In Spain, on the contrary, the condemned remains exposed during three days in a “_chapelle ardente_;” his coffin is continually before his eyes; the priests say the prayers for the dying; the bells of the church night and day ring a funeral knell.
It will be conceived that this kind of initiation to death may alarm the most hardened criminals, and inspire with salutary terror the crowd which surrounds the “_chapelle mortuaire_.”
Then the day of the execution is a day of public mourning; the bells of all the churches toll; the condemned is slowly conducted to the scaffold, with mournful and imposing pomp; his coffin is carried before him; the priests, walking at his side, chant the prayers for the dead; then comes the religious brotherhood; and, finally, the mendicant friars, asking from the crowd money for prayers for the repose of the culprit’s soul. The crowd never remains deaf to this appeal. Without doubt, all this is frightful, but it is logical and imposing. It shows that they do not cut off from this world a creature of God, full of life and strength, as they would slaughter an ox. It causes the multitude to reflect (who always judge of the crime by the magnitude of the punishment) that homicide is a fearful offense, since its punishment disturbs, afflicts, and sets in commotion a whole city. Again, this dreadful spectacle may cause serious reflections, inspire salutary alarms; and that which is barbarous in this human sacrifice, is at least hidden by the awful majesty of its execution. But, we ask, the events taking place exactly as we have described them (and sometimes even _less seriously_), what kind of an example can it afford? Early in the morning, the condemned is bound and thrown into a closed carriage; the postilion whips up his horses, reaches the scaffold; the ax descends, and a head falls into a basket, in the midst of the most atrocious jeerings of the vilest of a vile populace! Finally, in a hasty and secret execution, where is the example? where is the terror? And then, as the execution takes place, as we may say, privately, in a byplace, with great precipitation, the whole town is ignorant of this bloody and solemn act; nothing announces that, on this day, they are _killing a man_; they laugh and sing at the theaters; the multitudes pass on, careless and indifferent. As it regards society, religion, and humanity, this judicial homicide, committed in the name of the _interests of all_, is, however, something which ought to be of importance to _all_. In fine, let us say it again, say it always, here is the sword, but where is the crown? Beside the punishment show the recompense; then only will the lesson be complete and fruitful. If, on the day following this morn of sorrow and of death, the people, who have seen the blood of a great criminal redden the scaffold, should see the truly virtuous man honored and rewarded, they would dread as much the punishment of the first, as they would ambitiously covet the triumphs of the last; terror hardly prevents crime, never does it inspire virtue. Does any one consider the effect of capital punishment on the criminals themselves? Either they brave it with reckless impudence; or, inanimate, they suffer it, half dead with terror; or they offer their heads with profound and sincere repentance.
Now the punishment is insufficient for those who defy it; useless for those who are already morally dead; excessive for those who repent with sincerity. Let us repeat it: society does not kill the murderer to cause him suffering, or to inflict the _lex talionis_; it kills him to prevent him from doing harm; it kills him that the example of his punishment may serve as a warning to murderers _to come._ We think that the punishment is barbarous, and that it does not sufficiently terrify. If this assertion is doubted, we will recall many proved facts of the deep horror expressed by hardened criminals for solitary confinement. Is it not known that some have committed murders in order to be condemned to death, preferring this punishment to a cell? What, then, would be their horror, when _blindness_, joined to solitary confinement, would deprive them of the hope of escape–a hope which he preserves, and which he sometimes realizes, even in a dungeon and loaded with irons. And touching this matter, we also think that the abolishment of capital punishment will be one of the forced consequences of solitary confinement; the alarm which this punishment inspires the generation who at this moment people the prisons and the galleys, being such, that many among these incorrigibles prefer to incur the highest penalty known to the law, than imprisonment in a cell; then, doubtless, the punishment of death ought to be suppressed, in order to sweep away this last and frightful alternative.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MARTIAL AND THE SLASHER.
Before we pursue our narrative, let us say a few words touching the recently established connection between the Slasher and Martial. As soon as Germain had left the prison, the Slasher, who easily proved that he had robbed himself, confessed to the judge the reason of this singular deceit, and was set at liberty after receiving a severe and just reproof from the magistrate. Not having then recovered Fleur-de-Marie, and wishing to recompense the Slasher (to whom he had already owed his life) for this new act of devotion, Rudolph, to crown the happiness of his rude _protégée_, had lodged him in the mansion of the Rue Plumet, promising him to take him in his train when he returned to Germany. We have already said that the Slasher felt for Rudolph the instinctive, faithful attachment of a dog for his master. To live under the same roof with the prince; to see him sometimes; to await with impatience a new opportunity of sacrificing himself for his interests, were the limits of the ambition and happiness of the Slasher, who preferred a thousand times this situation, to money and the possession of the farm at Algiers which Rudolph had placed at his disposal. But when the prince had discovered his daughter, all was changed: notwithstanding his lively gratitude toward the man to whom he owed his life, he could not resolve to take with him to Germany this witness of Fleur-de-Marie’s first shame. Determined in any other manner to satisfy the wishes of the Slasher, he sent for him for the last time, and told him that he expected a new service from his attachment. At these words, the Slasher’s face brightened, but it soon became clouded when he learned that not; only must he not follow the prince to Germany, but that it was necessary for him to leave the hotel that very day. It is useless to speak of the brilliant compensations that Rudolph offered to the Slasher: the money that was designed for him–the deed for the farm in Algiers–anything more that he wished; all was at his disposal. The Slasher, cut to the heart, refused all; and, for the first time in his life, perhaps, this man shed tears. It had needed all the persuasion of Rudolph to induce him to accept his previous gifts. The next day the prince sent for La Louve and Martial; and, without informing them that Fleur-de-Marie was his daughter, he asked them what he could do for them; all their wishes should be accomplished. Perceiving their hesitation, and remembering what Fleur-de-Marie had told him about the slightly uncivilized tastes of La Louve and her husband, he offered them either a considerable amount of money, or the half of this amount, and lands in the vicinity of the farm which he had bought for the Slasher. Both of them rugged, energetic, both endowed with good natural impulses, sympathized the better with each other, since they each had reasons to seek solitude–the one for her past life, the other for the crimes of his family. He was not deceived; Martial and La Louve accepted his offer with transport; then, having, through the intervention of Murphy, made the acquaintance of the Slasher, they mutually congratulated each other on the agreeable prospects before them in Algiers. Notwithstanding the deep sadness into which he was plunged; or, rather, in consequence of this sadness the Slasher, affected by the cordial advances of Martial and his wife, responded to them with warmth. In a short time a sincere friendship united the future colonists; persons of their temperament form very sudden attachments. La Louve and Martial, being unable, in spite of their kind attentions, to divert the melancholy of their new friend discontinued their efforts, trusting that the voyage, and the active employment of their future life, would change his thoughts; for, once in Algiers they would be obliged to turn their attention to the cultivation of the lands which had been bestowed upon them. These facts established, it will be understood that, informed of the painful interview that Martial was obliged to undergo in obedience to the last wishes of his mother, the Slasher had wished to accompany his new friend to the gate of Bicetre, where he awaited him in the coach which had brought them, and which took them back to Paris, after Martial, deeply agitated, had left the dungeon, where the terrible preparations for the execution of mother and sister were being made. The physiognomy of the Slasher was completely altered; the expression of boldness and of happiness which ordinarily characterized his manly face was replaced with sorrowful dejection: his voice, also had lost somewhat of its roughness. Grief, until now a stranger to him, had broken, prostrated his energetic nature. He looked at Martial with compassion.
“Cheer up,” said the Slasher to him “you have done all that a brave fellow could do–it is all over, think of your wife, of those children whom you have prevented from following the bad example of their parents; and then, besides, this evening we shall have quitted Paris, never to return; and you will never again hear of that which afflicts you.”
“It is a11 the same, do you see, Slasher. After all, it is my mother and my sister.”
“But what would you–this has happened; and it’s no use crying over spilled milk,” said the Slasher, suppressing a sigh.
After a moment’s silence, Martial said to him, cordially, “I, also, ought to console you, my poor fellow–always this melancholy.”
“Always, Martial.”
“Well, my wife and I confidently hope that, once away from Paris, it will be dissipated.”
“Yes,” said the Slasher, at the expiration of a few seconds, and hardly restraining a shudder, “if I leave Paris–“
“But we set out this evening.”
“That is to say, _you_–you go this evening.”
“And you, then, have you changed your intention recently?”
“No.”
“Well, what then?”
The Slasher again remained silent; then he replied, struggling to preserve his calmness, “Hold, Martial; I know that you will laugh at me; but I wish to tell you all, so that, if anything should happen to me, this at least will prove that I was not deceived.”
“What is it, then?”
“When M. Rudolph asked if it should be agreeable for us to go together to Algiers, and to be neighbors there, I did not wish to deceive either you or your wife. I told you what I had been.”
“Let us speak no more about that. You have undergone your punishment–you are as good as the best of us. But I can conceive that, like me, you would prefer to live abroad, thanks to our generous protector, than to remain here, where, no matter how honest, and how easy in our circumstances we may be, we shall always be reproached, you for the crime which you have expiated, and which you still regret, and I for the crimes of my parents, for which I am not responsible. But, between us, the past is gone, and gone forever. Be tranquilized; we rely upon you, as you may rely upon us.”
“Between us, perhaps, the past will be forgotten; but, as I said to M. Rudolph, Martial, there is a Providence above, and I have killed a man.”
“It is a great misfortune; but at the time you did not know what you were doing–you were not yourself; and, besides, you have saved the lives of others, and that ought to count in your favor.”
“Listen, Martial, I have now spoken to you of my unhappiness, because, formerly, I often had a dream, in which I saw the sergeant, whom I killed; for a long time I have not had this dream, and last night I dreamed it”
“It was chance.”
“No, this forebodes that some misfortune will happen to me this day.”
“You are unreasonable, my good comrade.”
“I have a presentiment that I shall never quit Paris.”
“Once more, you have not common sense. Your sorrow at the thought of quitting our benefactor, the knowledge that you were to accompany me to Bicetre, where so painful an interview awaited me; all this agitated you last night; hence naturally, your dream returned to you.”
The Slasher sadly shook his head.
“It has returned to me on the night before the departure of M. Rudolph, for it is today that he goes.”
“Today?”
“Yes; yesterday I sent a messenger to his hotel, not daring to go there myself; he has forbidden it. They told him that the prince would set out this morning, at eleven o’clock, by the Barrière Charenton. Thus, when we shall have arrived in Paris, I will post myself there, to endeavor to see him for this last time! the last!”
“He appears so good that I comprehend how well you must love him.”
“Love him!” said the Slasher, with deep and passionate emotion; oh, yes! Do you understand, Martial! to sleep on the ground–to eat black bread–to be his dog; but to be where he is, I ask nothing more–that was too much–he did not wish it.”
“He has been so generous to you!”
