Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue (page 9)

not the first time that these thoughts have troubled you. I have perceived your moments of melancholy, and sometimes I have accused the past as causing your sadness. But, as I was uncertain, I dared not even attempt to combat the sad influence of these remembrances–to show you the uselessness, the injustice of them–for if your grief had arisen from another cause, if the past had been to you what it ought to be, a vain, bad dream, I should risk awakening in you painful ideas that I should wish to destroy.”

“How good you are! how these fears show me your ineffable tenderness.”

“What do you mean? My position was so difficult, so delicate. On another occasion I said nothing, but I was ever thinking of what concerned you. By contracting this marriage, which crowned all my desires, I also hoped to give another guarantee to your repose. I knew too well the excessive delicacy of your heart to hope that you could ever–ever cease to think of the past; but I said to myself, that if, by chance, your thoughts ever lingered there, you ought, feeling yourself cherished as a daughter by the noble woman who knew and loved you in the depth of your misfortunes–you ought, I say, to regard the past as sufficiently expiated for by your heavy miseries, and be indulgent, or rather just, toward yourself: for, indeed, my wife is entitled by her high qualities to the respect of all–is it not so? Ah, well, since you are to her a daughter, a cherished sister, ought you not to be encouraged? Is not her tender attachment an entire redemption? Does it not tell you that she knows, as I do, that you have been a victim–that you are not guilty–that others can, indeed, reproach you only with misfortune, that has overwhelmed you from your birth? Had you even committed great faults, would they not be a thousand times expiated, redeemed, by all the good you have done, by all that is excellent and adorable that has been developed in you?”

“My father–“

“Ah, let me–let me tell you all my thoughts, since an accident, for which indeed we ought to be grateful, has caused this conversation. For a long time I have desired, and at the same time dreaded it. God will that it may have a salutary result! It was mine to make you forget so many dreadful sorrows. I have a mission to fulfill towards you so august, so sacred, that I should have had the courage to sacrifice, for your repose, my love for Madame d’Harville–my friendship for Murphy, if I had thought their presence would have recalled to you too bitterly the past.”

“On, my good father, could you think so? Their presence, the presence of those who know _what I was_, and who yet love me tenderly, does not it, on the contrary, personify forgetfulness and pardon? Indeed, my father, would not my whole life have been made desolate, had you renounced for me your marriage with Madame d’Harville?”

“Ah! I should not have been the only one to desire this sacrifice, if it would secure your happiness. You know not what self-denial Clémence has already voluntarily imposed upon herself, for she also comprehends all the extent of my duty to you.”

“Your duty to me, my God! And what have I done to merit so much?”

“What have you done, poor dear angel! Until the moment you were restored to me, your life was only bitterness, misery, desolation; and for your past sufferings I reproach myself, as if I had caused them. And when I see you smiling, pleased, I believe myself pardoned; my only aim, my only wish, is to render you as entirely happy as you have been unfortunate; to raise you as much as you have been lowered, for it seems to me the last traces of the past are effaced when the most eminent, the most honorable persons pay you the respect which is due to you.”

“Respect to me? no, no, my father; but to my rank, or, rather, to that you have given me.”

“Ah! it is not your rank that is loved, that is revered–it is you, understand; indeed, my dear child, it is yourself, yourself alone. There is homage imposed by rank, but it is another imposed by powers of attraction and fascination! You know not how to distinguish between these, because you know not yourself; because you know not that, by a wonderful intelligence and tact, which renders me as proud as idolatrous of you, carry into all ceremonious intercourse, so new to you, a union of dignity, modesty, and grace, which is irresistible to the most stately characters.”

“You love me so much, father, and all love you so much, that every one is sure of pleasing you by showing me deference.”

“Oh, the wicked child!” exclaimed Rudolph, interrupting his daughter, and embracing her tenderly; “what a wicked child, who will not grant a single satisfaction to my fatherly pride!”

“Is not this pride sufficiently satisfied by attributing to you the good feeling that is shown me, my good father?”

“No, indeed, miss,” said the prince, smiling, to his daughter, to chase away the sadness with which he still saw her affected; “no, miss, it is not the same thing; for it is not allowable for me to be proud of myself, and I can and ought to be proud of you–yes, proud. And, again, you know not how divinely you are endowed; in fifteen months your education has become so marvelously complete that the most difficult mother would be satisfied with you, and this education has increased still more the almost irresistible influence that you spread around you without being yourself aware of it.”

“My father, your praises confuse me.”

“I speak the truth, nothing but the truth. Do you wish for instances? Let us speak boldly of the past; it is an enemy that I wish to fight hand to hand; we must look it in the face. Do you not, then, remember La Louve, that courageous woman who saved you? Recall that prison scene which you have related to me; a crowd of prisoners, more hardened indeed than wicked, were bent upon tormenting one of their companions, feeble, infirm, and yet their drudge; you appear, you speak, and, behold, immediately these furies, blushing for their base cruelty toward their victim, show themselves as charitable as they were wicked. Is this, then, nothing? Again, is it–yes or no–owing to you that La Louve, that ungovernable woman, has felt repentance, and desired an honest and laborious life? Ah, believe me, my dear child, that which conquered La Louve, and her turbulent companions, merely by the ascendancy of goodness, combined with a rare elevation of mind; this, although in other circumstances and in an utterly different sphere, must by the same charm (do not smile at such a parallel, miss) fascinate the stately Archduchess Sophia and all the circle of my court; for the good and wicked, great and small, submit almost always to the influence of higher, nobler spirits. I do not wish to say that you were born princess in the aristocratic sense of the word; that would be a poor flattery to make you, my child; but you are of that small number of privileged beings who are born both to speak to a queen so as to charm her, and to earn her love, and also to speak to a poor, debased, and abandoned creature, so as to make her better, to console her, and thus gain her adoration.”

“But, my dear father, I beg–“

“Oh, it is so much the worse for you, darling, that it is so long since my heart has poured forth. Think, then, how, with my fear of awakening in you the remembrances of the past which I wish to annihilate, and that I will forever annihilate in your mind, I dared not converse to you of these comparisons, these parallels, which render you so admirable in my eyes. How many times have Clémence and I been enraptured with you. How many times moved so that the tears rose in her eyes, has she said to me, ‘Is it not wonderful that this child should be what she is, after misfortune has so pursued her? or, rather,’ would Clémence continue, ‘is it not wonderful that, far from impairing that noble and rare nature, misfortune has, on the contrary, given a higher range to what there was excellent in her?'”

At this moment the door opened, and Clémence, Grand Duchess of Gerolstein, entered, holding a letter in her hand.

“Here, my friend,” said she to Rudolph, “is a letter from France. I wish to bring it to you, that I might say good-morning to my indolent child, whom I have not seen this morning,” added Clémence, embracing Fleur-de-Marie tenderly.

“This letter comes just at the right moment,” said Rudolph, gayly, after having read it through. “We were talking just now of the past; of that monster we must incessantly combat, my dear Clémence, for it threatens the repose and happiness of our dear child.”

“Is this true, my friend? those attacks of melancholy which we have observed–“

“Have no other cause than wicked remembrances; but, fortunately, we now know our enemy, and we will triumph over it.”

“But from whom, then, is this letter, my friend?” asked Clémence.

“From Rigolette, the wife of Germain.”

“Rigolette!” exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie; “what happiness to hear from her!”

“My friend,” said Clémence, aside to Rudolph, at the same time glancing at Fleur-de-Marie, “do you not fear that this letter may recall to her painful recollections?”

“These are those very remembrances I wish to put an end to, my dear Clémence: we must approach them boldly, and I am sure that I shall find in Rigolette’s letter excellent arms against them, for this excellent little creature adored our child, and appreciated her as she should be.”

