishes. Then I said to myself, 'I have no good fortune—it is fated that I shall not escape.'"
"Poor Goualeuse! was this your last thought when you supposed yourself lost!"
"Oh, no!" said Fleur-de-Marie, warmly; "when I felt myself about to die, my last thought was of him whom I regard as my 'Dieu;' so, also, when I was recalled back to life, my first thought was of him."
"It is a pleasure to confer benefits on you; you do not forget."
"Oh, no! it is so pleasant to fall asleep and dream of one's gratitude, and on awakening to remember it still!"
"Ah! one would go through fire to serve you."
"Good Louve! Hold; I assure you that one of the causes which render me desirous to live, is the hope of conferring happiness on you—of accomplishing my promise; you remember our castles in the air at Saint Lazare?"
"As to that, there is time enough; now you are on your feet again, I have made my expenses, as Martial says."
"I hope that the Count of Saint Rémy will tell me, directly, that the physician will allow me to write to Madame George. She must be so uneasy! And, perhaps, M. Rudolph also!" added Fleur-de-Marie casting down her eyes, and blushing anew at the thought of her preserver. "Perhaps they think me dead!"
"As those believe, also, who ordered you to be drowned, poor dear! Oh, the hounds!"
"You always suppose, then, that it was not an accident, La Louve?"
"An accident? Yes, the Martials call them accidents. When I say the Martials, it is without counting my man for he is not of that family, no more than François and Amandine shall be."
"But what interest could any one have in my death! I have never harmed any one—no one knows me."
"It's all one, if the Martials are scoundrels enough to drown some one, they are not fools enough to do it for nothing. Some words which the widow made use of in prison, to my Martial, proves this."
"He has been to see his mother, then? this terrible woman!"
"Yes, and there is no more hope for her, nor for Calabash, nor for Nicholas. Many things have been discovered, but Nicholas, in the hope of saving his life, has denounced his mother and sister for another assassination. On this account they will all be executed; the lawyers have no hope, the judges say that an example is necessary."
"Ah! it is frightful—almost a whole family!"
"Yes, unless Nicholas makes his escape; he is in the same prison with a monster called Skeleton, who has a plot on foot to escape. Nicholas told this to a prisoner who was discharged, and he informed Martial; for my Martial has been weak enough to go and see his rascally brother at La Force. Then, encouraged by this visit, this wretch has had the impudence to send word to his brother that any moment he may escape, and that Martial should hold himself ready, at Micou's, with money, and clothes for a disguise."
"Your Martial has so kind a heart!"
"Kind heart as much as you please, La Goualeuse, but hang me if I let my husband aid an assassin who wished to kill him! Martial will not denounce the plot—that is already a great deal. Besides, now that you are nearly well, La Goualeuse, we are going to start with the children on our tour through France; we will never plant our feet in Paris again; it was painful enough for Martial to be called son of the guillotined—what will it be when mother, brother, and sister are also executed!"
"You will wait, at least, until I have spoken to M. Rudolph concerning you, if I see him again. You have become changed; I told you that I would reward you, and I wish to keep my word; otherwise how can I pay the debt I owe you? You have saved my life; and during my illness you overwhelmed me with attentions."
"Exactly; now I should seem self-interested if I allowed you to ask anything for me from your protector. You are saved; I repeat to you that I have made my expenses."
"Good Louve, reassure yourself; it is not you who are self-interested, it is I who am grateful."
"Listen, then!" said La Louve, suddenly rising; "it sounds like the noise of a carriage. Yes, yes, it approaches; hold! there it is; did you see it pass before the gate? there is a lady within."
"Oh! goodness!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, with emotion; "I thought I recognized—"
"Whom?"
"A handsome lady whom I saw at Saint Lazare, who was very kind to me."
"Is she aware that you are here?"
"I do not know; but she is acquainted with the person of whom I have spoken and who (if he wish, and he will, I hope) can make a reality of our Saint Lazare castles in the air."