“It is not that which makes me love him so much–it is because he said to me that I had a heart and honor! yes, and at a time when I was as ferocious as a wild beast, when I despised myself as the vilest of the vile, he made me comprehend that there was still some good in me, since, my punishment inflicted, I had repented, and after having suffered the utmost extremity of want without being guilty of theft, I had industriously labored to gain an honest livelihood: wishing to injure no one, although every one looked upon me as a finished scoundrel, which was not very encouraging. It is true, in most instances, all that is necessary to keep one in the right path are words of encouragement and kindness. Is it not so, Martial? So when M. Rudolph said these words to me, my heart beat high and proudly. Since then I would go through fire to do a good action. Oh! that the opportunity might offer! you would see–and to whom the thanks? the thanks to M. Rudolph.”
“Truly, since you are a thousand times better than you used to be, you should not have such evil presentiments. Your dream signifies nothing.”
“Well, we shall see. I do not purposely search for a misfortune; there can be for me no greater one than that which has already happened; never to see him more. M. Rudolph! I who thought never more to quit him. In my sphere, I would have been at his service, body and soul, always ready. Well, perhaps he is wrong. You know, Martial, that I am but an earth-worm in comparison with him; well, sometimes it happens that the most insignificant can be useful to the most powerful. If that should be the case, I would never pardon him for depriving himself of my services.”
“Who knows? one day, perhaps, he will recall you.”
“Oh, no! he said to me, ‘My good fellow, you must promise me that you will never endeavor to see me again; by so doing, you will render me a service.’ You understand, Martial, I have promised; on the honor of a man, I will keep my word; but it is hard.”
“Once at our destination, you will forget, by degrees, your sorrow. We will work, we will live retired and tranquil, like good farmers, except occasionally trying our skill, as marksmen, on the Arabs. Ah! there La Louve will help us.”
“If it should come to blows, I am at home there, Martial,” said the Slasher, slightly animated. I am unmarried, and I have been a trooper.”
“And I a poacher!”
“But you–you have a wife, and these two children whom you have adopted. As for me, I have nothing but my hide, and since it can no longer serve as a screen for M. Rudolph, I have no regard for it. So, if we should be obliged to give them their change, it’s my affair.”
“Ah! we’ll both have something to do with it.”
“No; I alone–thunder! leave the Bedouins to me.”
“Good; I would rather hear you speak thus than you did a short time since. Come, Slasher, we will be true brothers, and you can converse with me of your sorrow, if it endures, for I have my own. The recollection of this day will last all my life. One cannot see his mother, his sister, as I have seen mine, without forever bearing it in remembrance. Our situations are so similar that it is good for us to be together. We will not fear to look danger in the face; well, we will be half farmers, half soldiers. If we can start any game, we will hunt. If you wish to live alone, you can do so, and we will be near neighbors: if otherwise, we will all live together. We will bring up the children like honest people, and you shall be, almost, their uncle, while we will be brothers. How does it suit you?” said Martial, offering his hand to the Slasher.
“It suits me well, my good Martial; and then, sorrow shall kill me or I will kill it, as the saying is.”
“It will not kill you–we shall grow old in our wilderness, and every night we will say, brother, _thanks_ to M. Rudolph–that shall be our prayer for him.”
“Martial, you put balsam on my wound.”
“Good; this foolish dream, you will think no more of it, I hope?”
“I will endeavor.”
“Ah! well, you will call for us at four o’clock? the diligence starts at five.”
“It is agreed upon. But here we are in Paris; I will stop the coach, and go on foot to the Barrière Charenton; I will await M. Rudolph, to see him pass.”
The carriage stopped, and the Slasher got out.
“Don’t forget, at four o’clock, my good comrade,” said Martial: “at four o’clock!”
The Slasher had forgotten that it was the morning after Mid-Lent. So he was much surprised at the spectacle, at the same time fantastic and hideous, which was presented to his view when he walked through a part of the exterior boulevard which he crossed on his way to the Barridre Charenton.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE HAND OF HEAVEN.
The Slasher in a few moments was carried along, in spite of himself, by a dense crowd, a popular torrent, which, descending from the taverns of the Faubourg de la Glacière, collected around the approaches to the Barrière, to pour out afterward on the Boulevard Saint Jacques, where the execution was to take place. Although it was broad daylight, yet still could be heard at a distance the resounding music of the orchestras of the drinking dens, where, above all, could be distinguished the sonorous vibrations of the cornets-à-piston.
It needs the pencil of Callot, or Rembrandt, or of Goya to portray the bizarre, hideous, almost fantastical appearance of this multitude. Almost all, men, women, children, were dressed in old masquerading costumes; those who had not been able to obtain this luxury had fastened on their clothes old rags, of flaunting colors; some young men were attired in women’s apparel, torn and soiled with mud; all these faces, haggard from debauch and vice, bloated by intoxication, sparkled with savage joy, in thinking that, after a night of drunken orgies, they were going to see the two women put to death, for whom the scaffold was raised. The scum of the population of Paris, an immense mob, was composed of bandits and abandoned women, who demand each day from crime their daily bread, and who each night return well filled to their dens. The exterior boulevard being very contracted at this place, the closely-packed crowd entirely blocked up the passageway. In spite of his athletic strength, the Slasher was obliged to remain almost immovable in the midst of this compact mass; he submitted. The prince, leaving the Rue Plumet at ten o’clock, as they had told him, would not leave the Barrière Charenton until about eleven, and it was not yet seven. Although formerly he had associated with the degraded classes to which this mob belonged, the Slasher, on again finding himself among them, felt invincible disgust. Crowded, by the reflux of the mob, against the wall of one of the wine shops, which swarm on these boulevards, through the open window from whence escaped the deafening sound of a brass band, the Slasher saw, against his will, a strange spectacle. In a long low room (one end of which was occupied by the musicians), surrounded by benches and tables covered with the remains of a repast, broken plates, and overturned bottles, a dozen men and women disguised, half drunk, were dancing _La Chahut_ a dance which was never performed except at the end of the _ball_, when the municipal guards had retired. Among the depraved couples who figured in the revel, the Slasher remarked two who won applause above all by the disgusting immodesty of their postures, gestures, and words. The first couple were composed of a man nearly disguised as a bear, by means of a waistcoat and trousers of black sheepskin. The head of the animal, doubtless too heavy to carry, had been replaced by a kind of hood of long hair, which entirely covered the face; two holes near the eyes, and a large slit over the mouth, allowed him to see, speak, and breathe. This masked man, one of the prisoners who had escaped from La Force (among whom were also Barbillon and the two murderers arrested at the _tapisfranc_ at the comencement of this story), was Nicholas Martial, the son and brother of the women for whom the scaffold was erected close at hand. Dragged into this act of inhuman insensibility by one of his companions, a formidable ruffian, this wretch dared, with the aid of his disguise, to yield himself to the last joys of the carnival. The woman with whom he danced was dressed as a sutler, with a leathern cap rather the worse for wear, the ribbons torn, a kind of jacket of faded red cloth, ornamented with three rows of brass buttons, hussar-fashion; a green petticoat and pantaloons of white calico; her black hair fell in disorder on her face; her ghastly and livid features expressed impudence and effrontery. The _vis-à-vis_ of these dancers were not less vile. The man of very tall stature, disguised as Robert Macaire, had daubed his bony face with soot in such a manner that he was not recognizable; besides a large band covered his left eye, and the dead white of the right one, standing out in relief with the black face, made it still more hideous. The lower part of the visage of Skeleton (doubtless he has been recognized) disappeared entirely in a high cravat made of an old red shawl. He wore, according to the tradition, a gray hat, rasped, flattened, dirty, and without a crown; a green coat in tatters; madder-colored pantaloons, patched in a thousand places, and tied around the ankles with twine; this assassin, overdoing the most grotesque and most impudent positions of the _Chahut_, now to the right, now to the left, backward and forward, with his long limbs hard as iron, folded and unfolded them with so much vigor and elasticity, that one would have said they were hung on springs. Worthy corypheus of this Saturnalian, his partner, a tall, brazen creature dressed as a _débardeur_ wearing a cap stuck on a powdered wig with a long tail, had on a vest and trousers of green velvet, fastened around her waist by an orange scarf, whose long ends floated behind. A fat, masculine-looking woman, the Ogress of the _tapis-franc_, seated on one of the benches, held on her lap the plaid cloaks of this creature and the sutler, while they danced with their worthy companions. Among the other dancers was remarked a little cripple dressed as a devil with the aid of a black knit guernsey, much too large for him, red drawers, and a horrible grinning green mask. Notwithstanding his infirmity, this little monster was of surprising agility; his precocious depravity reached, if it did not surpass, that of his frightful companions, and he gamboled away with equal effrontery opposite his partner, a fat woman disguised as a shepherdess, who excited still more the impudence of her partner by her shouts of laughter.
No charge being brought against Tortillard, and Bras-Rouge having been provisionally left in prison, the child, on the demand of his father, had been reclaimed by Micou the receiver.
As secondary figures of the picture which we have endeavored to paint, let the reader imagine all that is lowest, most shameless, and most monstrous in this idle, reckless, rapacious, sanguinary debauch, which shows itself more hostile to social order, and to which we have wished to call the attention of reflecting persons on terminating this recital. May this last horrible scene symbolize the imminent peril which continually menaces society! Yes, let one reflect that the cohesion, the dreaded increase of this race of robbers and murderers is a kind of living protest against the defects of restraining laws, and, above all, against the absence of preventive measures, of provident legislation, of preservative institutions, destined to overlook and guard from infancy this crowd of unfortunates, abandoned or perverted by frightful examples. Once more, these disinherited beings, made neither better nor worse than other creatures, do not become thus incurably corrupted but in the filth of misery, ignorance, and brutality, where they crawl into existence. Still more excited by the laughter, by the bravos of the crowd collected at the windows, the actors of the abominable orgies which we now relate shouted to the orchestra to play a last _galop_. The musicians, delighted at the prospect of a termination to their labors, yielded to the general wish, and played with energy a lively tune. At the vibrating sounds of the brazen instruments, the excitement increased, the dancers appeared to be seized with a sort of frenzy, and, following Skeleton, and his partner, commenced a _ronde infernale_, uttering savage shouts. A thick dust, raised by these furious shufflings, arose from the floor, and cast a kind of red cloud around this whirlwind of men and women, who turned with giddy rapidity. Soon–for these heads excited by wine, by the rapid motion, by their own cries, it was no longer inebriety–it was delirium, it was frenzy; room was wanting.
Skeleton cried with a breathless voice, “Clear the door! We are going out–up on the boulevard.”
“Yes, yes!” cried the dense crowd at the windows, “a _galop_ to the Barrière Saint Jacques!”
“It will soon be time for them to shorten the two motts!”
“The executioner throws a double ace; it is _low!_”
“Accompanied by the French horn!”
“We will dance the cotillon by the guillotine!”
“Go ahead of the women without any head!” cried Tortillard.
“It will enliven the condemned.”
“I invite the widow.”
“I invite the daughter.”
“That will make Jack Ketch gay.”
“He will dance La Chahut in his shop with customers.”
“Death to the nobs. Long live the leary coves and nailers!” cried Skeleton, in a roar.
These jests, and cannibal threats, accompanied by vulgar songs, cries, whistlings, shouts, were augmented still more when the band had made, by its impetuous violence, a large opening through the middle of this compact crowd. Then it was a frightful pell-mell; then were heard howlings, imprecations, and bursts of mad laughter, which no longer appeared human.
The tumult was suddenly carried to its height by two new incidents.