And Rudolph read aloud the following letter:–

“Bouqueval Farm, August 15th, 1841.

“YOUR HIGHNESS, I take the liberty of writing to you again, to make you a sharer of a great happiness which has befallen us, and to ask a new favor of you, to whom we already owe so many, or, rather, to whom we owe the perfect paradise in which we live, I, my Germain, and his good mother.

“This is the cause, my lord; for ten days I have been mad with joy, for it is ten days since I have possessed the love of a little girl: I fancy that she is the very picture of Germain; be, that she is of me; our dear Mamma George says that she resembles both; the fact is she has charming blue eyes like Germain, and black hair, curly, like mine. Just now, contrary to his custom, my husband is unjust; he wishes to have our little one always upon his knees, while it is my right, is it not, my lord?”

“Fine, worthy young persons! they ought to be happy,” said Rudolph. “If ever couple were well matched, it is they.”

“And Rigolette deserves her happiness,” said Fleur-de Marie.

“I have always blessed the good fortune that caused me to meet them,” said Rudolph, and he continued, “But, indeed, my lord, pardon my burdening you with these little family quarrels that end always with a kiss. Certainly your ears must tingle well, my lord, for there does not pass a day that we do not say, looking at each other, we too, Germain and I, ‘How happy we are! O, God, how happy we are!’ and, naturally, your name follows directly after these words. Excuse the scrawl there is just here, my lord, and the blot; I had written without thinking, M. Rudolph, as I used to say, and I have scratched it out. I hope, by the way, that you will find my writing has improved much, as well as my orthography, for Germain always shows me how, and I no longer make great blots stretching all across, as when you made my pens.”

“I must confess,” said Rudolph, laughing, “that my friend is under a slight illusion, and I am sure that Germain is occupied rather with kissing the hand of his pupil than directing it.”

“Come, come, my dear, you are right,” said Clémence, looking at the letter, “the writing is rather large, but very legible.”

“In truth, there is some progress,” said Rudolph; “formerly it would have taken eight pages to contain what she writes now in two.”

And he continued: “It is, however, true, that you have made pens for me, my lord; when we think of it, Germain and I, we are quite ashamed, in recalling how far from proud you were. Oh, here again do I find myself speaking to you of something besides what we wish to ask you, my lord; for my husband unites with me, and it is very important; we have formed a plan. You shall see. We supplicate you, then, my lord, to have the goodness to choose and give us a name for our dear girl; it is agreed upon with the godfather and godmother, and this godfather and godmother, do you know who they are, my lord? Two persons whom you and her ladyship the Marchioness d’Harville have raised from misery to render happy, happy as we are. In a word, they are Morel, the jeweler, and Jeanne Duport, the sister of a poor prisoner named Pique-Vinaigre, a worthy woman whom I saw in prison when I went to visit my poor Germain there, and whom, afterward, her ladyship, the marchioness, brought out from the hospital. Now, my lord, you must know why we have chosen M. Morel for godfather, and Jeanne Duport for godmother. We said one to another, Germain and I, this will be a way of thanking M. Rudolph again for his kindness, by taking for godfather and godmother of our little girl worthy people who owe everything to him and to the marchioness, without taking into consideration that Morel the jeweler and Jeanne Duport are the cream of honest people. They are of our class, and besides, as Germain and I say, they are our kindred in happiness, for they are like us, of the family of your _protégées_, my lord.”

“Oh, father, has not this idea a charming delicacy,” said Fleur-de-Marie, with emotion, “to take as godfather and godmother of their child those who owe everything to you and my second mother.”

“You are right, dear child,” said Clémence; “I am most deeply touched by this token.”

“And I am very glad that I have so well bestowed my benefits,” said Rudolph, continuing to read.

“Besides, with the aid of the money you have given him, M. Rudolph, Morel is now a dealer in precious stones; he gains something to bring up his family upon, and the means of teaching his children some trade. The good Louise will, I think, marry a worthy laborer, who loves and respects her, as he should, for she has been unfortunate, but not guilty, and the betrothed of Louise has heart enough to understand this.”

“I was very certain,” exclaimed Rudolph, addressing his daughter, “of finding in dear little Rigolette’s letter arms against our enemy! You hear, it is the expression of the plain common sense of this honest and upright soul. She says of Louise, ‘She has been unfortunate, but not guilty, and her betrothed has heart enough to understand this.'”

Fleur-de-Marie, more and more moved and saddened by the reading of this letter, trembled at the glance that her father fixed upon her, for a moment, as he emphasized the above last words.

The prince continued: “I will tell you also, my lord, that Jeanne Duport, through the generosity of the marchioness, has been able to be separated from her husband, that wicked man who ate her out of everything and beat her; she has taken her eldest daughter with her, and she keeps a little lace shop, where she sells what she and her children make; their trade prospers. There are nowhere such happy people, and thanks to whom! thanks to you, my lord, to the marchioness, who both know how to give so much, and to give to so good purpose.

“By the way, Germain will write to you as usual, my lord, at the end of the month, on the subject of the Bank for Laborers out of employment, and of gratuitous loans; the reimbursements are seldom behindhand, and we perceive already much good that this spreads in this quarter. Now, at least, poor families can get through the dull season for work without putting their linens and beds in pledge. Then when work returns, you should see with what spirit they put themselves to it; they are so proud that confidence is placed in their work and their probity! And, indeed, it is not only this you should see. Besides, how they bless you for having lent them the wherewithal. Yes, my lord, they bless you, _you_, for although you say you have done nothing in its institution but to nominate Germain for head cashier, and that it is an unknown who has done this good work, we like better to believe that it is to you we owe it; it is more natural. Besides, there is a famous trumpet to repeat on every occasion that it is you we should bless; this trumpet is Madame Pipelet, who repeats to every one that it is only her _prince of tenants_ (excuse me, M. Rudolph, she always calls you so) who can have done this charitable work, and her Darling Alfred is of her opinion. As to him, he is so proud and so pleased with his office of bank porter, that he says that the employment of M. Cabrion would be nothing to him. To end your family of _protégées_, my lord, I will add that Germain has read in the papers that Martial, a planter in Algiers, has been spoken of with great praises for the courage he had shown in repulsing, at the head of his farmers, an attack of thievish Arabs, and that his wife, as intrepid as himself, had been slightly wounded in the side while she was discharging her gun like a real grenadier. From that time, they say in the papers, she has been called ‘Mrs. Rifle.’ Excuse this long letter, my lord, but I thought you would not be sorry to hear from us concerning those whose good Providence you have been. I write to you from the farm at Bouqueval, where we have been since spring with our good mother. Germain leaves every morning for his business, and returns at night. In the autumn we shall go back to live in Paris. How strange it is, M. Rudolph, I, who never loved the country, adore it now. I make it clear to myself: it is because Germain loves it so much. Speaking of the farm, M. Rudolph, you, who undoubtedly know where that good little Goualeuse is–if you have an opportunity, tell her how we always remember her as one of the sweetest and best beings in the world; and that I myself never think of our happiness without saying, since M. Rudolph was also the M. Rudolph of dear Fleur-de-Marie, through his care she must be as happy as we; and this makes my happiness yet more perfect. How I run on! What will you say to me, my lord? But oh! you are so good! And then, you see, it is your fault if I chatter as much and as joyously as Papa Cretu and Ramonette, who no longer dare to rival me in singing. Indeed, M. Rudolph, I can tell you, I put it into their mouths. You will not refuse us one request, will you, my lord? If you give a name to our dear little child, it seems to us it will bring her good fortune, it will be like a happy star for her; believe it, M. Rudolph, sometimes my good Germain and I almost congratulate ourselves for having known so much sorrow, because we feel doubly how happy our child will be not to know what is the misery through which we have passed. If I close by telling, M. Rudolph, that we endeavor to aid poor people here and there, according to our means, it is not to boast of ourselves, but that you may know we do not keep to ourselves alone all the happiness you have given us; beside, we always say to those we succor, ‘It is not we that you must thank and bless, it is M. Rudolph, the best, most generous man that there is in the world; ‘and they take you for a kind of _saint_, if nothing more. Adieu, my lord! believe me, when our little girl shall begin to spell, the first words she shall read will be your name, M. Rudolph, and afterward, those words you caused to be written upon my wedding gift:

“Labor, and wisdom–honor and happiness.”