A noise of footsteps approaching rapidly was heard behind the hedge; François and Amandine, who, thanks to the kindnss of Saint Rémy, had not left La Louve, came rushing into the garden, crying:
"La Louve, here is a fine lady with my lord: they want to see
Fleur-de-Marie at once."
"I was not mistaken," said Goualeuse.
Almost at the same moment, Saint Rémy appeared, accompanied by Lady d'Harville.
Hardly had she perceived Fleur-de-Marie, than she cried, running toward her and pressing her in her arms:
"Poor dear child! I see you again. Ah! saved! saved miraculously from a horrible death! With what happiness I find you—I, who, as well as your friends, thought you were lost forever!"
"I am also very happy to see you again, madame; for I have never forgotten your kindness to me," said Fleur-de-Marie, returning the tender caresses of Lady d'Harville with charming modesty.
"Ah! you do not know what will be the surprise, the wild joy of your friends, who, at this moment, weep for you so bitterly."
Fleur-de-Marie, taking the hand of La Louve, who had withdrawn a short distance, said to Lady d'Harville, presenting her:
"Since my safety is so dear to my benefactors, lady, permit me to bespeak, through you, their kindness for my companion, who saved me at the risk of her life."
"Be assured, my child; your friends will prove to the brave Louve that they know it is to her they owe the happiness of seeing you again."
La Louve, blushing, confused, daring neither to answer nor raise her eyes toward Lady d'Harville, so much did the presence of a woman of her rank abash her, could not conceal her astonishment at hearing Clémence pronounce her name.
"But there is not a moment to lose," said the marchioness. "I am dying with impatience to take you with me, Fleur-de-Marie; I have brought in my carriage a shawl and a warm cloak; come, come, my child." Then, addressing the count, she added, "Will your lordship be good enough to give my address to this courageous woman, so that she can come to-morrow and say farewell to Fleur-de-Marie? So, you will be obliged to come and see us," she said to La Louve.
"Oh! lady, I will come, very sure," answered she, "since it is to say adieu to La Goualeuse; I should be very sad not to be able to see her once more."
A few moments afterward Lady d'Harville and La Goualeuse were on the road to Paris.
* * * * *
Rudolph, after having beheld the death of Jacques Ferrand, so terribly punished for his crime, had returned home in a state of deep dejection. After a long and sleepless night, he had sent for Sir Walter Murphy, to confide to this old and faithful friend the heartrending discovery concerning Fleur-de-Marie that he had made the previous evening. The worthy Englishman was overwhelmed; better than any other person, he could comprehend and partake of the profound grief of the prince. The latter, pale, prostrated, his eyes red from weeping, had just made Murphy this painful revelation.
"Take courage," said the latter, wiping his eyes; for, notwithstanding his firmness, he had also wept. "Yes, take courage, my lord—much courage. I offer no vain consolations—this sorrow has no cure."
"You are right. What I felt yesterday is nothing compared to my present sufferings."
"Yesterday your highness felt the shock, but the reaction will each day be more grievous. Therefore, call up all your energy. The future is sad—very sad."
"And then, yesterday, the contempt and horror with which this woman inspired me! But may God have pity on her, for at this moment she is before him. Yesterday, in fine, surprise, hatred, fright, so many violent passions, smothered within me these elements of despairing tenderness, that at present I can restrain myself no longer—I can hardly weep. And yet now, with you, I can. Hold! you see, I have no strength—I am cowardly—pardon me. Tears again—always—oh! my child! my poor child!"
"Weep, weep, your highness. Alas! the loss is irreparable."
"And so many dreadful miseries to make her forget," cried Rudolph, in a touching tone, "after all that she has suffered! Think of the fate which awaited her!"
"Perhaps this transition might have been too abrupt for the unfortunate, already so cruelly tried."