The vehicle containing the condemned, accompanied by its escort of cavalry, appeared in the distance at the corner of the boulevard; then all the mob rushed in this direction, uttering a howl of ferocious satisfaction.
At this moment, also, the crowd was met by a courier coming from the Boulevard des Invalides, and galloping toward the Barrière de Charenton. He was dressed in a light blue jacket, with a yellow collar, laced with silver on all the seams; but as a sign of deep mourning, he wore black breeches, with heavy boots; his cap, also, bordered with silver was surrounded with a crape. In fine, on the horses blinkers were, in relief, the sovereign arms of Gerolstein.
The courier walked his horse; but, his progress becoming more and more embarrassed, was almost obliged to stop when he found himself in the midst of the crowd of which we have spoken. Although he cried “Take care!” and guided his horse with the greatest precaution, cries, threats, abuses, soon arose against him.
“Does he want to get on our backs with his camel, this fellow?”
“A silver door-plate on his body!” cried Tortillard, under his green mask with its red tongue.
“If he gives us any cheek, we’ll put him on his feet.”
“And we’ll cut off the jingles of his jacket to melt them,” said Nicholas.
“And we’ll rip you open if you are not satisfied, dirty footman,” added Skeleton, addressing the courier, and seizing the bridle of his horse, for the crowd had become so dense that the bandit had relinquished his project of dancing to the barrier.
The courier, a vigorous and resolute man, said to Skeleton, raising the handle of his whip, “If you do not let go the bridle of my horse, I will cut you across the face.”
“You, you pitiful scoundrel?”
“Yes; I am walking my horse; I cry ‘Take care!’ you have no right to stop me. The carriage of my lord follows me. I already hear the cracking of the whips. Let me pass.”
“Your lord?” said Skeleton. “What is your lord to me? I will knock him down if it pleases me. I never have stabbed a lord: this gives me a desire to do it.”
“There are no more lords–Hooraw for the Revolution!” cried Tortillard, and humming the lines of the _Parisienne_:
“Onward! on! upon their cannon!”
he caught hold of one of the courier’s boots, and bearing with all his weight, made him shake in his seat. A blow with the butt of his whip on the head of Tortillard paid him for his audacity. But immediately the enraged mob threw themselves upon the courier; he dashed the spurs into the sides of his horse, and endeavored to disengage himself, but could not succeed; neither was he able to draw his hunting-knife. Dismounted, thrown backward, amid their cries and enraged shouts, he would have been killed, had it not been for the arrival of Rudolph’s carriage, which diverted the attention of these wretches.
For some time the prince’s coupé, drawn by four post-horses, went only at a walk, and one of the two footmen, in mourning (on account of the Countess M’Gregor’s death) seated behind, had prudently descended, and stood near one of the doors, the carriage being a very low one. The postilions cried, “Look out!” and advanced with caution. Rudolph, as well as his daughter, was dressed in deep mourning; holding one of her hands, he looked at her with unspeakable happiness; the sweet, charming face of Fleur-de-Marie appeared to advantage in her little black crape bonnet, which set off her fair complexion and the brilliant tints of her beautiful flaxen hair; one would have said that the azure of this fine day was reflected in her large eyes, which never had been of a softer and more transparent blue. Although her sweet smiling face expressed calmness and happiness, yet, when she looked at her father, a shade of melancholy, sometimes even of indefinable sadness, cast this shadow on the features of Fleur-de-Marie, when the eyes of her father were turned away.
“You are displeased at my calling you so early this morning, and for having advanced the moment of departure?” said Rudolph, smiling.
“Oh, no! father dear–the morning is so beautiful!”
“That was my thought; and our day’s journey will be better divided by leaving early, and you will be less fatigued. Murphy, my aids-de-camp, and the carriage with your women, will join us at our first stopping-place, where you will repose.”
“Dear father, it is I only of whom you are always thinking.”
“Yes, darling, it is impossible for me to have any other thought,” said the prince, smiling; then he added, with a burst of tenderness, “Oh! I love you so much–I love you so much–your forehead–quick.”
Fleur-de-Marie leaned toward her father, and Rudolph kissed her beautiful forehead.
It was at this moment that the carriage, approaching the crowd, had lessened its speed. Rudolph, much astonished let down the window, and said in German to the foot-man who stood near the door, “Well, Franz, what is the matter? what is this tumult?”
“There is such a crowd that the horses cannot your highness.”
“And what is the reason of the crowd?”
“I have just heard that there is an execution about to take place, your highness.”
“Oh! this is frightful!” cried Rudolph, throwing himself back in the carriage.
“What is the matter, father?” said Fleur-de-Marie, with anxiety.
“Nothing–nothing, my child.”
“But these threatening cries–do you hear? they approach. What is that?”
“Franz, order the postilions to turn and go to Charenton by another road, whatever it may be,” said Rudolph.
“It is too late, your highness! we are in the crowd. They have stopped the horses. Some ill-looking people–” The footman could not say another word. The crowd, exasperated by the sanguinary shouts of Skeleton and Nicholas, suddenly surrounded the carriage. In spite of the efforts and threats of the postilions, the horses were stopped, and Rudolph saw himself surrounded on all sides by horrible, threatening, and furious faces: pre-eminent among all, from his great height, was Skeleton, who advanced to the carriage door.
“Father, take care!” cried Fleur-de-Marie, throwing her arms around Rudolph’s neck.
“Is it you, then, who are the lord?” said the Skeleton, thrusting his hideous head into the carriage.
At this insolence, Rudolph would have given way to the natural violence of his charcter, had it not been for the presence of his daughter; but he restrained himself, and answered cooly, “What do you want? Why do you stop my carriage?”
“Because it pleases us,” said Skeleton, placing his bony hands on the door. “Every one in his turn; yesterday you trampled on the poor man; today the poor man will trample on you, if you stir.”
“Father, we are lost!” murmured Fleur-de-Marie in a low voice.
“Compose yourself–I comprehend,” said the prince; “it is the last day of the carnival. These people are drunk. I will soon get rid of them.”
“We must make him get out, and his mott also,” cried Nicholas. “Why should they trample on poor folks?”
“You appear to be drunk, and doubtless have a desire to drink more,” said Rudolph, taking a purse from his pocket. “Here, this is for you; do not detain my carriage any longer.” And he threw out his purse. Tortillard caught it.
“Exactly; you are going a journey; your pockets must be well lined, so hand out some more money or I will kill you. I have nothing to risk. I ask you for your money or your life in broad daylight. It is a rare old game!” said Skeleton, completely intoxicated with wine and rage; and he roughly opened the door. The patience of Rudolph was exhausted; uneasy for Fleur-de-Marie, whose alarm increased at each moment, and thinking that a decided stand would overawe this wretch, whom he thought intoxicated, he sprung from his carriage to seize Skeleton by the throat. At first the latter drew back quickly, taking from his pocket a long knife; then he threw himself upon Rudolph. Fleur-de-Marie, seeing the poniard of the villain raised against her father, uttered a piercing scream, sprung out of the carriage, and clasped her arms around him. Without the aid of the Slasher, they would have perished. He, at the commencement of the affray, having recognized the livery of the prince, had succeeded, after superhuman efforts, in approaching the Skeleton. At the moment that he threatened the prince with his knife, the Slasher with one hand grasped the arm of the villain, and with the other seized him by the throat, and gave him the trip backward. Although taken by surprise, Skeleton turned, recognized the Slasher, and cried, “Blue Cap of La Force! this time I kill you;” and throwing himself furiously on the Slasher, he plunged the knife into his breast.
The Slasher staggered, but did not fall; the crowd supported him.
“The guard! here is the guard!” cried several voices.
At these words, at sight of the assassination of the Slasher, the dense crowd, fearing to be compromised in the murder, dispersed as by enchantment, and fled in all directions. When the guard arrived, guided by the courier, who had succeeded in making his escape when the mob had abandoned him to surround the carriage, there only remained on the mournful scene Rudolph, his daughter, and the Slasher covered with blood. The two footmen had seated him on the ground, with his back against a tree. All this had passed a thousand times more rapidly than it is possible to write it, at some steps from the wine shop whence had issued Skeleton and his band. The prince, pale and agitated, supported the fainting Fleur-de-Marie in his arms, while the postilions readjusted the traces, which had been injured.
“Quick!” said the prince to his people, who were occupied in assisting the Slasher. “Carry this unfortunate man into this tavern. And you,” added he, addressing his courier, “get on the box, and drive with all speed to the hotel for Dr. David. He was not to leave before eleven o’clock: you will find him there.”
Some minutes afterward, the carriage was rapidly driven off, and the two domestics carried the Slasher into the saloon where the orgies had taken place, and where still remained some of the women who had figured in it.
“My poor child,” said Rudolph to his daughter, “I will lead you to a chamber in this house, and you will await me there; for I cannot abandon solely to the care of my people this courageous man, who has once more saved my life.”
“Oh! father, I entreat you, do not leave me!” cried Fleur-de-Marie with alarm, clinging to the arm of Rudolph. “Do not leave me alone. I would die with fear. I will go where you go–“
“But this is a frightful sight!”
“But, thanks to this man, you live for me, father; at least, permit me to unite with you in thanking and consoling him.”
The perplexity of the prince was great; his daughter seemed so much alarmed at remaining alone, that he was obliged to allow her to accompany him to the room where the Slasher had been carried. The master of the tavern, assisted by several of the women who had remained (among whom was the Ogress of the White Rabbit), had in haste laid the wounded man upon a mattress, and then stanched his wound with napkins. The Slasher had just opened his eyes, when Rudolph entered. At the sight of the prince, his countenance of deathlike paleness, brightened up a little; he smiled painfully, and said to him, in a feeble voice:
“Ah! M. Rudolph! how fortunate it was that I was at hand.”
“Brave and devoted–as always,” said the prince to him in a mournful voice; “you save me again!”
“I was going to the Barrière de Charenton–to see you depart–happily–I was stopped here by the crowd–besides, this was to happen to me–I said so to Martial–I had a presentiment.”
“A presentiment?”
“Yes, M. Rudolph–the dream of the sergeant–last night I had it—“
“Forget these ideas. Hope; your wound will not be mortal.”
“Oh! yes–Bones has struck home. Never mind, I was right–to say to Martial–that an earthworm like me could sometimes be–useful–to a great lord like you—“
“But it is life–life!–that I owe you again.”
“We are quits, M. Rudolph. You told me that I had a heart and honor. These words–Oh! I suffocate, without you–command–do me the honor–of–your hand!–I feel that I am going—“
“No, it is impossible!” cried the prince, bending over the Slasher, and pressing in his hands the icy fingers of the dying man. “No; you will live–you will live!”
“M. Rudolph–do you see that there is something-up there!–I killed–with a _slash_ myself!” said the Slasher, in a voice more and more feeble and indistinct.
At this moment his eyes were fixed on Fleur-de-Marie, whom he had not yet perceived. Astonishment was painted on his dying face, he started, and said, “Oh! La Goualeuse.”
“Yes, she is my daughter. She blesses you for having preserved her father.”
“She–your daughter! here–that reminds me of our acquaintance–M. Rudolph–and the–blows with the fists–at the end–but–this–blow with the knife–will be also–the blow–of the end. I have _slashed_–I am _slashed_–it is fair play!”