“With the help of these four words, our tenderness and our care, we hope, my lord, that our child will be always worthy to speak the name of him who has been our good Providence, and that of all the wretched ones he has known. Pardon, my lord, for finishing thus; I have such large tears in my eyes-they are good tears–excuse, if you please–it is not my fault–but I cannot see clearly, so that I write badly.

“I have the honor, my lord, to salute you with as much respect as gratitude, RIGOLETTE GERMAIN.”

“P.S.–Oh! my lord, in reading over my letter, I perceive that I have very often written _M. Rudolph_. You will pardon me? I may hope so? You know well that under one name or another, we respect and bless you the same, my lord.”

“Dear little Rigolette,” said Clémence, softened by the letter which Rudolph had just read. “This simple epistle is full of sensibility.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Rudolph, “a benefit was never better bestowed. Our friend is endowed with an excellent disposition; she has a heart of gold, and our dear child appreciates her as we do,” added he, addressing his daughter. Then, struck with her paleness and emotion, he cried:

“But what is the matter?”

“Alas, what a sad contrast between my position and Rigolette’s. Work and wisdom–honor and happiness–those four words tell all that has happened to her. A laborious and sensible daughter, a beloved wife, a happy mother, an honored woman–such is her destiny–while I–“

“Great God, what are you saying?”

“Pardon, my good father, do not accuse me of ingratitude, but notwithstanding your ineffable tenderness, notwithstanding that of my second mother, notwithstanding your sovereign power, notwithstanding the respect and splendor with which I am surrounded, my shame is incurable. Nothing can annihilate the past–once more, pardon me, my father. I have until now concealed it from you, but the remembrance of my former degradation throws me into despair–it kills me.”

“Clémence, do you hear her?” cried Rudolph, in despair.

“But, my poor child,” said Clémence, taking affectionately the hands of Fleur-de-Marie in her own, “our tenderness, the affection of those who surround you, and which you so well merit, does not all this prove to you that the past should be to you only a vain and bad dream?”

“Oh, fatality, fatality!” resumed Rudolph. “Now I curse my fears and silence; that sad idea, so long rooted in her mind, has made there, unknown to us, dreadful ravages, and it is too late to contend against this deplorable error; alas! how unfortunate I am.”

“Courage, my dear,” said Clémence to Rudolph; “you just now said it is better to know the enemy which threatens us. We now know the cause of our dear child’s sorrow! we shall triumph over it, because we shall have reason, justice, and tenderness on our side.”

“And then at last, because she will see that her affliction, if it were incurable, would render ours incurable also,” replied Rudolph, “for in truth it would be to despair of all justice, human and Divine, if our poor child had only a change of sufferings.”

After a silence of some moments, during which Fleur-de-Marie appeared to be collecting herself, she took with one hand Rudolph’s, with the other Clémence’s, and said to them, with a voice expressive of deep emotion: “Listen to me, my good father, and you also, my loving mother, this day is a solemn one–God has granted, and I thank Him for it, that it should be impossible for me to conceal from you any longer what I feel. In a little time I should, in any event, have made to you the confession you are now about to hear, for all suffering has an end, and concealed as mine has been, I should not have been able to keep silence to you much longer.”

“Oh! I understand all,” cried Rudolph; “there is no longer any hope for her.”

“I hope for the future, my father, and this hope gives me strength to speak to you thus.”

“And what can you hope for the future, my poor child, since your present fate causes you only grief and bitterness?”

“I am going to tell you, my father; but, before all, permit me to recall the past to you, to own to you, before God who hears me, what I have felt up to this time.”

“Speak, speak, we hear you,” said Rudolph, seating himself with Clémence, by Fleur-de-Marie.

“While I remained at Paris, near you, my father,” said Fleur-de-Marie, “I was so happy, oh! so completely happy, that those delicious days would not be too well paid for by years of suffering. You see I have at least known what happiness is.”

“During some days, perhaps?”

“Yes, but what pure and unmingled felicity! Love surrounded me then, as ever, with the tenderest care. I gave myself up without fear to the emotions of gratitude and affection which every moment raised my heart to you. The future dazzled me: a father to adore, a second mother to love doubly, for she had taken the place of my own, whom I had never known–I must own everything; my pride was excited in spite of myself, so much was I honored in belonging to you. Then the few persons of your household who at Paris had occasion to speak to me called me ‘your highness,’ I could not prevent myself from being proud of this title. If I thought then, at times, vaguely of the past, it was to say to myself, ‘I, formerly so humble, the beloved daughter of a sovereign prince who is blessed and revered by every one; I, formerly so miserable, I am enjoying all the splendors of luxury, and of an almost royal existence.’ Alas! my father, my fortune was so unforeseen, your power surrounded me with such a splendid _eclat_ that; I was excusable perhaps in allowing myself to become so blinded.”

“Excusable! nothing was more natural, my poor beloved angel; what wrong was there in being proud of a rank which was your own, of enjoying the advantages of the position to which I had restored you! At that time I recollect you were delightfully gay; how many times have I seen you fall into my arms as if overpowered with happiness, and heard you say to me, with an enchanting accent, ‘My father, it is too much, too much happiness!’ Unfortunately, these are only recollections; they lulled me into a deceitful security, and since then I have not been enough alarmed at the cause of your melancholy.”

“But, tell us then, my child,” asked Clémence, “what has changed into sadness this pure, this legitimate joy which you first felt?”

“Alas! a very sad and entirely unforeseen circumstance.”

“What circumstance?”

“You recollect, my father,” said Fleur-de-Marie, without being able to conquer a shuddering of horror; “you remember the sad scene which preceded our departure from Paris, when your carriage was stopped near the barrier?”

“Yes,” replied Rudolph, sadly. “Brave Slasher, after having again saved my life; he died there before us, saying, ‘Heaven is just; I have killed, they kill me.'”

“Oh well, father, at the moment when this unfortunate man was expiring, do you know whom I saw looking intently at me? Oh, that look, that look! it has pursued me ever since,” added Fleur-de-Marie, shuddering.

“What look? of whom do you speak?” cried Rudolph.

“Of the Ogress of the White Rabbit,” murmured Fleur-de-Marie.

“That monster seen again?–where?”

“You did not perceive her in the tavern where the Slasher breathed his last. She was among the women who surrounded him.”

“Oh, now!” said Rudolph, dejectedly, “I understand: already struck with terror by the murder of the Slasher, you thought there was something providential in this dreadful meeting.”

“It is but too true, my father. At the sight of the Ogress I felt a mortal shudder. It seemed to me that, under her look, my heart, until then radiant with happiness and hope, was suddenly frozen. Yes; to meet this woman at the moment when the Slasher was dying and repeating the words ‘Heaven is just,’ this seemed to me a providential reproof of my proud forgetfulness of the past, which I ought to expiate by humiliation and repentance.”