"Oh! no, no! not so. If you knew with what delicacy—with what reserve, I should have apprised her of her birth; how gently I should have prepared her for this revelation—it was so simple, so easy. Oh! if this were the only question, do you see," added the prince, with a bitter smile, "I should have been composed, and not embarrassed. Throwing myself on my knees before the idolized child, I would have said, 'You who have been until now so cruelly treated, be at length happy—and forever happy. You are my daughter.' But no," said Rudolph, "no, that is not it—that would have been too hasty, too rash. Yes, I would have restrained myself and said to her, in a calm manner, 'My child, I must tell you something that will astonish you much. Yes; imagine that they have discovered traces of your parents; your father lives, and your father is—I am your father.'" Here the prince again interrupted himself. "No, no; this is also too sudden, too abrupt; but it is not my fault that this revelation is always springing to my lips; one must have more self-command—you comprehend, my friend, you comprehend? To be there before your daughter, and restrain your feelings!" Then, giving way again to despair, Rudolph cried, "But to what purpose these vain words? I shall never speak to her again. Oh! that which is frightful—frightful to think of, is, that I have had my daughter near me during a whole day—yes, that day, forever accursed, on which I took her to the farm; that day when all the treasures of her angelic mind were revealed to me in all their purity, and nothing in my heart whispered, 'She is your daughter!' nothing—nothing! Oh! how blind, stupid I was, not to imagine this. I was unworthy to be a father."
"But, sir—"
"But, in truth," cried the prince, "did it not depend upon myself whether I should ever leave her? Why did I not adopt her? I, who lament so much for my child? Why, instead of sending this unfortunate child to Madame George, did I not keep her with me? To-day I should only have had to extend my arms to her. Why have I not done that? Why? Ah! because one only does good by halves; because one only values treasures when they have disappeared forever: because instead of raising at once to her true level this admirable young girl, who, in spite of misery and abandonment, was, through her mind and heart, greater, nobler, perhaps, than she ever would have been by the advantages of birth and education. I thought I was doing much for her by placing her at a farm with some good people, as I would for the first interesting beggar that I met in the streets. It is my fault—it is my fault. If I had done that she would not have been dead. Oh! yes, I am punished—I have deserved it—bad son, bad father!"
Murphy knew that such grief was inconsolable, and remained silent.
"I shall not remain here—Paris is hateful to me; to-morrow I go—"
"You are right, my lord."
"We will stop at the farm of Bouqueval. I will shut myself up for some hours in her chamber, where she passed the only happy days of her life. I will have collected with religious care all that belonged to her—the books she commenced to read; the paper she had written on; the clothes she has worn—all, even to the furniture—even to the tapestry of her rooms, of which I myself will take an exact delineation. And at Gerolstein, in the private park where I have raised a monument to the memory of my outraged father, I will have a small house built, in which shall be rebuilt this room; there I will go to weep for my daughter. Of these two funeral monuments, one will recall my crime to my father, the other the chastisement which reached me through my child. Thus, then, let everything be prepared to-morrow morning."
Murphy, willing to try if he could not turn the prince a moment from his gloomy thoughts, said, "All shall be ready, sir; only you forget that to-morrow the marriage of Germain, the son of Madame George, and Rigolette takes place. Not only have you made a provision for Germain, and munificently endowed the bride, but you have also promised to be present at the wedding as a witness. Then are they to be informed of the name of their benefactor."
"It is true I have promised. They are at the farm, and I cannot go there to-morrow without being present at the ceremony, and I will confess I have not the courage."
"The sight of the happiness of these young people will, perhaps, calm your sorrow."
"No, no, grief is selfish, and seeks retirement. To-morrow you will go in my place; and you will beg Madame George to collect everything belonging to my daughter. Let a plan of her room be made, and sent to me in Germany.
"Will your highness depart without seeing Lady d'Harville?"
At the name of Clémence, Rudolph started; he still cherished for her a sincere attachment, but at this moment it was, thus to speak, drowned in the wave of bitterness which inundated his heart. By a strange contradiction, the prince felt that the tender affection of Lady d'Harville would alone have aided him to support the grief which overwhelmed him, and he reproached this thought as unworthy the fervency of his paternal grief.
"I shall go without seeing the lady," answered Rudolph. "A few days since I wrote her how much I sorrowed for the death of Fleur-de-Marie. When she knows that Fleur-de-Marie was my daughter, she will comprehend the grief that seeks to be alone—yes, alone, so that it may be expiatory; and it is terrible, that expiation which fate imposes on me—terrible! for it commences, for me, at the time when the decline of life also commences."