Then he uttered a deep sigh, his head falling backward–he was dead!
The noise of horses resounded without; the carriage of Rudolph had met that of Murphy and David, who, in their eagerness to rejoin the prince, had hastened their departure. David and the squire entered.
“David,” said Rudolph, wiping away his tears, and pointing to the Slasher, “is there no hope?”
“None, your highness,” said the doctor, after a minute’s examination. During this minute, a mute but frightful scene passed between Fleur-de-Marie and the Ogress, which Rudolph had not noticed. When the Slasher pronounced in a low tone the name of La Goualeuse, the Ogress raising her head, had quickly seen Fleur-de-Marie. Already the horrible woman had recognized Rudolph in the person whom they called his highness. He called La Goualeuse his daughter. Such a transformation stupefied the Ogress, who kept her staring eyes obstinately fixed on her former victim.
Fleur-de-Marie, pale and alarmed, seemed fascinated by this look. The death of the Slasher, the unexpected appearance of the Ogress, who had just awakened more grievously than ever the remembrance of her former degradation, seemed to her of mournful presage. From this moment, Fleur-de-Marie was struck with one of those presentiments which often have, on characters like hers, an irresistible influence.
* * * * *
A short time after these sad events, Rudolph and his daughter had left Paris forever.
EPILOGUE.
_GEROLSTEIN._
CHAPTER I.
PRINCE HENRY D’HERKAUSEN-OLDENZAAL TO COUNT MAXIMILIAN KAMINETN.
“OLDENZAAL, August 23d, 1841.
I have just returned from Gerolstein, where I passed three months with the grand duke and his family. I expected to have found a letter announcing your arrival at Oldenzaal, my dear Maximilian. Imagine my grief and surprise, when I understood that you would be detained in Hungary several weeks longer. I have not been able to write to you for four months, not knowing how to direct my letters to you, thanks to your original and adventurous manner of traveling; and yet you had, nevertheless, seriously promised me at Vienna, at the moment of our separation, that you would be at Oldenzaal the first of August. I must, then, renounce the pleasure of seeing you; and never had I more desire to pour out my heart into yours, my good Maximilian, my oldest friend; for though we are both still young, our friendship is old–it dates from our infancy. What shall I say to you? Within three months a great revolution has taken place in me. I have reached one of those moments which decide a man’s fate. Judge if I do not want your presence, your advice. But you will not fail me much longer; whatever concerns detain you in Hungary, you will come, Maximilian; you must come, I conjure, for I shall, indeed, need the most earnest consolation, and I cannot go to you. My father, whose health becomes more and more feeble, has recalled me from Gerolstein. He grows weaker every day. It is impossible for me to leave him. I have so much to tell you, that I shall be prolix, for I have to recount to you the most painful, the most romantic incident of my life. Strange and sad chance! during this period we are fatally distant from each other; we inseparables, we brothers, both of us the most fervent apostles of thrice holy friendship, we, who were so proud of proving that the Cazlas and Posa of our Schiller are not idealities, and that, like those divine creations of the great poet, we know how to taste the sweet delights of a tender and mutual attachment! Oh, my friend, why were you not there, why were you not there! For three months my heart has been overflowing with emotions at the same time inexpressibly sweet and sad. And I was alone; I am alone now. Pity me; you, who know my sensibility, at times so fancifully expansive; you, who have often seen my eyes moistened with tears at the simple recital of a generous action, at the simple view of a beautiful sunset, or in a quiet and starry summer night. You remember the past year, during our excursion to the Ruins of Oppenfeld–the borders of the great lake–our silent reveries during that magnificent evening, so calm, so poetical, so serene. Strange contrast! it was three days before that bloody duel, in which I would not take you for my second, for I should have suffered too much for you if I had been wounded under your eyes–that duel, for a quarrel at play, in which my second unfortunately killed that young Frenchman, the Viscount St. Rémy. Apropos, do you know what has become of that dangerous siren St. Rémy brought to Oppenfeld, and whose name was, I think, Cecily David? You will smile with pity, my friend, to see me wander thus among these vague remembrances of the past, instead of proceeding to the grave confessions which I have announced to you; it is because, in spite of myself, I recoil from these confessions. I know your severity; I am afraid of being scolded, yes, scolded, because, instead of having acted with reflection, with wisdom (alas for the wisdom of one-and-twenty!), I have acted foolishly, or, rather, I have not acted at all; I have suffered myself to be borne along blindly on the current which carried me forward. It is only since my return from Gerolstein that I have, so to speak, awakened from the enchanting vision in which I have been cradled for the last three months, and this waking is sad. Come then, my friend, good Maximilian, I assume my best courage. Hear me with indulgence. I begin by casting down my eyes; I dare not look at you, for as you read these lines your features will become so grave, so severe. Stoical man! Having obtained leave of absence for six months, I left Vienna, and remained here some time with my father; his health was then good, and he advised me to go and visit my excellent aunt, Princess Juliana, the superior of the Abbey of Gerolstein. I have told you, I believe, my friend, that my grandmother was cousin-german of the grandfather of the present grand duke; and that the latter, Gustavus Rudolph, on account of this relationship, has always treated my father and myself very kindly, very affectionately, as cousins. You know also, I believe, that during a very long journey which the prince recently made into France he gave to my father the charge of the government of the grand duchy.
You will believe that it is not from any pride, my friend, that I mention these circumstances to you; it is only by way of explanation of the causes of the extreme intimacy in which I live with the grand duke and his family during my stay at Gerolstein. You recollect that last year, during our journey on the banks of the Rhine, we were informed that the prince had found in France, and had married _in extremis_, the Countess M’Gregor, in order to legitimatize the birth of a daughter, whom he had by her in consequence of an early secret marriage, which was afterward broken, from some illegality in the ceremony, and because it had been contracted against the will of the reigning grand duke. This young daughter, so solemnly acknowledged, is that charming Princess Amelia, [Footnote: As the name of Marie recalled to Rudolph and his daughter such sad recollections, he had given her the name of Amelia, after his mother.] of whom Lord Dudley, who saw her at Gerolstein about a year since, spoke to us so often at Vienna last winter. You recollect we accused him of exaggeration. Strange chance! If any one had then told me–But though you have undoubtedly now almost divined my secret, let me follow the march of events without interruption. The Convent of Saint Hermangilda, of which my aunt is the abbess, is hardly a quarter of a league distant from Gerolstein, for the abbey gardens border on the suburbs of the city. A charming house, completely isolated from the cloister, had been placed at my disposition by my aunt, who loves me, as you know, with a maternal tenderness. The day of my arrival she informed me that there was the next day to be a solemn reception and court ceremony; the grand duke on that day was to make the official announcement of his approaching marriage with the Marchioness d’Harville, who had recently arrived at Gerolstein, accompanied by her father, Count Orbigny. [Footnote: The reader is reminded, in order to maintain the probability of this narrative, that the last Princess of Courtland, a lady as remarkable for the singular superiority of her mind as for the charm of her character, and the admirable goodness of her heart, was Mademoiselle de Medeur.] Some blame the prince for not having sought a sovereign alliance in his marriage (the grand duchess, the former wife of the prince, belonged to the house of Bavaria): others, on the contrary, and my aunt is of the number of these, congratulate him for having preferred an amiable young lady, whom he adores, and who belongs to the highest nobility of France, to considerations of ambition. You know, moreover, my friend, that my aunt having always entertained for the Grand Duke Rudolph the most profound attachment, she can appreciate, better than any one else, the eminent qualities of the prince.
“My dear child,” said she to me, on occasion of this solemn reception, which I was to attend the day after my arrival, “my dear child, the most remarkable part of this _fête_ the _Pearl of Gerolstein_.”
“What do you mean, my dear aunt?”
“The Princess Amelia.”
“The daughter of the grand-duke? Lord Dudley told us about her at Vienna. He spoke of her with an enthusiasm which we called poetical exaggeration.”
“At my age, with my character, and in my position,” replied my aunt, “one is not easily excited; and you will believe my judgment to be impartial, my dear child. Indeed, I assure you, that in my whole life I never knew anything so enchanting as the Princess Amelia. I might speak to you of her angelic beauty, if she were not endowed with an inexpressible charm which is superior even to her beauty. Figure to yourself candor with dignity, and grace in modesty. From the first day in which the grand-duke presented me to her, I felt for this young princess an involuntary sympathy. Nor am I alone in this opinion. The Archduchess Sophia has been at Gerolstein some days; she is the proudest and most haughty princess whom I know.”
“Very true, my aunt, her irony is terrible; few persons escape her biting pleasantries. At Vienna she was dreaded like the fire. Can the Princess Amelia have found favor with her?”
“The other day she came here, after having visited the House of Refuge, which is placed under the superintendence of the young princess. ‘Do you know one thing,’ said this dreaded archduchess to me, with her abrupt frankness, ‘I have a mind singularly disposed to satire, have I not? Well, if I were to live long with the daughter of the grand duke, I should become, I am sure, inoffensive; her goodness is so penetrating, so contagious.”
“But is my cousin, then, an enchantress?” said I to my aunt, smiling.
“Her most powerful attraction, in my eyes at least,” replied my aunt, “is that mingling of gentleness, modesty, and dignity, of which I have spoken to you, and which gives the most touching expression to her angelic face.”
“Modesty is certainly a rare quality in a princess so young, so beautiful, so happy.”
“Remember, too, my dear child, how much better it is for the Princess Amelia to enjoy without vain ostentation the high position which is incontestably acquired for her; her elevation is recent.” [ Footnote: On arriving in Germany, Rudolph had given out that Fleur-de-Marie, whom he had long supposed dead, had never quitted her mother, the Countess M’Gregor.]
“In her conversations with you, dear aunt, has the princess ever made any allusions to her past fortunes?”
“No; but when, notwithstanding my advanced age, I have spoken to her with the respect which is due to her, since her royal highness is the daughter of our sovereign, her ingenuous distress, mingled with gratitude and veneration for me, have deeply moved me; for her reserve, at the same time noble and affable, proved to me that the present did not intoxicate her so much as to make her forget the past, and that she rendered to my age what I granted to her rank.”
“You must have an exquisite tact, my dear aunt, to observe such delicate shades.”
[Illustration: A PAGE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY]
“Thus, my dear child, the more I have seen of the Princess Amelia, the more I have felt my first impression confirmed. Since she has been here, the good works she has accomplished are incredible, and she has done it all with a reflection, a maturity of judgment, which amazes me in a person of her age. Judge of them: at her request, the grand duke has founded at Gerolstein an establishment for little orphan girls of five or six years old, and for young girls, also orphans or abandoned by their parents, who have reached the age of sixteen, an age so fatal for the unfortunate who have no one to defend them from the seductions of vice or the pressure of want. The noble nuns of my abbey teach and direct the daughters of this house. In going to visit it, I have often occasion to observe the adoration which these poor disinherited creatures entertain toward the Princess Amelia. Every day she goes to pass several hours in this establishment, which is placed under her especial protection; and I repeat to you, my child, it is not only respect, gratitude, that these poor girls and the nuns feel for her highness, it is almost fanaticism.”
“The Princess Amelia must be an angel,” replied I to my aunt.