“But the past was laid upon you; you can answer for it before high heaven! You were constrained, intoxicated, unfortunate child. Once precipitated, in spite of yourself, in this abyss, you could not leave it, notwithstanding your remorse, your terror your despair, thanks to the atrocious indifference of that society of which you were the victim. You saw yourself forever chained in that cavern; the chance which placed you in my path could alone have dragged you from it.”

“And then, my child, as your father has told you, you were the victim, not the accomplice, of the infamy,” cried Clémence.

“But to this infamy I have submitted, my mother,” sadly rejoined Fleur-de-Marie; “nothing can annihilate these horrible recollections. They pursue me incessantly, no longer as formerly, in the midst of the peaceable inhabitants of a farm, or of the degraded women, my companions in Saint Lazare, but they pursue me even to this palace, peopled with the _elite_ of Germany. They pursue me even to the arms of my father, even to the steps of his throne.”

Fleur-de-Marie melted into tears. Rudolph and Clémence remained mute before this frightful expression of invincible remorse. They, too wept, for they felt the powerlessness of their consolations.

“Since then,” resumed Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears, “every moment of the day I say to myself, with bitter shame, ‘I am honored, I am revered; the most eminent and most venerable surround me with respect; in sight of the whole court, the sister of an emperor has deigned to fasten the bandeau upon my head; yet I had lived in the mud of the city-have been spoken to familiarly by thieves and assassins!’ Oh, father, forgive me! but the more my position is elevated, the more I have been struck with the profound degradation into which I had fallen. At each new homage which is rendered me, I feel myself guilty of a profanation. Think of it, oh, heaven! after having been what _I have been_ to suffer old men to bow before me–to suffer noble young women, women justly respected, to feel themselves flattered to approach me–to suffer finally, that princesses, doubly august by age and their sacerdotal character should heap upon me favors and praises, is not this impious and sacrilegious? And then, if you knew, my father, what I have suffered–what I still suffer every day, in saying, ‘If it should please God that the past should be known, with what merited scorn would she be treated who is now elevated so high. What a just–what a frightful punishment!'”

“But, unfortunate one, my wife and I, who know the past, are worthy of our rank, and we love, we adore you.”

“You have for me the blind tenderness of a father and a mother.”

“And all the good you have done since your abode here–this beautiful and holy institution, this asylum opened by you to orphans and poor abandoned girls–those admirable cares of intelligence and devotion with which you watch over them–you insisting that they call themselves _your sisters_–wishing that they should call you so, since in fact you treat them as such, is this nothing to atone for faults which were not your own? Finally, the affection which is shown for you by the worthy abbess of Saint Hermangilda, who did not know you till after your arrival here–do you not owe it altogether to the elevation of your mind, the beauty of your soul, and your sincere piety?”

“While the praises from the abbess are addressed only to my present conduct, I enjoy them without scruple, my father; but when she quotes my example to the noble ladies who are engaged in religious offices in the abbey–when they see in me a model of all the virtues, I am ready to die of confusion, as if I were the accomplice of a wicked falsehood.”

After a long silence, Rudolph resumed, with deep dejection: “I see–I must despair of persuading you: reason is weak when opposed to a conviction, the more firm because it has its source in a generous and elevated sentiment. Since every moment you throw back a look on the past, the contrast between these remembrances and your present position must be indeed a continual punishment to you. Pardon me in turn, poor child.”

“You, my good father, ask pardon of me, for what? Good heaven, what?”

“For not having foreseen your susceptibility. From the exceeding delicacy of your heart, I ought to have divined it; and yet, what could I do? It was my duty solemnly to acknowledge you as my daughter. Then this respect, of which the homage is so painful to you, comes of necessity to surround you. Yes; but I was wrong in one point. I have been, do you see, too proud of you–I have wished too much to enjoy the charms of your beauty–those charms of the mind which surprised every one who approached you. I ought to have hidden my treasure–to have lived almost in retirement with Clémence and you; I should have renounced these _fêtes_–these numerous receptions, at which I loved so much to see you shine, thinking, foolishly, to elevate you so high–so high, that the past would disappear entirely from your eyes. But, alas! the reverse has taken place, and, as you have told me, the more elevated you have been, the deeper and more dark has seemed the abyss from which I drew you. Yet once again it is my fault. I meant, however, to do right, but I was mistaken,” said Rudolph, drying his eyes, “but I was mistaken; and then I supposed myself pardoned too soon. The vengeance of God was not satisfied; it still pursues me in the unhappiness of my daughter!”

A discreet knock at the door of the saloon which adjoined the oratory of Fleur-de-Marie interrupted this sad conversation.

Rudolph rose, and half opened the door. He saw Murphy, who said, “I ask pardon of your royal highness for disturbing you, but a courier from Prince Herkausen-Oldenzaal has just brought a letter, which, he says, is very important, and must be delivered immediately to your royal highness.”

“Thank you, my good Murphy; do not go away,” said Rudolph, with a sigh; “presently I shall want to talk with you.”

And the prince, having shut the door, remained a moment in the saloon, to read the letter which Murphy had just brought him. It was in these words:

“My Lord,–May I hope that the ties of relationship which attach me to your royal highness, and the friendship with which you have always deigned to honor me, will excuse me for a proceeding which might be considered very rash, if it was not imposed by the conscience of an honest man. It is fifteen months, my lord, since you returned from France, bringing with you a daughter, so much the more beloved because you had thought her forever lost, while, on the contrary, she had never quitted her mother, whom you married at Paris _in extremis_, in order to legitimatize the birth of the Princess Amelia, who is thus the equal of the other princesses of the Germanic Confederation. Her birth is, therefore, sovereign, her beauty is incomparable, her heart is as worthy of her birth as her mind is worthy of her beauty, as my sister, the Abbess of Saint Hermangilda, has written me. The abbess, as you know, has often the honor of seeing this well-beloved daughter of your royal highness. During the time which my son passed at Gerolstein he saw, almost every day, the Princess Amelia; he loves her desperately, but he has always concealed this passion. I have thought it my duty, my lord, to inform you of this circumstance. You have deigned, as a father, to receive my son, and have invited him to the bosom of your family, and to live in that intimacy which was so precious to him. I should fail in loyalty to your highness if I dissimulated a circumstance which modified the reception which was reserved for my son. I know that it would be madness in us to dare hope to ally ourselves more nearly to the family of your royal highness. I know that the daughter of whom you have so good a right to be proud may aspire to a higher destiny. But I know, also, that you are the most tender of fathers, and that if you ever judged my son worthy of belonging to you, and of contributing to the happiness of the Princess Amelia, you would not be deterred by the grave disproportion which places such a fortune beyond our hopes. It is not for me to make a eulogium of Henry, my lord, but I appeal to the encouragement and to the praise you have so often condescended to bestow on him. I dare not and I cannot say more to you, my lord; my emotion is too profound. Whatever may be your determination, believe that we Shall submit to it with respect, and that I shall be always faithful to the sentiments of the most profound devotion with which I have the honor to be, your royal highness’s most humble and obedient servant,

GUSTAVUS PAUL,
“Prince of Herkausen-Oldenzaal.”

CHAPTER V

After reading the prince’s letter, Rudolph remained for some time sad and thoughtful: a ray of hope then lighted up his face; he returned to his daughter, on whom Clémence was vainly lavishing the most tender consolations.

“My child, you have yourself said it was heaven’s will that this day should he one of solemn explanations.” said Rudolph to Fleur-de-Marie; “I did not anticipate a new and grave circumstance which was to justify your words.”

“To what does it refer, father?”

“My dear, what is it?”

“New causes of fear!”

“For you.”

“For me?”

“You have confessed to us but half your troubles, my poor child.”