Some one knocked lightly and discreetly at the door; Rudolph started in impatience; Murphy rose and went to see who was there. Through the half-open door an aid-de-camp of the prince said a few words to the knight, in a low tone. He answered by a sign, and, turning toward Rudolph, said, "Will your highness permit me to be absent for a moment? Some one wishes to speak to me on business of importance."
"Go," answered the prince.
Hardly had Murphy departed, than Rudolph, uttering a heavy sigh concealed his face in his hands.
"Oh!" cried he, "that which I feel alarms me. My heart overflows with hatred; the presence of my best friend weighs me down; the memory of a pure and noble love importunes and troubles me, and then—it is cowardly and unworthy. But last night I learned, with savage joy, the death of Sarah—of this unnatural mother, who has caused the death of my child. I amused myself in beholding the ravings and torments of the horrid monster who killed my daughter—oh, madness!—I arrived too late. Yet, yesterday I did not suffer so; and yesterday, as to-day, I thought my child dead—oh! yes; but I did not say to myself these words which henceforth will imbitter my life: 'I have seen my daughter; I have spoken to her; I have admired all that was adorable in her. Oh! how much time I might have passed at that farm! When I think that I only went there three times; yes, no more; and I could have gone there every day—to see my child every day! What do I say to keep her ever with me!' Oh! such shall be my punishment."
Suddenly the door of the cabinet opened, and Murphy entered; he was very pale—so pale that the prince half arose, and cried, "Murphy, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"You are very pale."
"It is astonishment."
"What astonishment?"
"Madame d'Harville!"
"Madame d'Harville? Some new misfortune!"
"No, no, my lord, reassure yourself; she is there in the parlor."
"She here! in my house! it is impossible!"
"I tell your highness, the surprise—-"
"Such a step on her part—but what is the matter, in the name of heaven?"
"I do not know—I cannot explain what I feel."
"You conceal something from me."
"On my honor, no. I do not know what she meant?"
"But what did she say?"
"'Sir Walter,' and although her voice trembled, her face was beaming with joy, 'my presence here must surprise you very much; but there are certain circumstances so important, that they leave no time to think of appearances. Entreat his highness to grant me, immediately, an audience in your presence; for I know that the prince has no better friend. I should have begged him to come to my own house, but that would have delayed our interview for an hour, which the prince will confess should not have been retarded a moment,' added she, with an expression which made me tremble."
"But," said Rudolph, in a broken voice, and becoming still paler than Murphy, "I cannot imagine the cause of your trouble—of your emotion—of your looks; there is something else—this interview—"
"On my honor, I do not know anything more. These words alone, of the marchioness, have unsettled me. Why, I am ignorant. But you yourself—you are very pale, sir."
"I?" said Rudolph, supporting himself on a chair, for he felt his knees giving way under him.
"I tell your highness, that you are as much disturbed as I am. What is the matter?"
"Although I should die under the blow, beg Madame d'Harville to enter," cried the prince. By a strange sympathy, the visit, so unexpected, so extraordinary, had awakened in both Murphy and Rudolph a certain vague and indefinite hope; but this hope seemed so extravagant, that neither one nor the other dared to avow it.
Madame d'Harville, followed by Murphy, entered the cabinet. Ignorant, as we have said, that Fleur-de-Marie was the daughter of the prince, Madame d'Harville, in her joy at bringing back his protégée, had not thought she would be able to present her to him without previous preparation: she had left her in the carriage at the door, as she did not know whether the prince was willing to make himself known to the young girl, and receive her in his own house. But perceiving the great alteration in the looks of Rudolph, and remarking in his eyes the traces of recent tears, Clémence thought he had met with some misfortune more severe than the death of La Goualeuse; thus forgetting the object of her visit, she cried, "What is the matter with your highness?"