“An angel–yes, an angel,” replied she, “for you cannot imagine with what melting goodness she treats her favorites, and with what pious solicitude she watches over them–I have never seen the susceptibility of misfortune more delicately treated; it seems as if an irresistible sympathy especially attracts the princess toward this class of the abandoned poor. Finally, would you believe it, she, the daughter of a sovereign, never calls these young girls anything but _sisters_.”
At these last words of my aunt, I confess to you, Maximilian, the tears came into my eyes. Do you not find something beautiful and holy in this conduct of the princess? You know my sincerity, I protest to you that I report to you, as I will always report to you, the conversation of my aunt, almost word for word.
“Since the princess,” said I to her, “is so marvelously endowed, I shall feel great embarrassment when I am presented to her to-morrow; you know my insurmountable timidity, you know that elevation of character overpowers me more even than that of rank, I am sure I shall appear to the princess as stupid as embarrassed; I know this well enough beforehand.”
“Come, come,” said my aunt, smiling, “she will take pity on you, my dear child, and the more so as you will not be a new acquaintance to her.”
“Dear aunt?”
“Certainly.”
“How so?”
“You recollect that when at the age of sixteen years, you quitted Oldenzaal to make a journey to Russia and England with your father, I had your portrait painted in the costume which you wore at the first fancy ball given by the late grand duchess?”
“Yes, the costume of a German page of the sixteenth century.”
“Our excellent painter, Fritz Mokker, while he faithfully reproduced your features, not only retraced a personage of the sixteenth century, but with the caprice of an artist, he amused himself with imitating even the manner and the appearance of age of pictures painted soon after that period. A few days after her arrival in Germany, the Princess Amelia having come to visit me with her father, remarked your portrait, and asked me with great simplicity what this charming picture of the olden time was? Her father smiled, and making a signal to me, answered her, ‘This portrait is that of one of our cousins, you see by his costume, my dear Amelia, of some three hundred years date. When he was very young he exhibited a rare courage and an excellent heart. Does he not, in fact, display bravery in his bearing, and goodness in his smile?’
(I beg you, Maximilian, do not shrug your shoulders with impatient disdain, at my writing such things about myself. It is hard for me to do it, you may suppose, but the sequel of this narrative will prove to you that these puerile details, of which I feel the bitter ridicule, are unfortunately indispensable. I close the parenthesis, and go on:)
“The Princess Amelia,” continued my aunt, “the dupe of this innocent pleasantry, agreed in opinion with her father, respecting the gentle and proud expression of your physiognomy, after having attentively examined the portrait. Afterward, when I went to see her at Gerolstein, she smilingly asked me the news of her cousin of the olden time. I then owned to her our deception, telling her that the fair page of the sixteenth century was simply my nephew, Prince Henry d’Herkausen Oldenzaal, now twenty-one years of age, captain of his Majesty the Emperor of Austria’s Guards, and in everything, excepting, the costume, very like his portrait. At these words, the Princess Amelia,” added my aunt, “blushed and became again serious, as she almost always is. Since then, she has not spoken to me again about the picture. Nevertheless, you see, my dear child, that you will not be entirely a stranger and a new face to _your cousin_, as the grand duke calls you. So take courage and sustain the honor of your portrait,” added my aunt, smiling.
This conversation took place, as I have told you, my dear Maximilian, on the eve of the day when I was to be presented to the princess, my cousin. I then left my aunt, and returned to my apartment. I have never hidden from you my most secret thoughts, good or evil; I am therefore about to confess to you what absurd and foolish imaginations I allowed myself to indulge in after the conversation which I have just reported to you.
CHAPTER II.
PRINCE HENRY D’HERKAUSEN-OLDENZAAL TO COUNT MAXIMILIAN KAMINETZ.
You have often told me, my dear Maximilian, that I have no vanity; I believe that is true, and must believe so, to be able to continue this account without exposing myself to the charge of presumptuousness in your eyes. When I was alone at home, in recalling my aunt’s conversation, I could not help dreaming over with a secret satisfaction the fact that the Princess Amelia having observed the portrait of me, made six or seven years ago, had asked a few days after, in jest, for news of her cousin of the olden time. I acknowledge that nothing was more foolish than to found the least hope upon such an insignificant circumstance; but, as I told you, I shall always use the most entire frankness with you; this insignificant circumstance ravished me. Undoubtedly the praises which I had heard lavished upon the Princess Amelia by a woman as grave and austere as my aunt, while they raised the princess still higher in my eyes, rendered me yet more sensible to the distinction which she had deigned to bestow upon me, or, rather, had granted to my portrait. However, as I tell you, this distinction awakened in me such foolish hopes, that, now, in throwing back a calmer glance upon the past, I ask how I could have allowed myself to be drawn on to those thoughts, which inevitably bordered upon a precipice. Although a relation of the grand duke, and always kindly welcomed by him, it was impossible for me to conceive of the least hope of marriage with the princess, even if she had accepted my love, which was still more improbable. Our family holds an honorable rank, but it is poor, if we compare our fortune with the immense domains of the grand duke, the richest prince of the Germanic Confederation; and then, I was hardly twenty-one years old; I was a mere captain in the Guards, without renown, without personal reputation; never, in short, would the grand duke dream of me for his daughter. All these reflections should have preserved me from a passion which as yet I did not feel, but of which I had, so to speak, a singular presentiment. Alas! I gave myself up, on the contrary to new childishness. I was wearing on my finger a ring which was formerly given me by Theckla (the good countess, whom you know); although this token of careless and frivolous love could not trouble me much, I heroically made of it a sacrifice to ray new-born love, and the poor ring disappeared in the water which flows rapidly under my window. It is useless to tell you what a night I passed; you can imagine it I knew that the Princess Amelia was fair, and of angelic beauty; I endeavored to imagine her features, her stature, her demeanor, the sound of her voice, the expression of her countenance; then, remembering my portrait which she had remarked upon, I recollected with regret that the cursed artist had flattered me; besides, in despair, I compared the picturesque costume of a page of the fifteenth century with the severe uniform of His Imperial Majesty’s captain of the Guards. Then to these foolish ideas succeeded now and then, I assure you, my friend, some generous thoughts, some noble impulses of the soul; I felt myself moved–yes! deeply moved at the remembrances, of what my aunt had told me of that adorable goodness of the Princess Amelia who called the poor abandoned ones whom she protected–_her sisters._ In fine–odd and inexplicable contrast–I have, you know, the most humble opinion of myself–and I was, nevertheless, proud enough to suppose that the sight of my portrait had struck the princess; I had good sense enough to understand that an impassable distance separated me from her forever, and yet I asked myself, with real anxiety, whether she would not find me unworthy of my portrait. In short, I had never seen her; I was convinced beforehand that she would hardly look upon me; and, nevertheless, I thought myself right in sacrificing to her the pledge of my former love. I passed in real suffering the night of which I speak, and a part of the next day. The hour of reception arrived. I tried on two or three uniforms, finding each worse than the other, and set out for the palace of the grand duke, much displeased with myself.
Although Gerolstein is hardly a quarter of a league from St. Hermangilda’s Abbey, during the short drive a thousand thoughts assailed me: all the nonsense with which I had busied myself disappeared before a grave, sad, almost threatening idea; an invincible presentiment forwarned me of one of those crises which govern the whole life; a sort of revelation told me that I was about to love, to love passionately, to love as one loves but once; and, to heighten the fatality, this love, so highly and worthily placed, was always to be unfortunate to me. These ideas alarmed me so much, that I suddenly took the wise resolution of stopping my carriage, returning to the abbey, and going to rejoin my father, leaving to my aunt the duty of excusing me to the grand duke for my abrupt departure. Unfortunately, one of those vulgar causes, of which the effects are sometimes so immense, prevented me from executing this. My carriage having stopped at the entrance of the avenue leading to the palace, I leaned out at the window to give orders to my people to return, when the Baron and Baroness Roller, who, like me, were on their way to court, perceived me, and ordered their carriage also to stop. The baron, seeing me in uniform, said, “Can I assist you in anything, my dear prince? what has happened to you? Since you are on your way to the palace, will you not join us, if anything has happened to your horses?”
Nothing could have been more easy you may say, my friend, than for me to have made some excuse for leaving the baron, and to have regained the abbey. I suppose it would have been; whether it was weakness, or a secret desire to escape from the salutary resolution I had just formed, I replied with an embarrassed air, that I was giving orders to my coachman to inquire at the gate of the palace whether we entered by the new pavilion, or through the marble court. “The entrance is through the marble court, my dear prince,” replied the baron; “it is a grand gala reception. Tell your coachman to follow mine; I will show you the way.”
You know, Maximilian, how much of a fatalist I am; I would have returned to the abbey, to spare myself the vexations which I foresaw; fate opposed it; I abandoned myself to my star. You do not know the grand ducal palace of Gerolstein, my friend. According to all those who have visited the capitals of Europe, there is not, with the exception of Versailles, a royal residence, of which the whole pile of building, and the avenues to it, have a more majestic aspect. If I enter into some details on this subject, it is that, in recalling at this hour these imposing splendors, I ask myself why they did not all at first call up my nothingness; for the Princess Amelia was the daughter of the sovereign of this palace, of these guards, of this great wealth. The court of marble, a vast hemicycle, is so called because, with the exception of a broad path around it, in which the carriages pass, it is paved with marble of every color, having magnificent mosaics. In the center of it is placed an immense basin of antique marble, fed by abundant springs of water, which fall continually into a large porphyry vase. This court of honor is surrounded by a row of white marble statues, of the finest execution, bearing torches of gilded bronze, from whence floods of dazzling gas are poured out. Alternating with these statues, Medicean vases, raised on their richly-sculptured pedestals, contain enormous rose-laurels, real flourishing shrubs, whose lustrous foliage, seen in the resplendent light, shines with a metallic verdure.