“Be so kind as to explain yourself, my father,” said Fleur-de-Marie, blushing.

“Now I can do it; I could not sooner, not knowing how much you despaired of your fate. Listen, my beloved daughter! You believe yourself, or rather, you are, very unhappy. When, at the beginning of our conversation, you spoke to me of the hopes which remained to you, I understood–my heart was broken, for I was to part with you forever–that I was to see you shut yourself up in a cloister–to see you descend living to a tomb. Is it your wish to enter a convent?”

“Father!”

“My child, is this true?”

“Yes, if you will permit me to do it,” replied Fleur-de-Marie, with a stifled voice.

“Leave us!” cried Clémence.

“The Abbey of Saint Hermangilda is very near Gerolstein. I shall often see you and father.”

“Do you consider that such vows are eternal, my dear child? you are only eighteen years old, and perhaps some day–“

“Oh, I shall never repent the resolution I have taken. I shall never find repose and forgetfulness but in the solitude of the cloister, if you, my father, and you my second mother, continue your affection to me.”

“The duties and consolations of a religious life might, indeed,” said Rudolph, “if they could not heal, at least calm, the sorrows of your poor depressed and distracted spirit. And though half the happiness of my life is the forfeit, I may perhaps approve your resolution. I know what you suffer, and I do not say that renouncing the world may not be the fatally logical end of your sorrowful existence.”

“What, you also, Rudolph?” cried Clémence.

“Permit me, my dear, to express all my thoughts,” replied Rudolph. Then, addressing his daughter, “But before taking this last determination, we must examine if there may not be other prospects for the future, more agreeable to your wishes and ours. In this case, I should not regard any sacrifice, if I could secure you such a future existence.”

Fleur-de-Marie and Clémence started with surprise. Rudolph continued, fixing his eyes on his daughter, “What do you think of your cousin Henry?” After a moment of hesitation, she threw herself weeping into the arms of the prince.

“You love him, my poor child?”

“You never asked me, father,” replied Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears.

“My dear, we were not deceived,” said Clémence.

“So you love him,” added Rudolph, taking his daughter’s hands in his own, “you love him well, my dear child?”

“Oh, if you knew,” replied Fleur-de-Marie, “how much it has cost me to hide from you the sentiment as soon as I discovered it in my heart–alas, at the least question from you, I should have owned everything. But shame restrained me, and would always have restrained me.”

“And do you think that Henry knows your love for him?” said Rudolph.

“Great Heaven, father, I do not think so,” cried Fleur-de-Marie, in terror.

“And do you think he loves you?”

“No, father, no–oh, I hope not–he would suffer too much.”

“And how did this love come, my beloved angel?”

“Alas, almost without my knowing it-you remember the picture of the page?”

“Which is in the apartment of the Abbess of Saint Hermangilda–it was Henry’s portrait.”

“Yes, dear father, believing this to be a painting of another age, one day in your presence, I did not conceal from the superior that I was struck with the beauty of this portrait. You said to me then, in jest, that the picture represented one of our relations of the olden time, who, when very young, had displayed great courage and excellent qualities. The grace of this figure, joined to what you told me of the noble character of this relative, added yet to my first impression. From that day, I often took pleasure in recalling this portrait, and that without the least scruple, believing that it belonged to one of my cousins long since dead. Little by little I habituated myself to these gentle thoughts, knowing that it was not permitted me to love on this earth,” added Fleur-de-Marie with a heart-rending expression, and her tears bursting forth anew. “I gave to these romantic reveries a sort of melancholy interest, half smiles, half tears. I looked upon the pretty page of the past time as a lover beyond the grave, whom I should perhaps one day meet in eternity. It seemed to me that such a love was alone worthy of a heart which belonged entirely to you, my father. But pardon me these sad, childish imaginations.”

“Nothing can be more touching, on the contrary, poor child,” said Clémence.

“Now,” replied Rudolph, “I understand why you one day reproached me with an air of regret for having deceived you about the picture.”

“Alas, yes, dear father. Judge of my confusion when, afterward, the superior informed me that this picture was that of her nephew, one of our relations. Then my trouble was extreme; I endeavored to forget my first impressions, but the more I endeavored, the more they became rooted in my heart, in consequence even of the perseverance of my efforts. Unfortunately, yet, I often hear you, dear father, praising the heart, the mind, the character of Prince Henry.”

“You already loved him, my dear child, even when you had as yet seen only his portrait, and heard of his rare qualities!”

“Without loving him, I felt toward him an attraction, for which I bitterly reproached myself. But I consoled myself by thinking that no one in the world would know this sad secret which covered me with shame in mine own eyes. To dare to love, me, me, and then not to be contented with your tenderness and that of my second mother! Did I not owe to you enough to employ all my strength, all the resources of my heart, in loving you both? Oh, believe me, among the reproaches I made myself, these last were the most painful. Finally, I saw my cousin for the first time at that grand fête you gave to the Archduchess Sophia. Prince Henry resembled his portrait in such a striking manner, that I recognized him immediately. The same evening, dear father, you presented my cousin to me, authorizing between us the intimacy which our relationship permitted.”

“And soon you loved each other?”

“Ah, my father, he expressed his respect, his attachment, his admiration, with so much eloquence; you had yourself told me so much good of him.”

“He deserved it; there is no more elevated character; there is no better or braver heart.”

“Your pardon, dear father, do not praise him so much; I am already so unhappy.”

“And I must convince you of all the rare qualities of your cousin. What I say surprises you; I understand it, my child–go on.”

“I felt the danger that I incurred in seeing Prince Henry every day, and yet I could not withdraw myself from the danger. Notwithstanding my blind confidence in you, dear father, I dared not express my fears to you. I directed all my courage to concealing my love; however, I own to you, dear father, notwithstanding my remorse, often in this fraternal intimacy of every day, forgetting the past, I felt gleams of happiness till then unknown to me, but followed soon, alas! by dark despair, when I again fell under the influence of my sad recollections. For, alas! if they pursued me in the midst of the homage and respect of persons almost indifferent to me, judge, judge, dear father, of my tortures when Prince Henry lavished on me the most delicate praises, followed me with such frank and pious adoration; putting, as he said, the brotherly attachment that he felt for me under the holy protection of his mother, whom he lost when he was Very young. I endeavored to merit this sweet name of sister, which he bestowed upon me, by advising my cousin respecting his future prospects, according to my weak knowledge; by interesting myself in all which related to him; by promising always to ask of you such assistance for him as you might be able to give. But often, also, what torments have I felt, how I have restrained my tears when, by chance, Prince Henry interrogated me about my infancy, my early youth! to deceive–always to deceive, always to fear, always to lie, always to tremble, before the inexorable look of one’s judge. Oh! my father, I was guilty, I know it; I had no right to love; but I expiated this sad love by many bitter sorrows. What shall I say to you? The departure of the Prince Henry, in causing me a new and violent chagrin, enlightened me–I saw that I loved him more than I imagined. Thus,” added Fleur-de-Marie, with deep dejection, and as if this confession had exhausted her strength, “I should have soon made you this avowal, for this fatal love has filled up the measure of my sufferings. Say, now that you know all, my father, is there any future prospect for me but that of the cloister?”

“There is another, my child; yes, and this future is as sweet, as smiling, as happy, as the other is dark and gloomy.”

“What do you say, dear father?”

“Hear me in my turn. You must feel that I love you too much, that my tenderness is too clear-sighted, to have allowed your love and that of Henry to have escaped me; at the end of a few days I was certain that he loved you, more even, perhaps, than you loved him.”

“My father, no, no; it is impossible; he does not love me at this time.”

“He loves you, I tell you; he loves you passionately, to madness, almost.”