"Are you ignorant, madame? Ah! all hope is lost. Your haste—the interview you have so earnestly demanded—I thought——"
"Oh! I entreat you, let us not speak of the object of my visit. In the name of my father, whose life you saved, I have almost the right to demand from you the cause of the affliction in which you are plunged. Your state of dejection, your paleness, alarms me. Oh! speak, my lord; be generous—speak—have pity on my distress."
"For what good, madame? my wound is incurable."
"These words redouble my alarm, my lord; explain yourself—Sir Walter, what is it?"
"Well!" said Rudolph, in a hollow voice, making a violent effort to restrain himself, "since I informed you of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, I have learned that she was my child."
"Fleur-de-Marie your child!" cried Clémence, in a tone impossible to be described.
"Yes; and just now, when you asked to see me immediately, to inform me of something that would overwhelm me with joy—have pity on my weakness—but a father, mad with grief at the loss of his child, is capable of indulging in many mad hopes. For a moment I thought—that—but no, no; I see I deceived myself. Pardon me; I am but a miserable, foolish man."
Rudolph, exhausted by the violence of his feelings, fell back in his chair, covering his face with his hands. Madame d'Harville remained stupefied, immovable, dumb, breathing with difficulty—in turns a prey to joy, to fear, for the effect which the revelation she was about to make might have upon the prince—in fine, exalted by a holy gratitude toward Providence, who intrusted her—her—to announce to Rudolph that his daughter lived, and she had brought her back to him. Clémence, agitated by these emotions, so violent, so diverse, could not utter a word. Murphy, after having for a moment partaken of the mad hopes of the prince, seemed quite as much overcome as he was. Suddenly the marchioness, yielding to an unexpected and involuntary emotion, forgetting the presence of Murphy and Rudolph, sunk on her knees, clasped her hands, and cried, with an expression of fervent piety and ineffable gratitude:
"Thanks, my God! be praised! I acknowledge Thy sovereign will. Thanks once more, for Thou hast chosen me to inform him that his child is saved!"
Although said in a low voice, these words, pronounced in a tone of sincere and holy fervor, reached the ears of Murphy and the prince. The latter raised his head quickly at the moment Clémence arose from the ground. It is impossible to describe the look, action, and expression of Rudolph, on contemplating Madame d'Harville, whose charming features, stamped with a celestial joy, shone at this moment with superhuman beauty. Leaning with one hand on the marble table, and compressing with the other the rapid pulsations of her heart, she gave an affirmative nod of the head in answer to a look from Rudolph, which once more we are unable to describe.
"Below—in my carriage."
Save for the presence of Murphy, who, quick as lightning, threw himself before Rudolph, he would have rushed at once to the street.
"My lord, you would kill her!" cried the squire, holding back the prince.
"Only since yesterday she is convalescent. For her life, no imprudence, my lord," added Clémence.
"You are right," said Rudolph, restraining himself with difficulty; "you are right—I will be calm—I will not see her yet—I will wait—let my first emotions be controlled. Ah! it is too much—too much in one day!" added he, in a broken voice. Then, addressing Madame d'Harville, and extending his hand toward her, he cried, with a burst of inexpressible gratitude, "I am pardoned! You are the angel of mercy!"
"Your highness restored to me my father—Heaven willed that I should bring back your child," answered Clémence. "But, in my turn, I ask your pardon for my weakness. This revelation—so sudden, so unexpected—has confused me. I confess that I have not the courage to go for Fleur-de-Marie—my agitation would alarm her."
"And how was she saved?" cried Rudolph. "See my ingratitude. I have not yet asked you this question."
"At the moment she was drowning, she was rescued from a watery grave by a courageous woman."
"Do you know her?"
"To-morrow she will come to see me."
"The debt is immense," said the prince, "but I shall know how to pay it."
"What a happy circumstance, my God! that I did not bring Fleur-de-Marie with me," said the marchioness; "this scene would have been fatal to her."
"It is true, madame," said Murphy; "it is a providential chance that she is not here."
"Now," said the prince, who had for a few moments been endeavoring to conquer his emotions, "now I have self-command, I assure you. Murphy, go and seek my daughter." These words, my daughter, were pronounced by the prince with an accent we will not attempt to express.