The carriages stopped at the foot of a double row of balustrades, which led to the peristyle of the palace; at the foot of this staircase, two cavaliers of the guard of the grand duke, mounted on black horses, stood as sentries. The soldiers of the guard were chosen from among the largest-sized non-commissioned officers of the army. You, my friend, who are so fond of military men, would have been struck with the severe and martial air of these two colossal figures, whose cuirasses and brazen casques of an antique form, without ornament or crest, shone in the light. These cavaliers wore blue coats with yellow collar, pantaloons of white buckskin, and stout boots, reaching above the knee. Finally, for you, my friend, who are fond of military details, I will add, that at the top of the steps, on each side of the door, two grenadiers of the regiment of infantry of the grand ducal guard were on duty. They resembled, I was told, in appearance, with the single exception of the color of the dress and its facings, Napoleon’s old guard. After having crossed the vestibule, where, with their halberts in their hands, stood the Swiss liveried servants of the prince, I ascended an imposing staircase of white marble, which led to a portico, ornamented with columns of jasper, surmounted by a cupola, painted and gilded. There were ranged two long files of foot servants. I afterward entered into the guard-room, at the door of which were standing a chamberlain and an aid-de-camp on service, whose duty it was to lead up to his royal highness such persons as were entitled to be presented to him. My relationship, though distant, gave me a right to this honor. An aid-de-camp preceded me into a long gallery filled with men in court-dresses or uniforms, and ladies in full costume. While I was slowly passing through this brilliant crowd, I heard words which heightened still more my emotion. On all sides people were admiring the angelic beauty of the Princess Amelia, the charming face of the Marchioness d’Harville, and the truly imperial air of the Archduchess Sophia, who had recently arrived from Munich, with the Archduke Stanislaus, and was soon to go to Warsaw. But while all rendered homage to the lofty dignity of the archduchess and to the distinguished grace of the Marchioness d’Harville, it was acknowledged that nothing was more ideal than the enchanting form of the Princess Amelia. As I approached the spot where the grand duke and his daughter were standing, I felt my heart beating violently. At the moment when I reached the door of this saloon (I forgot to tell you that there was a ball and court concert), the illustrious Liszt had just seated himself at the piano, and the deepest silence succeeded to the slight murmur of conversation. While awaiting the end of the piece, which the artist played with his accustomed superiority, I remained standing at the door. Then, my dear Maximilian, for the first time I saw the Princess Amelia. Allow me to paint to you the scene, for I feel an inexpressive pleasure in gathering up all these recollections. Imagine, my friend, a vast saloon, furnished with royal splendor, dazzling with light, and hung with crimson draperies, about which ran a border of foliage embroidered in gold. In the first row, in large gilded chairs, were seated the Archduchess Sophia (to whom the prince was doing the honors of the palace), on her left the Marchioness d’Harville, and on her right the Princess Amelia. Standing behind them was the grand duke, wearing the uniform of colonel of his guards. He seemed to have renewed his youth by his happiness, and did not look more than thirty years old. The military dress set off finely the elegance of his height, and the beauty of his face. Near him stood the Archduke Stanislaus, in the uniform of a field marshal. Then came the Princess Amelia’s ladies of honor, the wives of the grand dignitaries of the court, and, finally, the latter themselves. Need I tell you that the Princess Amelia, by her rank, less than by her grace and beauty, reigned supreme in this dazzling assemblage? Do not condemn me, my friend, without reading this description. Though it fall a thousand times below the reality, you may comprehend my adoration; you will understand that as soon as I saw her, I loved her, and that the suddenness of this passion can be equaled only by its violence, and the intensity of its duration. The Princess Amelia, dressed in a simple robe of white watered silk, wore, like the Archduchess Sophia, the grand cordon of the Imperial Order of Saint Nepomucene, which had been recently sent her by the empress. A bandeau of pearls, surrounding her noble and open forehead, harmonized most exquisitely with the two large braids of magnificent ashy blond hair which bordered her cheeks, which were lightly tinged with red; her fair arms, still whiter than the waves of lace from which they escaped, were half hidden by her gloves, which did not come up to her dimpled elbow: nothing could be more graceful than her bearing; nothing prettier than her little foot, with its white satin shoe. At the moment when I saw her, her large eyes, of the purest azure, were thoughtful. I do not know whether at this moment she felt the influence of some serious idea, or whether she was deeply impressed by the grave harmony of the piece Liszt was playing, but her half smile seemed to me to have a sweet and inexpressible melancholy: her head was slightly bent over on her bosom, and she was playing mechanically with a great bouquet of white violets and roses which she held in her hand. I could never express to you my feelings at that moment; all that my aunt had said to me of the ineffable goodness of the Princess Amelia came back to my mind. You may smile, my friend, but in spite of myself I felt my eyes moistening as I gazed on this thoughtful, almost sad young girl, so admirably beautiful, surrounded with honors, with such respect, and so idolized by such a father as the grand duke.
Maximilian, I have often said it to you, I believe man incapable of tasting certain kinds of happiness, which are, so to speak, too complete, too immense for his circumscribed faculties; I think, too, that certain beings are too divinely endowed not to feel sometimes that they are alone here below, and that they feel at times vague regrets for their exquisite delicacy, which exposes them to so many deceptions, to so many chills which are unknown to less tender natures. It seemed to me that at that time the Princess Amelia felt the reaction of such a thought. Suddenly, by some strange chance (there is fatality about everything here), she mechanically turned her eyes toward the place where I was standing. You know how scrupulously etiquette and the hierarchy of rank is observed with us. Thanks to my title and to the ties of relationship which attach me to the grand duke, the persons in the midst of whom I had at first placed myself had receded gradually, so that I remained almost alone, and decidedly in the first row, in the embrasure of the gallery door. It must undoubtedly have been this circumstance which caused the princess, as she started from her reverie, to perceive and take notice of me, for she made a slight movement of surprise, and blushed. She had seen my portrait at the abbey, in my aunt’s apartments, and she recognized me–nothing was more simple. The princess had scarcely looked at me for a second, but that look made me feel the most violent, the most profound emotion; I felt my cheeks on fire; I cast down my eyes, and remained some minutes without daring to raise them again toward the princess. When I ventured to lift them, she was talking in a low tone with the Archduchess Sophia, who appeared to listen with the most affectionate interest. Liszt having put an interval of some moments between the two pieces he was to play, the grand duke took advantage of that moment to express to him his admiration in the most gracious manner. The prince, as he turned to his place, perceived me, made a sign of the head to me with the greatest kindness, and said some words to the archduchess in pointing me out to her. The latter, after having looked at me for a moment, turned toward the grand duke, who could not help smiling as he replied to her and spoke to his daughter. The Princess Amelia seemed to be embarrassed, for she again blushed. I was in torments; unfortunately, etiquette did not permit me to quit the spot where I was until the concert was over, which was beginning. Two or three times I stole a glance at the Princess Amelia; she seemed pensive and thoughtful; my heart was oppressed. I suffered a slight feeling of uneasiness, as if I had been the cause of the pain she felt. Undoubtedly the grand duke had been asking her, jestingly, if she found any resemblance to the portrait of her cousin of the olden times; and, in her ingenuousness, she perhaps reproached hers. If for not having told her father that she had before recognized me. When the concert was over, I followed the aid-de-camp. He led me toward the grand duke, who advanced a few steps to meet me, took me cordially by the arm, and, approaching the Archduchess Sophia, said to her:
“I beg of your royal highness the permission to present to you my cousin, Prince Henry of Herkausen-Oldenzaal.”
“I have already met the prince at Vienna, and I am happy to see him again here,” replied the archduchess, before whom I made a profound bow.
“My dear Amelia,” continued the prince, addressing himself to his daughter, “I present to you Prince Henry, your cousin; he is son of Prince Paul, one of my most venerable friends, whom I much regret not to see to-day at Gerolstein.”
“Be so kind, sir, as to inform Prince Paul that I share deeply in my father’s regrets, for I shall be always happy to become acquainted with his friends,” replied my cousin, with a simplicity full of grace.
I had not before heard the sound of Princess Amelia’s voice; imagine, my friend, the sweetest, the most delicious, the most harmonious tones; in fine, one of those accents which cause the most delicate chords of the soul to vibrate.
“I hope, my dear Henry, that you will remain some time with your aunt, to whom I am greatly attached. I respect her as a mother, as you know,” said the grand duke kindly to me. “Come often to see us, familiarly, in the morning, at three o’clock. If we are going out, you can join us in our walk; you know I have always loved you, because you have one of the most noble hearts.”
“I do not know how to express to your royal highness my gratitude for the kind reception you condescend to bestow on me.”
“To prove to me your gratitude, then,” said the prince, smiling, “ask your cousin for the second contra-dance; the first belongs of right to the archduke.”
“Will your highness grant me this favor?” said I to the Princess Amelia, bowing before her.
“Call each other simply cousins, after the good old German custom,” said the grand duke gayly; “ceremony is not proper among relatives!”
“Will my cousin do me the honor to dance this contra-dance with me?”
“Yes, cousin,” replied the Princess Amelia.
CHAPTER III.
PRINCE HENRY D’HERKAUSEN-OLDENZAAL TO COUNT MAXIMILIAN KAMINETZ.
“OLDENZAAL, August 25th, 1841.
I can hardly tell you, my friend, how pleased, and, at the same time, pained, I was at the fatherly cordiality of the grand duke; the confidence he testified toward me, the affectionate kindness with which he induced his daughter and myself to substitute for the formula of etiquette these family terms of a most tender intimacy, all penetrated me with gratitude; I reproached myself so much the more bitterly for the fatal attraction of a love which ought not, or could not be agreeable to the prince. I have promised myself, it is true (and I have not failed in this resolution), never to utter a word which might lead my cousin to suspect the love that I was nourishing; but I feared that my emotion, my glances, might betray me. In spite of myself, however, this sentiment, silent and concealed as it must be, seemed guilty to me. I had time to make these reflections while the Princess Amelia was dancing the first contra-dance with the Archduke Stanislaus. Here, as everywhere, dancing is no more than a kind of march which follows the measure of the orchestra; nothing could show to more advantage the serious grace of my cousin’s carriage. With a happiness mingled with anxiety, I awaited the moment for that conversation that the liberty of the ball would allow me to hold with her. I was sufficiently master of myself to conceal my embarrassment, as I went to seek her with the Marchioness d’Harville. Thinking of the circumstances of the portrait, I expected to see the Princess Amelia share my embarrassment. I was not mistaken; I recall, almost word for word, our first conversation; let me relate it to you, my friend:
“Will your highness permit me,” said I to her, “to say always my cousin, as the grand duke has authorized me?”
“Certainly, my cousin,” she kindly answered me; “I am always happy to obey my father.”
“And I am still more proud of this familiarity, my cousin; I have learned through my aunt to know you, that is to say, to appreciate you.”
“My father has also spoken to me of you, cousin, and what will perhaps astonish you,” added she, timidly, “I know you already, if I may say so, by sight. The lady superior of St. Hermangilda, for whom I have the most affectionate respect, one day showed to us, to my father and myself, a picture.”
“Where I was represented as a page of the sixteenth century?”
“Yes, cousin, and my father even used the little deceit of telling me that this portrait was of one of our relations of the olden time, adding such kind words toward this cousin of former days, that our family must be happy to number him among our relations of the present day.”
“Alas! my cousin, I fear I resemble no more the moral portrait that the grand duke designed to make of me, than I do the page of the sixteenth century.”
“You deceive yourself, cousin,” said the princess to me, gayly; “for at the end of the concert, casting my eyes, by chance, toward the side gallery, I recognized you directly, in spite of the difference of costume.”
Then wishing, undoubtedly, to change a subject of conversation that embarrassed her, she said to me, “What a wonderful talent M. Liszt possesses! do you not think so?”
“Wonderful! With what pleasure you listened to him!”
“Because, indeed, it seems to me there is a double charm in music without words; not only is it played with excellent execution, but we can in a moment apply our own thoughts to the melodies that we hear, and which become, so to speak, their accompaniment, I know not if you understand me, cousin?”
“Perfectly. Our thoughts are, then, the words that we adapt mentally to the air that we hear.”
“Just so, just so; you understand me,” said she to me, with an expression of pleased satisfaction; “I fear I should explain but ill what I felt just now, while listening to that melody, so plaintive and so touching.”
“God grant, my cousin,” said I to her, smiling, “that you may have no words to put to an air so sad!”