“Oh, heaven!”

“Listen further. When I told you that pleasantry about the picture, I did not know that Henry was about to visit his aunt at Gerolstein. When he came I yielded to the inclination I have always felt toward him; I invited him to come and see us often. I had before always treated him like my son; I changed in no degree my manner toward him. At the end of some days, Clémence and myself no longer doubted the regard you felt for each other. If your position was painful, my poor child, mine was not less so; it was extremely delicate. As a father, knowing the rare and excellent qualities of Henry, I could not but be profoundly happy at your attachment, for I could never have dreamed of a husband more worthy of you.”

“Ah! dear father, pity, pity!”

“But, as a man of honor, I thought of the sad past life of my child. Thus, far from encouraging the hopes of Henry, I gave him, in several conversations, advice absolutely contradictory from what he would have expected from me if I had thought of giving him your hand. In such a situation, one so delicate, as a father and a man of honor, it was incumbent on me to keep a rigorous neutrality, not to encourage the love of your cousin, but to treat him with the same affability as formerly. You have been hitherto so unhappy, my beloved child, that seeing you, so to speak, reviving under the impulse of this noble and pure love, I could not for anything in the world have deprived you of its divine and rare joys. Admitting even that this love must afterward be broken off, you would at least have known some days of innocent happiness, and then, finally, this love might secure your future repose.”

“My repose?”

“Listen again. The father of Henry, Prince Paul, has just written to me–here is his letter. Though he regards this alliance as an unhoped-for favor, he asks of me your hand for his son, who, he says, feels for you the most respectful, the most passionate love.”

“Oh!” said Fleur-de-Marie, hiding her face in her hands, “I might have been so happy!”

“Courage, my well-beloved daughter; if you wish it, this happiness is yours,” cried Rudolph, tenderly.

“Oh! never, never; do you forget?”

“I forget nothing; but if to-morrow you enter the convent, riot only I lose you forever, but you quit me for a life of tears and austerity. Oh! to _lose_ you! to lose _you_! Let me at least know that you are happy, and married to the man you love and who adores you.”

“Married to him! Me, dear father!”

“Yes; but on condition that, immediately after your marriage, contracted here at night, without other witnesses than Murphy for you and Baron Graun for Henry, you shall both go to some tranquil retreat in Switzerland or Italy, to live unknown as wealthy citizens. Now, my beloved daughter, do you know why I resign myself to a separation from you? Do you know why I desire Henry to quit his title when he is out of Germany. It is because I am sure that, in the midst of a solitary happiness, concentrated in an existence deprived of all display, little by little you will forget this odious past, which is especially painful to you because it forms such a bitter contrast to the ceremonious homage with which you are constantly surrounded.”

“Rudolph is right,” cried Clémence: “alone with Henry, continually happy with his happiness and your own, you will no longer have time to think, my dear child, of your former sorrows.”

“Then, as it will be impossible for me to be long without seeing you, every year Clémence and I will go to visit you.”

“And some day, when the wound of which you suffer, poor little angel, shall be healed, when you shall have found forgetfulness in happiness, and this moment will come sooner than you think, you will return to us, never to leave us.”

“Forgetfulness in happiness,” murmured Fleur-de-Marie, who, in spite of herself, was soothed by this enchanting vision.

“Yes, yes, my child,” replied Clémence, “when at every moment of the day you see yourself blessed, respected, adored by the husband of your choice, by the man whose noble and generous heart your father has extolled to you a thousand times, shall you have leisure to think of the past, and even if you should think of it, why should the past sadden you? why should it prevent you from believing in the radiant felicity of your husband?”

“Finally it is true, for tell me, my child,” replied Rudolph, who could scarcely restrain his tears at seeing that his daughter hesitated, “adored by your husband, when you shall have the knowledge and the proof of the happiness which he owes to you, what reproaches can you make yourself?”

“Father,” said Fleur-de-Marie, forgetting the past for this ineffable hope, “can so much happiness be reserved for me?”

“Ah, I was sure of it,” cried Rudolph, in an ecstasy of triumphant joy; “is there a father who wishes it, who cannot restore happiness to an adored child?”

“She merits so much that we ought to be heard, my friend,” said Clémence, sharing the transport of her husband.

“To marry Henry, and some day to pass my whole life between him, my second mother, and my father,” replied Fleur-de-Marie, yielding more and more to the sweet intoxication of her thoughts.

“Yes, my beloved angel, we shall all be happy. I will reply to Henry’s father that I consent to the marriage,” cried Rudolph, pressing Fleur-de Marie in his arms with indescribable emotion. “Take courage, our separation will be short; the new duties which your marriage will impose upon you will confirm your steps still more in the path of forgetfulness and felicity in which you will henceforth tread, for finally, if you should one day be a mother, it would not be only for yourself that it would be necessary you should be happy.”

“Ah!” cried Fleur-de-Marie, with a heart-rending cry, for this word _mother_ awoke her from the enchanting dream which was lulling her. “Mother? me!–Oh, never! I am unworthy that holy name; I should die with shame before my child, if I had not died with shame before its father, in making him the avowal of the past.”

“What does she say, gracious heaven!” cried Rudolph, stunned by the abrupt change.

“I a mother!” resumed Fleur-de-Marie, with bitter despair, “I respected, I blessed by an innocent and pure child, I, formerly the object of everybody’s scorn, I profane thus the sacred name of mother? Oh, never! miserable thing that I was to allow myself to be drawn away to an unworthy hope!”

“My daughter, listen to me, in pity.”

Fleur-de-Marie stood upright, pale, and beautiful, in the majesty of incurable misfortune.

“My father, we forget that before marrying me Prince Henry must know my past life.”

“I have not forgotten it,” cried Rudolph. “He must know all, he shall know all.”

“And would you not rather see me die than see me so degraded in his eyes?”

“But he shall also know what an irresistible fatality plunged you into the abyss. He shall know your restoration.”

“And he will finally feel,” replied Clémence, pressing Fleur-de-Marie in her arms, “that when I call you my daughter, he may without shame call you his wife!”

“And I, mother, I love Prince Henry too much, I esteem him too much, ever to give him a hand which has been touched by the ruffians of the city.”

* * * * *

A short time after this sad scene, the “Official Gazette” of Gerolstein contained the following announcement:

“Yesterday took place, at the Grand-Ducal Abbey of Saint Hermangilda, in presence of his royal highness the reigning grand duke and all the court, the taking of the veil by the very high and most puissant princess, her Royal Highness Amelia of Gerolstein. The novice was received by the most illustrious and most reverend Lord Charles Maximilian, Archbishop-Duke of Oppenheim; Lord Hannibal, Andre Montano, of the Princes of Delpha, Bishop of Ceuta _in partibus infidelium_ and apostolic nuncio, gave the salutation and the Papal benediction. The sermon was pronounced by the most reverend Lord Peter von Asfeld, Canon of the Chapter of Cologne, Count of the Holy Roman Empire–VENI CREATOR OPTIME.”

CHAPTER VI

THE PROFESSION.

_Rudolph to Clémence._

GEROLSTEIN, January 12th, 1842. [Footnote: About six months have passed since Fleur-de-Marie entered St. Hermangilda Abbey as a novice.]