"Are you quite sure of yourself?" said Clémence. "No imprudence."
"Oh! be tranquil. I know the danger there would be for her—I will not expose her to it. My good Murphy, I entreat you—go—go!"
"Reassure yourself, madame," answered the squire, who had attentively observed the prince; "she can come. My lord will restrain himself."
"Then go—go quickly, my old friend."
"Yes, my lord; I ask but for a moment—one is not made of iron," said the good man, wiping away the traces of his tears; "she must not see that I have been weeping."
"Excellent man!" replied Rudolph, cordially pressing his hand.
"I am ready. I did not wish to pass through the servants' lines all in tears, like a Magadalen. But what shall I say?"
"Yes, what shall he say?" demanded the prince from Clémence.
"That M. Ruldolph wishes to see her—nothing more, it seems to me."
"Undoubtedly. Say that M. Rudolph wishes to see her, nothing more. Come, go—go."
"It is certainly the very best thing that can be said to her," answered the squire. "I will merely say that M. Rudolph wishes to see her; that will not cause her to conjecture anything—to foresee anything: it is the most reasonable way, truly."
But Sir Walter did not stir.
"Sir Walter," said Clémence, smiling, "you are afraid."
"It is true, my lady; in spite of my six-foot stature and my rough exterior, I am still under the influence of violent emotions."
"My friend, take care," said Rudolph; "wait a moment longer, if you are not sure of your self-possession."
"This time, my lord, I am victorious," said the baronet, after having passed over his eyes his Herculean hand. "Really, at my age, this weakness is perfectly ridiculous. Fear nothing now."
And Murphy left the apartment with a firm step and tranquillized air. A moment of silence ensued; then Clémence, blushing, remembered that she was in Rudolph's house, and alone with him. The prince approached her, and said, almost timidly, "If I choose this day—this moment—to make you a sincere avowal, it is because the solemnity of this day—this moment—will add still more to the gravity of the confession. Ever since I have known you I have loved you. So long as concealment of this love was necessary, I concealed it; now that you are free, and have restored me my daughter, will you be to her a mother?"
"I, my lord!" cried Madame d'Harville. "What do you say?"
"I entreat you, do not refuse me; let this day decide my future happiness," said Rudolph tenderly.
Clémence also had loved the prince for a long time; she thought she was in a dream. The avowal of Rudolph, at once so simple, so serious, so touching—made under such circumstances, transported her with an unhoped-for happiness; she answered, hesitatingly, "My lord, it is for you to recall to mind the difference of rank—the interest of your sovereignty."
"First let me think of the interest of my heart—of that of my cherished daughter; make us both happy—oh! very happy. Permit me, who but now was without family, to say, 'My wife—my daughter;' allow this poor child—also without family—to say, 'My father—my mother—my sister;' for you have a daughter, who will become mine."
"Oh! my lord, to such noble words one can only answer by grateful tears," cried Clémence. Then, composing herself, she added, "My lord, some one comes; it is your child."
"Oh! do not refuse me," cried Rudolph, in a supplicating voice; "in the name of my love, say our child."
"Our child," murmured Clémence; at the same moment Murphy opened the door, leading in Fleur-de-Marie.
The girl, descending from the carriage, had crossed an ante-chamber, filled with footmen in full livery; a waiting-room, where valets attended; then the ushers' saloon; and, finally, the waiting-rooms, occupied by a chamberlain and the aides of the prince in full uniform. Let the reader imagine the astonishment of the poor Goualeuse, who knew no other splendors than those of the farm at Bouqueval, on traversing these princely apartments, resplendent with gold, mirrors, and paintings.
As soon as she appeared, Lady d'Harville ran toward her, took her by the hand, and placing her arm around her for support, she conducted her toward the prince, who, standing near the chimney, had not been able to move. Murphy, after having confided Fleur-de Marie to the care of Lady d'Harville, hastily disappeared behind the folds of one of the immense window-curtains, finding that he was not altogether sure of his self-possession. At the sight of her benefactor, her savior, who regarded her with silent ecstasy, Fleur-de-Marie, already so agitated, began to tremble.