Either because my question was indiscreet, and she wished to avoid answering me, or because she had not understood it, the Princess Amelia immediately said to me, pointing out the grand duke, who, giving his arm to the Archduchess Sophia was then traversing the dancing gallery:
“Cousin, look at my father: how handsome he is! how noble and fine his air! how eagerly all glances follow him! It seems to me he is more beloved even than he is revered.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “it is not only here, in the midst of this court, that he is cherished. If the blessings of the people should be echoed to posterity, the name of Rudolph of Gerolstein would be, with justice, immortal.”
In speaking thus, my enthusiasm was sincere; for you know, my friend, that the dominions of the prince are, with good reason, called the Paradise of Germany.
It is impossible to paint to you the grateful glance my cousin threw upon me on hearing me speak in this manner.
“To appreciate my father thus,” said she to him, with emotion, “is to be worthy of the attachment he bears to you.”
“And can no one but myself love and admire him! Beside those rare qualities that make great princes, has he not the genius of kindness that makes princes adored?”
“You know not how truly you speak,” exclaimed the princess, still more moved.
“Ah, I know–I know it, and all those whom he governs know it as I do. They love him so much that they mourn in his sorrows, as they rejoice in his happiness; the eagerness of all to come and offer their homage to the Marchioness d’Harville is bestowed on the choice of his royal highness, as well as the true worth of the future grand duchess.”
“The Marchioness d’Harville is more worthy than any one of the attachment of my father; this is the highest praise of her I can give you.”
“And you can, doubtless, appreciate her justly. Have you not known her in France, my cousin?”
Hardly had I uttered these words, when some sudden thought, I know not what, came into the Princess Amelia’s mind, she cast down her eyes, and, for a second, her features wore an expression of sadness, that made me silent with surprise. We were then at the end of the contradance; the last figure separated me a moment from my cousin; when I led her back to the Marchioness d’Harville, it seemed to me her features were still slightly moved. I believed, and I believe still, that my allusion to the abode of the princess in France, having recalled to her the death of her mother, created in her the painful impression of which I have just spoken to you. During this evening, I remarked a circumstance which will, perhaps, appear to you puerile, but which has been to me a new proof of the fascination this young girl inspires in all. Her bandeau of pearls being a little deranged, the Archduchess Sophia, who was leaning upon her arm, was kind enough to be willing herself to replace the bijou upon her brow. Now, to one who knows the proverbial hauteur of the archduchess, such an act of graciousness from her seems scarcely conceivable. Besides, the Princess Amelia, whom I was observing attentively at the moment, appeared at the same time so confused, so grateful, I might almost say so embarrassed, at this graceful attention, that I thought I saw a tear sparkle in her eyes.
Such, my friend, was my first evening at Gerolstein. If I have related it to you with some detail, it is that almost all these circumstances have since had their results for me. I will now abridge: I will only speak to you of some of their principal circumstances relating to my frequent interviews with my cousin and her father. The day after this fête, I was among the very small number of persons invited to the celebration of the marriage of the grand duke and the Marchioness d’Harville. I never saw the countenance of the Princess Amelia more radiant and more serene than during this ceremony. She gazed upon her father and the marchioness with a kind of religious ecstasy, that gave a new charm to her features; it might have been said that they reflected the ineffable happiness of the prince and the Marchioness d’Harville. That day my cousin was very gay, very affable. I gave her my arm in a walk that we took after dinner in the palace gardens, which were magnificently illuminated. She said to me, on speaking of her father’s marriage, “It seems to me that the happiness of those we cherish is yet more sweet to us than our own; for is there not always a shade of selfishness in the enjoyment of our own personal happiness?”
If I give you, from among a thousand, this reflection of my cousin’s, my friend, it is that you may judge of the heart of this adorable creature, who possesses, like her father, the spirit of goodness. Some days after the marriage of the grand duke, I held quite a long conversation with him. He asked me of the past, of my plans for the future: he gave me the wisest counsel, the most flattering encouragement; he even spoke to me of several of his plans for government, with a confidence that made me feel as proud as I was flattered; in short–shall I tell it to you? For one moment a most foolish idea crossed my mind; I fancied that the prince had imagined my love, and that in this conversation he wished to study me, feel my sentiments, and perhaps lead me to an avowal.
Unhappily, this mad hope did not last long; the prince brought the conversation to a close by telling me that the time for great wars had passed away; that I ought to profit by my name, my connections, the education I had received, and the intimate friendship that had united my father and Prince M., prime minister to the emperor, and pass through the diplomatic instead of the military career; adding, that all the questions which were decided formerly upon the battle-field, would henceforth be decided by Congresses; that soon the intricate and base tradition of ancient diplomacy would give place to an enlarged and _humane_ system of politics concerning the true interests of the people, who from day to day gained more knowledge of their rights; that a high, loyal, and generous spirit might have, before many years, a noble and great part to play in political affairs, and might thus do much good; he proposed to me, in short, the assistance of his high patronage to facilitate me at the outset of the career in which he solicited me to embark. You understand, my friend, that if the prince had had the least design upon me, he had not made me such overtures. I thanked him for his offers with warm gratitude, adding, that I felt all the worth of his counsel, and was determined to follow it. I had at first used some reserve in my visits to the palace, but in consequence of the urgency of the grand duke, I soon went there every day about three o’clock. They lived there in all the simplicity of our German courts. It was the life of the great castles in England, rendered still more attractive by the cordial simplicity, the pleasing liberty of German manners. When the weather permitted, we took long rides with the grand duke, the grand duchess, my cousin, and the people of their household. When we remained in the palace, we were occupied with music. I sung with the grand duchess and my cousin, whose voice was of a tone of unequaled sweetness and purity–such, that I could never hear it without being moved even to the depths of my soul. At other times, we examined in detail the wonderful collection of pictures and works of art, or the admirable library of the prince, who, you know, is one of the most learned and best-informed men in Europe; frequently I returned to dine at the palace, and on opera days I accompanied the grand ducal family to the theater.
Every day passed like a dream: my cousin gradually came to treat me with a true sisterly familiarity; she did not conceal from me the pleasure that she felt in seeing me; she confided to me all that interested her. Two or three times she begged me to accompany her when she went with the grand duchess to visit the young orphans; often, also, she spoke to me of my future plans with a maturity of reason, a serious and reflective interest, that astonished me, coming from a girl of her age; she was very fond, too, of inquiring of my infancy, and of my mother, alas! ever regretted. Every time that I wrote to my father, she begged me to recall her to his remembrance; then, for she embroidered to admiration, she gave me one day for him a charming piece of tapestry, upon which she had worked for a long time. What more shall I tell you, my friend? a brother and sister, meeting again after a long separation, would not have enjoyed a sweeter intimacy. Let me add that, when, by some unusual chance, we were left alone, the entrance of a third could never have changed the subject, or even the accent of our conversation. You will be perhaps astonished, my friend, at this brotherly feeling between two young people, especially as you recall what I have acknowledged to you; but the more confidence and familiarity my cousin showed me, the more I watched over, the more I constrained myself, for fear of putting an end to the adorable familiarity. And then, what increased still more my reserve, the princess showed, in her intercourse with me, so much frankness, so much noble confidence, and especially so little coquetry, that I am almost certain that she has always been ignorant of my violent passion, though there remains a slight doubt on this subject, arising from a circumstance that I will relate immediately. If this brotherly intercourse could always have lasted, perhaps this happiness might have been sufficient for me; but even while I was enjoying this with delight, I reflected that my service or the new career in which the prince was inducing me to engage would soon call me to Vienna or abroad; I reflected, in short that, presently, perhaps, the grand duke would think of marrying his daughter in a manner worthy of her. These thoughts became the more painful to me as the moment of my departure approached. My cousin soon observed the change that was at work in me. The evening before the day I left her, she told me for a long time she had found me gloomy and abstracted. I endeavored to elude her questions; I attributed my sadness to a vague ennui.
“I cannot believe you,” said she to me; “my father treats you almost as a son; everybody loves you; to be unhappy would be ingratitude.”
“Ah well!” said I to her, without being able to conquer my emotion, “it is not ennui; it is grief–yes, a penetrating grief that I feel.”
“And why? What has happened to you?” she asked me, with interest.
“Just now, my cousin, you told me that your father treated me as a son; that everybody loved me. Ah! well, before long, I must renounce these precious attachments; I must, in short, leave Gerolstein, and, I confess to you, this thought fills me with despair.”
“And the remembrance of those that are dear to us–is this then, nothing, my cousin?”
“Ah, yes–but years, but events bring so many unforeseen changes!”
“There are at least attachments which are not changed: such as my father has always shown you. What I feel for you is of this kind, you know full well; we are brother and sister–never to forget one another,” added she, raising toward me her large blue eyes, filled with tears.
This glance overwhelmed me; I was on the point of betraying myself; fortunately, I restrained myself.
“It is true that feeling lasts,” said I to her, in an embarrassed manner; “but circumstances alter. For instance, my cousin, when in a few years I shall return, do you think that then this intimacy, whose charm I value so fully, may yet continue?”
“Why should it not continue?”
“Because you will then be, undoubtedly, married, my cousin–you will have other duties–and you will have forgotten your poor brother.”
* * * * *
I swear to you, my friend, I said no more to her. I know not yet if she saw in these words an avowal which was displeasing to her, or whether she, like myself, was sadly struck by the inevitable changes that the future must necessarily make in our intercourse; but, instead of answering me, she remained a moment silent, overwhelmed; then, rising suddenly, her countenance pale and disordered, she went out, after examining some embroidery by the young Countess d’Oppenheim, one of her ladies of honor, who was working in the embrasure of one of the windows of the saloon where our conversation took place. The evening of this day I received a new letter from my father, which recalled me suddenly here. The next morning I went to take leave of the grand duke; he told me that my cousin was a little unwell, that I might entrust to him my last words to her; he pressed me to his heart, like a father, regretting, he added, my sudden departure, and especially that this departure was occasioned by the anxiety that the health of my father gave me; then, recalling to me, with the greatest kindness, his counsel on the subject of the new career which he begged me to embrace immediately, he added, that on my return from my embassies, or on my leaves of absence, he should see me again at Gerolstein with warm pleasure. Happily, on my arrival here I found the state of my father a little improved; he still keeps his bed, and is constantly feeble, but his health no longer gives me any serious anxiety. Unfortunately, he has already noticed my depression, my gloomy taciturnity, several times; but he has supplicated me in vain to confide to him the cause of my melancholy grief. I should not dare it, notwithstanding his blind tenderness for me; you know his severity as regards everything which appears to him wanting in frankness and loyalty. Yesterday, I watched with him; when alone by his side, believing him asleep, I could not restrain my tears, which flowed in silence as I thought of my happy days at Gerolstein. He saw me weep, for he soon awaked while I was absorbed in my grief; he questioned me with the most touching kindness; I attributed my sadness to the anxiety that his health had caused me, but he was not deceived by this evasion. Now that you know all, my good Maximilian, say is not my fate forlorn enough! What shall I do–what resolve?
Ah, my friend, I cannot tell you my anguish. What is to happen, my God! All is utterably lost! I am the most wretched of men if my father does not renounce his project. I will tell you what has just happened; just now I had finished this letter, when, to my great astonishment, my father, whom I believed in bed, entered my cabinet, where I was writing to you; he saw upon my desk my first four great pages all filled; I was at the end of this last–“
“To whom do you write so at length?” he asked, smiling.