In assuring me to-day of the complete restoration of your father’s health, my dear, you give me reason to hope that you can, by the end of the week, bring him back here. I foresaw that in the residence at Rosenfeld, situated in the midst of forests, he would be exposed, notwithstanding all possible precaution, to the severity of our cold; unfortunately, his passion for hunting rendered our advice useless. I conjure you, Clémence, as soon as your father can bear the motion of the carriage, to set out immediately, quit that wild country and wild dwelling, only habitable for those old Germans of iron frame whose race has disappeared. I fear lest you should also fall sick: the fatigues of this hurried journey, the anxiety which preyed upon you until you reached your father, all these causes must have affected you sadly. Why could I not accompany you? Clémence, I beg of you, be not imprudent; I know how bold and how devoted you are. I know how anxiously you will attend to your father; but he will be as much in despair as myself if your health should be impaired by this journey. I deplore doubly the illness of the count, for it takes you from me at a moment when I could have drawn deeply up from the fountain of consolation of your tenderness. The ceremony of the profession of our poor child is fixed for to-morrow–to-morrow, the 13th of January, fatal epoch. It was upon the 13th of January that I drew the sword against my father. Ah! my friend, I too soon thought myself forgiven. The intoxicating hope of passing my life with you and my daughter made me forget that it was not myself, but that it was she who had been punished thus far, and that my punishment was still to come. And it did come–when, six months since, the unhappy one unveiled to us the double torment of her heart; “her incurable shame at the past, added to her unhappy love for Henry.” These two bitter and burning sensations, the one heightened by the other by a fatal logic, caused her to take up the unconquerable resolution to take the veil. You know, my dear friend, how, in combating this design with all the strength of our adoration for her, we could not deny that her worthy and courageous conduct should have been ours. How could we answer those terrible words? I love Prince Henry too well to give him a hand which has been touched by the ruffians of the city.”

She was obliged to sacrifice herself to her noble scruples, to the ineffaceable remembrance of her shame; she has done it valiantly; she has renounced the splendors of the world; she has descended from the steps of a throne to kneel, clothed in sackcloth, upon the pavement of a church; she crossed her hands upon her breast, bowed her angelic head, and her beautiful fair locks, which I loved so much, and which I preserve as a treasure, fell, cut off by the sharp iron. Oh! my friend, you know our heart-rending emotion at this mournful and solemn moment; this emotion is, even now, as poignant as at the time. In writing these words to you, I weep like a child.

* * * * *

I saw her this morning; although she seemed to me less pale than usual, and declares she does not suffer, her health makes me anxious. Alas! when, under the veil and band which surround her noble forehead, I see her attenuated features, which have the cold whiteness of marble, and which make her large blue eyes seem larger still, I cannot help dreaming over the gentle and pure splendor with which her beauty sparkled at our marriage. Never did she look so charming. Our happiness seemed to radiate from her beautiful countenance. As I told you, I saw her this morning; she has not been informed that Princess Juliana voluntarily resigns in her favor the dignity of abbess; to-morrow, therefore, on the day of her profession, our child will be elected abbess, as there is a unanimous desire among the noble ladies of the community to confer upon her this dignity. Since the beginning of her novitiate, there has been but one opinion of her piety, charity, and religious exactness in fulfilling all the duties of her order, whose austerities she exaggerates most unfortunately. She has exercised in this convent the influence which she exercises everywhere without attempting to do so, and in ignorance of the fact which increases her power. Her conversation this morning confirmed my doubts. She has not found in the solitude of the cloister, and in the severe practice of monastic duties, repose and forgetfulness. She congratulated herself, however, upon her resolution, which she considers the accomplishment of an imperious duty; but she suffers continually, for she is not formed for those mystical contemplations, in the midst of which certain people, forgetting all affection, all earthly remembrances, are lost in ascetic delights. No; Fleur-de-Marie believes, prays, submits herself to the rigorous and harsh observance of her order; she pours out the most evangelical consolations, the most humble cares upon the poor sick women who are taken care of in the hospital of the abbey. She has even refused the assistance of a lay sister for the moderate care of that cold and bare cell where we remarked, with such sad astonishment, you remember, my dear friend, the dried branches of her little rose-bush, suspended beneath her crucifix. She is, indeed, the cherished example, the venerated model of the community. But she confessed to me this morning, while bitterly reproaching herself for this weakness, that she is not so much absorbed by the duties and austerities of a religious life as to prevent the past from constantly appearing before her, not only as it was, but as it might have been.

“I blame myself for it, my father,” said she to me, with that calm and gentle resignation which you know belongs to her, “I blame myself, but I cannot help often thinking that if God had spared me the degradation which has withered forever my future life, I might have lived always near you, beloved by the husband of your choice, In spite of myself, my life is divided between these grievous regrets and the frightful recollections of the city; in vain I pray to God to free me from these frightful recollections, to fill my heart alone with pious love for Him, with holy hopes; in short, to take me entirely to Himself, since I wish to give myself entirely to Him. He does not grant my prayers–undoubtedly because earthly thoughts render me unworthy to enter into communion with Him.”

“But then,” cried I, seized with a foolish glimmering of hope, “there is still time–to day your novitiate ends; but it is not until to morrow that your solemn profession will take place; you are still free–renounce this rude and austere life, which does not afford you the consolation you expected; if you must suffer, come and suffer in our arms: let our tenderness assuage your sorrows.”

Shaking sadly her head, she answered me, with that inflexible justness of reasoning which has so often struck us. “It is true, my dear father, the solitude of this cloister is sad for me–for me, already accustomed to your kindness every moment. It is true, I am pursued with bitter regrets and grievous recollections; but, at least, I have the consciousness of fulfilling a duty; I understand, I know, that everywhere but here I should be out of place; I should again be in that cruelly false position in which I have already suffered so much both for myself and for you–for I, too, am proud. Your daughter shall be such as she ought to be; shall do what she ought to do; shall suffer what she ought to suffer. To-morrow all will know from what a slough you have rescued me; in seeing the repentant at the foot of the cross, they will, perhaps, pardon the past in consideration of my present humility. It would not be so, my dear father, if they saw me, as a few months ago, shining in the midst of the splendors of your court. Besides, to satisfy the just and severe demands of the world, will satisfy myself; and I am grateful to God, with all the power of my soul, when I think that _He alone_ can offer to your daughter an asylum and position worthy of her and of you; a position, in short, which shall not form a sad contrast to my former degradation, and in which I can deserve the only respect which is due to me, that which is granted to repentance and sincere humility.” Alas! Clémence, what could I reply to that? Fatality! Fatality! for this unfortunate child is endowed, so to speak, with an inexorable logic in all that concerns the sensitiveness of the heart and one’s honor. With such a mind and soul, one cannot think of palliating or hiding false positions–we must suffer the imperious consequences. I left her, as usual, with a breaking heart. Without founding the least hope upon this interview, which will be the last before her profession, I said to myself “To-day she might renounce the cloister.” But you see, my dear friend, her will is irrevocable, and I must indeed agree with her, and repeat her words:

“God alone can offer her an asylum and a position worthy of her and of me.”

Once more, her resolution is admirably logical, and suited to the position in society in which we are placed. With Fleur-de-Marie’s exquisite sensibility, no other condition was possible for her. But I have often told you, my friend, if sacred duties, more sacred still than those of family, did not detain me in the midst of a people who love me, and to whom I stand, in a slight degree, in the place of Providence, I should go away with you, my daughter, Henry, and Murphy, to live happily and obscurely in some unknown retreat. Then, far from the imperious laws of a society which is powerless to cure the evils which it has caused, we might hare forced this unhappy child into happiness and forgetfulness. While here, in the midst of splendor, of ceremony, as restrained as this, it was impossible. But still, once more, fatality! fatality! I cannot abdicate my power without compromising the happiness of this people, who rely upon me. Brave and worthy people! how little do they know how much their happiness costs me! Adieu, a tender adieu, my beloved Clémence. It is a consolation to me to see you as afflicted as myself at the fate of my child, for thus I can say _our_ sorrow, and there is no egotism in my suffering. Sometimes I ask myself, with fear, what would become of me without you, in the midst of such grievous circumstances? Often these thoughts make me still more sad at Fleur-de-Marie’s fate; for you remain to me, you. But for her who is there? Adieu, a sad adieu, my dear, good angel of unhappy days. Come back soon; this absence weighs upon you as well as me. My life and love to you! soul and heart to you! R.