"Compose yourself, my child," said Lady d'Harville; "there is your friend,
M. Rudolph, who awaits you impatiently; he has been very uneasy about you."
"Oh! yes, very—very uneasy," said Rudolph, still immovable, his heart almost breaking at the sight of the sweet pale face of his child.
Thus, in spite of his resolution, the prince was for a moment obliged to turn his head to conceal his emotion.
"Stay, my child, you are still very weak; sit down there," said Clémence, to turn her attention from the prince; and she led her to a large arm-chair of bronze and gilt, in which the Goualeuse seated herself. Her agitation increased every moment: she was oppressed, speech failed her; she had not a word of gratitude for Rudolph.
At length, on a sign from Lady d'Harville, who was leaning on the back of the chair, and holding one of Fleur-de-Marie's hands in her own, the prince approached softly to the other side of the seat. With more self-command, he then said to Fleur-de-Marie, who turned toward him her enchanting face:
"At length, my child, you are once more reunited to your friends, and forever! You never shall leave them more Now you must forget what you have suffered."
"Yes, my child, the best way to prove that you love us," added Clémence, "is to forget the past."
"Believe me, M. Rudolph—believe me, my lady, that if I do recall it sometimes, it will only be to say to myself, that, without you, I should still be very unhappy."
"Yes; but we will take care that you have no more such gloomy thoughts. Our tenderness will not leave you the time, my dear Marie," answered Rudolph, "for you know that I gave you this name at the farm."
"Yes, M. Rudolph. And is Madame George, who allowed me to call her mother, well?"
"Very well, my child. But I have important news to tell you."
"Me, M. Ruldoph?"
"Since I have seen you, great discoveries have been made concerning your birth."
"My birth!"
"It is known who were your parents—who was your father."
Rudolph was so much choked by his tears on his pronouncing these words, that Fleur-de-Marie, very much affected, turned quickly toward him: he had turned away his head. An incident, half burlesque, diverted the attention of La Goualeuse, and prevented her from remarking more closely the emotion of her father: the worthy squire, who still remained behind the curtain, and, apparently was very attentively looking into the garden of the hotel, could not refrain from blowing his nose with a most formidable noise, for he wept like a child.
"Yes, my dear Marie," Clémence hastened to say, "your father is known—he still lives."
"My father!" cried the Goualeuse, with an outburst which put the composure of Rudolph to a new trial.
"And some day," resumed Clémence, "very soon, perhaps, you will see him. What will doubtless surprise you very much is, that he is of high standing—noble birth."
"And my mother, madame-shall I see her?"
"Your father will answer this question, my child; but shall you not be very happy to see him?"
"Oh! yes, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes.
"How much you will love him, when you know him," said the marchioness.
"From that day forward, a new life will commence for you, Marie," added the prince.
"Oh! no, M. Rudolph," answered the Goualeuse, unaffectedly.
"My new life commenced on the day when you took pity on me—when you sent me to the farm."
"But your father will cherish you," said the prince.
"I do not know him, and to you I owe all, M. Rudolph."
"Then you love me as much—more, perhaps, than you would love your father?"
"I bless you, and I respect you as I do God. M. Rudolph, because you have done for me that which God alone else could have done," answered the Goualeuse, with enthusiasm, forgetting her habitual timidity. "When my lady had the goodness to speak to me in prison, I said to her what I said to everybody—yes, M. Rudolph; to those who were very unfortunate, I said, 'Hope! M. Rudolph succors the unfortunate.' To those who hesitated between good and evil, I said, 'Courage, be virtuous; M. Rudolph rewards those who are virtuous.' To those who were wicked, I said, 'Take care! M. Rudolph punishes the wicked.' In fine, when I thought I was about to die, I said to myself, 'God will have mercy upon me, for M. Rudolph has judged me worthy of his interest.'"