“To Maximilian, father.”
“Oh!” said he to me, with an expression of affectionate reproach, “I know that he possessed your confidence entirely; _he is very happy–he!_”
He pronounced these last words so sadly, in such a bounded tone, that, touched by his accent, I replied to him, giving him my letter, almost without reflection: “Read, father.”
My friend, he has read all. Do you know what he said to me, after remaining for some time thoughtful?
“Henry, I am going to write to the grand duke all that passed during your stay at Gerolstein.”
“My father, I conjure you, do not do it.”
“Is what you relate to Maximilian perfectly true?”
“Yes, my father.”
“In this case, until now your conduct has been upright. The prince will appreciate it. But in future you should not show yourself unworthy of his noble confidence; you would do so if, abusing his offer, you should return hereafter to Gerolstein, with the intention, perhaps, of making yourself beloved by his daughter.”
“My father, could you think—-“
“I think that you love with passion, and that passion is, sooner or later, an evil consoler.”
“How, my father? you will write to the prince that—-“
“‘You love your cousin desperately.'”
“In the name of heaven, my father, I supplicate you, do nothing of this!”
“Do you love your cousin?”
“I love her to idolatry; but—-“
My father interrupted me: “If this is the case, I shall write to the grand duke to demand of him for you the hand of his daughter.”
“But, my father, such a claim is madness for me!”
“It is true; nevertheless, I ought frankly to make this demand of the prince, representing to him the reasons that lead me to this step. He has received you with the most true hospitality, he has shown you fatherly kindness; it would be unworthy me and you to deceive him. I know the greatness of his soul; he will feel that I am dealing as an honest man; if he refuses to give you his daughter, and this is almost unquestionable, he will know at least that in future, if you should return to Gerolstein, you ought to be no more in the same intimacy with her. You have shown me, my child,” added my father, kindly, “the letter that you have written to Maximilian. I am now informed of everything; it is my duty to write to the grand duke, and I am going to write this very moment.”
You know, my friend, that my father is the best of men, but he has an inflexible tenacity of will when the question is what regards his _duty_; judge of my anguish, my terror. Though the step he is going to take may be, after all, frank and honorable, it does not trouble me less. How will the grand duke receive this mad offer? Will he not be displeased with it? and will not the Princess Amelia be as much wounded that I have allowed my father to take such a step without her consent?
Ah, my friend, pity me, I know not what to think. It seems as though I were looking upon an abyss, and that a dizziness were coming over me.
I finish in haste this long letter; I shall write you soon. Yet once more pity me, for, in truth, I fear I shall become crazy if the fever that excites me lasts longer. Adieu, adieu! Yours from my heart, and ever,
HENRY D’H.-O.
* * * * *
We now conduct our reader to the palace of Gerolstein, where Fleur-de-Marie had dwelt since her return from France.
CHAPTER IV.
THE PRINCESS AMELIA.
The apartment occupied by Fleur-de-Marie (we shall call her the Princess Amelia only officially), in the grand ducal palace, had been furnished by Rudolph’s care, with extreme taste and elegance. From the balcony of the young girl’s oratory could be seen, in the distance, the two towers of the Convent of St. Hermangilda, which, rising above immense masses of verdure, were themselves commanded by a high wooded mountain, at the foot of which the abbey stood. On a beautiful morning in summer, Fleur-de-Marie was allowing her glances to wander over the splendid landscape, which extended far away in the distance. Her hair was dressed, but she wore a morning dress of thin material, white, with narrow blue stripes; a large handkerchief of plain cambric falling upon her shoulders, left visible the two ends and the knot of a little silk cravat, of the same blue as the girdle of her dress. Seated in a large, high-backed elbow chair made of carved ebony and cramoisie velvet, her elbow supported by one arm of this seat, her head a little bent down, she supported her cheek upon the back of her small white hand, delicately veined with azure. The languishing attitude of Fleur-de-Marie, her paleness, the fixedness of her gaze, the bitterness of her half-smile, revealed a deep melancholy. After some moments, a heavy, sad sigh relieved her breast. Then, letting her hand which supported her cheek fall again, she bent her head further upon her breast. You would have said that the wretched girl was bending beneath the weight of some heavy misfortune. At this moment a woman of mature age, with a grave and distinguished air, dressed in elegant simplicity, entered the oratory, almost timidily, and coughed slightly, to attract the attention of Fleur-de-Marie. Arousing herself from her reverie, she raised her head quickly, and said, saluting her with a motion full of grace,
“What do you wish, my dear countess?”
“I come to inform your highness that my lord begs you to await him; for he will meet you here in a few minutes,” replied Princess Amelia’s maid of honor, with respectful formality.
“I was wondering that I had not yet saluted my father to-day; I wait his visit each morning with so much impatience! But I hope that I do not owe to any illness of Fräulein Harneim the pleasure of seeing you, my dear countess, at the palace two days in succession.”
“Let your highness feel no uneasiness on that point; Fräulein Harneim has begged me to take her place to-day; to-morrow she will have the honor of resuming her service of your highness, who will, perhaps excuse the change.”
“Certainly, for I shall lose nothing by it; after having had the pleasure of seeing you two days in succession, my dear countess, I shall have for two other days Fräulien Harneim with me.”
“You highness honors us,” replied the maid of honor, bending again; “this extreme kindness encourages me to ask a favor.”
“Speak, speak; you know my eagerness to be of assistance to you.”
“It is true that for a long time your highness has accustomed me to your goodness; but this regards a subject so painful, that I should not have the courage to enter upon it, if it did not concern a very deserving object; for this reason I dare to depend upon the extreme indulgence of your highness.”
“Your have no need of any indulgence, my dear countess; I am always very grateful for every occasion that is given me for doing a little good.”
“This concerns a poor creature who, unfortunately, had quitted Gerolstein before your highness had established that institution, which is so charitable, and so useful for young orphan or forsaken girls, whom nothing protects from evil passions.”
“And what has happened to her? what do you beg for her?”
“Her father, a very adventurous man, went to seek his fortune in America, leaving his wife and daughter to a precarious mode of existence. The mother died; the daughter, hardly sixteen years old when left to herself, quitted the country to follow to Vienna a seducer, who soon forsook her. Then, as always happens, the first step in the path of vice led this wretched girl to an abyss of infamy; in a short time she became, like so many other miserable creatures, the opprobrium of her sex.”
Fleur-de-Marie cast down her eyes, blushed, and could not conceal a slight shudder, which did not escape the maid of honor. Fearing to have wounded the chaste susceptibility of the princess by conversing with her upon such a creature, she continued, with embarrassment:
“I asks a thousand pardons of your royal highness; I have undoubtedly offended you by drawing your attention to so polluted a being; but the miserable one shows so sincere a repentance, that I thought I could solicit for her a little pity.”
“And you were right. Go on, I pray you,” said Fleur-de-Marie, conquering her sad emotion; “indeed, all errors are worthy of pity when repentance follows them.”
“And that is the case here, as I have remarked to your highness. After two years of this abominable life, grace touched this abandoned one. A prey to a late remorse, she has returned here. Chance so favored her, that, on her arrival here, she was lodged at a house belonging to a worthy widow, whose gentleness and piety are well known. Encouraged by the pious goodness of the widow, the poor creature has confessed to her her faults, adding that she felt a just horror for her past life, and that she would purchase, at the price of the most severe penance, the happiness of entering a religious house, where she might expiate her errors and deserve their redemption. The worthy widow to whom she has intrusted this confidence, knowing that I had the honor to serve your highness, has written to me to recommend to me this unfortunate one, who, by means of the all-powerful agency of your highness with the Princess Juliana, lady superior of the abbey, might hope to enter St. Hermangilda Abbey as lay sister; she asks as a favor to be employed in the most painful hours that her penance may be more meritorious. I have several times desired to converse with this woman before allowing myself to implore for her the pity of your highness, and I am firmly convinced that her repentance will be lasting. It is neither want nor age that has brought her to the true good; she is scarcely eighteen years old; she is yet very beautiful, and possesses a small sum of money, that she wishes to devote to a charitable object if she obtains the favor that she solicits.”
“I will take charge of her,” said Fleur-de-Marie, restraining with difficulty her emotion, so much resemblance did her past life offer to that of the unfortunate one in whose favor she was solicited: she added, “the repentance of this miserable one is too praiseworthy to be left without encouragement.”
“I know not how to express my gratitude to your highness. I hardly dared hope your highness would deign to be so charitably interested in such a creature.”
“She has been guilty–she repents,” said Fleur-de-Marie, with an accent of commiseration and inexpressible sadness; “it is right to nourish pity for her. The more sincere her remorse, the more painful must it be, my dear countess.”
“I hear my lord, I believe,” said the maid of honor, suddenly, without remarking the deep and increasing emotion of Fleur-de-Marie.
In fact, Rudolph was entering a saloon which opened into the oratory, holding in his hand an enormous bunch of roses. At the sight of the prince the countess discreetly retired. Hardly had she disappeared, when Fleur-de-Marie threw herself upon her father’s neck, resting her forehead upon his shoulder, and remained thus some seconds without speaking.
“Good-morning, good-morning, my dear child,” said Rudolph, pressing his daughter to his breast with feeling, without yet observing her sadness. “See this mass of roses; what a fine harvest I gathered for you this morning; it was this that prevented me from coming sooner; I hope that I have never brought you a more magnificent bouquet. Take it.”
And the prince, still holding his bouquet in his hand, moved backward gently, to disengage his daughter from his arms and look at her; but seeing her burst into tears, he threw the bouquet upon the table, took Fleur-de-Marie’s hands in his, and exclaimed, “You weep! Oh, what is the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing, my dear father,” said Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears and endeavoring to smile upon Rudolph.
“Tell me, I beg you, what is the matter? What can have made you sad?”
“I assure you, father, it is nothing to distress you. The countess has just solicited my interest for a poor woman, so interesting, so unhappy, that in spite of myself I am moved by her recital.”
“Truly? Is it only this?”
“It is only this,” answered Fleur-de-Marie, taking from a table the flowers that Rudolph had thrown there; “but how you spoil me!” added she, “what a magnificent bouquet, and when I think that each day you bring me such, gathered by yourself.”
“My child,” said Rudolph, gazing upon his daughter with anxiety, “you conceal something from me; your smile is sad–constrained. Tell me, I beg you, what distresses you: do not occupy yourself with this bouquet.”
“Ah, you know this bouquet is my joy every morning; and then I love roses so much–I have always loved them so much. You remember,” added she, with an affecting smile, “you remember my poor little rose-bush. I have always kept its remains.”
At this painful allusion to the past, Rudolph exclaimed, “Unhappy child! Are my suspicions founded? In the midst of the splendor that surrounds you, would you yet sometimes think of that horrible time? Alas, I had thought to have made you forget it by tenderness.”
“Pardon, pardon, father! these words escaped me. I make you sad.”
“I am myself sad, poor angel,” said Rudolph sorrowfully, “because these returns to the past must be fearful to you–because they would poison your life if you were weak enough to abandon yourself to them.”
“Father, this was by chance. Since our arrival here, this is the first time–“
“This is the first time you have spoken of it–yes; but, perhaps, this is