Fleur-de-Marie, carried away by her gratitude toward her benefactor, had overcome her fears: a slight carnation tinged her cheeks, and her beautiful blue eyes, which she raised toward heaven as if in prayer, shone with the softest luster. A silence of some seconds succeeded the enthusiastic words of Fleur-de-Marie; the emotions which affected the actors in this scene were profound.
"I see, my child," resumed Rudolph, hardly containing his joy, "that in your heart I have almost taken the place of your father."
"It is not my fault, M. Rudolph. It is, perhaps, wrong in me; but, as I have told you, I know you, and I do not know my father, and," added she, holding down her head in confusion, "and then you know the past, M. Rudolph; and yet you have overwhelmed me with favors; but my father does not know it. Perhaps he will regret having found me," added the unfortunate child, shuddering, "and since he is, as my lady said, of high birth, doubtless he will be ashamed—he will blush for me!"
"Blush for you!" cried Rudolph, drawing himself up proudly.
"Reassure yourself, poor child; your father will place you in a position so brilliant, so lofty, that the greatest among the great of this world will regard you henceforth with the utmost respect. Blush for you! no, no; you will rank with the noblest princesses of Europe."
"My lord!" cried Murphy and Clémence at the same time, alarmed at the vehemence of Rudolph and the increasing pallor of Fleur-de-Marie, who looked at her father with surprise.
"Blush for you!" continued he; "oh! if I ever rejoiced and felt pride in my sovereign rank it is that, thanks to this rank, I can elevate you as much as you have heretofore been abased. Do you hear, my darling child—my beloved daughter? for it is I—I, who am your father!"
And the prince, no longer able to conquer his emotion, threw himself at the feet of Fleur-de-Marie, whom he covered with tears and caresses.
"God be praised!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, clasping her hands. "I am permitted to love my benefactor as much as I would have loved him. He is my father. I can cherish him without remorse. Be praised, my—-"
She could not finish—the shock was too violent; Fleur-de-Marie fainted in the arms of her father.
Murphy ran to the door, opened it, and said, "Dr David instantly for his royal highness; some one is ill!"
"Curses on me? I have killed her," cried Rudolph—in tears, kneeling before his daughter. "Marie, my child, listen to me; it is your father. Pardon—Oh! pardon for not having retained this secret longer. I have killed her!"
"Calm yourself, my lord," said Clémence; "there is, doubtless, no danger.
See her cheeks are tinged with color; it is the shock—only the shock."
"But hardly convalescent, she will die. Woe is me!"
At this moment, David, the black physician, entered precipitately: holding in his hands a small box filled with vials, and a paper, which he handed to Murphy.
"David, my child is dying. I have saved your life—you must save my child!" cried Rudolph.
Although amazed at these words of the prince, who spoke of his child, the doctor ran to Fleur-de-Marie, whom Lady d'Harville held in her arms, took hold of the young girl's pulse, placed his hand on her forehead, and turning toward Rudolph, who, pained and alarmed, awaited his doom, he said: "There is no danger, let your highness be assured."
"You speak the truth—no danger—none?"
"Not any, your highness. A few drops of ether, and this attack will pass over."
"Oh! thank you, David—my good David!" cried the prince, warmly. Then turning toward Clémence, Rudolph added, "She lives—our daughter will live."
Murphy had just cast his eyes over the note which David had placed in his hand; he shuddered, and looked at the prince with affright.
"Yes, my old friend," said Rudolph, "in a short time my daughter will say to Lady d'Harville," My mother!'"
"My lord," said Murphy, trembling, "the news of yesterday was false."
"What do you say?"
"A violent attack, followed by a fainting fit, had caused them to think that the Countess M'Gregor was dead."
"The countess—"
"This morning there are hopes of saving her."
"Oh!" cried the prince, while Clémence looked at him with surprise, not comprehending his altered appearance.
"My lord," said David, still occupied with Fleur-de Marie, "there is no cause for the slightest uneasiness. But fresh air is necessary; the chair can be rolled on the terrace by opening the door of the garden, she will then soon recover."
Murphy ran immediately to open the glass door, and aided by David, he gently rolled the chair into the garden, leaving Rudolph and Clémence alone.