I send you this letter by a courier; in case of any unexpected change, I will despatch to you another immediately after the sad ceremony. A thousand wishes and hopes to your father for the establishment of his health. I forgot to give you intelligence of poor Henry; his state of health is better, and no longer gives us such anxiety. His excellent father, himself ill, has recovered strength to take care of Henry, to watch over him; a miracle of paternal love–which does not astonish us–the rest of us.

Thus, my dear friend, to-morrow–to-morrow–fatal and unpropitious day for me.

Yours forever, R.

Abbey of St. Hermangilda, 4 o’clock in the morning.

Calm yourself, dear Clémence, calm yourself; although the hour in which I write this letter, and the place whence it is dated, might alarm you. Thanks to Heaven, the danger is past, but the crisis was terrible. Yesterday, after having written to you, agitated by a fatal presentiment, in recalling to myself the paleness and appearance of suffering in my daughter, the state of weakness in which she had languished for some time, remembering, in short, that she was to pass in prayer, in a large, icy-cold church, almost all the night before her profession, I sent Murphy and David to the abbey to ask the Princess Juliana to permit them to remain, until to-morrow, in the outer house which Henry usually inhabited. Thus, my daughter could have prompt assistance, _and_ I could have intelligence if, as I feared, strength should fail her to accomplish this rigorous, I will not say cruel, obligation to remain a January night in prayer in the excessive cold. I had also written to Fleur-de-Marie, that while I respected the exercise of her religious duties, I begged her to take care of her health, and to pass the evening in prayer in her cell, and not in the church. This is the letter she sent in reply.

“My dear father, I thank you deeply, and with all my heart, for this new and tender proof of your interest; have no anxiety, I believe I am in the way of accomplishing my duty. Your daughter, my dear father, can show neither fear nor weakness. Such are the rules; I must conform to them. If some physical sufferings result from it, with joy do I offer them to God! You will approve it, I hope; you, who have always practiced renunciation and duty with so much courage. Farewell, my dear father. I will not say I am going to pray for you, when I pray to God, I always pray for you, for it is impossible to prevent mingling you with the divinity I implore; you have been to me on earth what God, if I deserve it, will be to me in heaven.

“Deign this evening to bless in thought your daughter, my dear father. To-morrow she will be the bride of the Lord.

“She kisses your hand with pious respect.

“SISTER AMELIA.”

This letter, which I could not read without shedding tears, reassured me, however, but little; I, too, must pass a sad evening. Night having come, I went to shut myself up in the pavilion which I have had built not far from the monument erected to my father’s memory, in expiation of that fatal night.

Toward one o’clock in the morning, I heard Murphy’s voice; I shuddered with alarm; he had come in haste from the convent. How shall I tell you, my friend? As I had foreseen, the unfortunate child, notwithstanding her courage and strong will, had not strength to accomplish entirely the barbarous custom, which it had been Impossible for the Princess Juliana to dispense with, as the rules on this subject were precise. At eight o’clock in the evening, Fleur-de-Marie kneeled down on the stone pavement in the church. Until midnight she continued praying. But at this hour, overcome by her weakness, the horrible cold, and her emotion, for she wept long and silently, she fainted. Two nuns, who by the Princess Juliana’s order had watched with her, took her up, and carried her to her cell.

David was immediately called. Murphy came in a carriage to seek me; I flew to the convent; I was received by Princess Juliana. She told me that David feared the sight of me would make too great an impression upon my daughter; that her fainting, from which she had recovered, presented nothing very alarming, having been only caused by great weakness. At first a horrible dread seized me. I feared they wished to hide from me some great misfortune, or, at least, to prepare me to hear it; but the superior said to me, “I assure you, my lord, Princess Amelia is out of danger, a simple cordial which Dr. David gave her has restored her strength.” I could not doubt what the abbess affirmed; I believed her, and awaited intelligence from my daughter with sad impatience.

At the end of a quarter of an hour David returned. Thanks to Heaven, she was better; and she had desired to continue her watching and prayers in the church, consenting only to kneel upon a cushion. And as I resisted, and was indignant that the superior should have granted her request, adding that I formally opposed myself to it, he replied to me that it would have been dangerous to contradict the wishes of my daughter at a time when she was under the influence of a strong nervous emotion; and, besides, he had agreed with Princess Juliana that the poor child should quit the church at the hour of matins to take a little repose, and prepare for the ceremony.

“She is now in church, then?” said I to him.

“Yes, my lord, but in half an hour she will have quitted it.”

I caused myself to be conducted to the north gallery, from which the whole choir of the church can be seen. There, in the midst of the darkness of this vast church, only illuminated by the pale light of the lamp from the chancel, I saw her near the grating on her knees, her hands joined, and praying with fervor. I also knelt, and thought of my child.

Three o’clock struck; two sisters who were seated, but who had not moved their eyes from her, went and whispered to her. In a few moments she made a sign, got up, and crossed the church with a firm step–although, my friend, when she passed under the lamp, her countenance appeared to me as white as the long veil which floated around her.

I also went out of the gallery, intending first to go to meet her, but feared a new emotion would prevent her from taking a few moments’ repose. I sent David to learn how she was; he came back to tell me she felt better, and intended to try to sleep a little. I remained at the abbey, for the ceremony which will take place to-morrow.

I think now, my friend, it is useless to send you this incomplete letter. I shall finish it to-morrow by relating the events of that sad day. Until then farewell, my friend. I am worn out with grief. Pity me.

CHAPTER VII

THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY.

_Rudolph to Clémence._

Thirteenth of January–an anniversary now doubly dreadful! My friend, we are losing her forever! All is over–all! Listen to the story! It is indeed true, there is an atrocious pleasure in relating a horrible grief.

Yesterday I bewailed the chance which retained you away from me. To-day, Clémence, I congratulate myself that you are not here; you would suffer too much. This morning–I had hardly slept through the night–I was awakened by the sound of the bells; I groaned with terror; it seemed to me funereal, a funereal knell. In fact, my daughter is dead to us–dead: do you hear, Clémence, from this day you must begin to wear mourning for her in your heart–in your heart, so filled with maternal affection for her. Is our child buried under the marble of a tomb or under the vaults of a cloister–for us, what is the difference? From this day, do you understand, Clémence, we must regard her as dead. Besides, she is so very weak; her health, impaired by so much sorrow, by so many shocks, is so feeble. Why not that other death, still more complete? Fate is not weary. And then, besides, after my letter yesterday, you may understand that it would perhaps be more happy for her if she were dead.

DEAD! The four letters have a singular appearance, do you not think so? when one writes them in reference to an idolized daughter, a daughter so fair, so charming, of such angelic goodness, scarcely eighteen, and yet dead to the world! Indeed, for us and for her, why vegetate in suffering in the gloomy tranquillity of this cloister! Of what importance that she lives, if she is lost to us–she might have loved life so much–what a fatality has attended her! What I am saying is horrible! there is a barbarous egotism in paternal love. At noon her profession took place with solemn pomp. Hidden behind the curtains of our gallery, I was present at it. I felt, over again, but with still more intensity, all those poignant emotions which we suffered at her novitiate.

A singular thing, she is adored: it is generally believed that she is drawn toward a religious life by an irresistible call; her profession might be looked upon as a happy event for her, and yet, on the contrary, an overpowering sadness weighs down the whole assembly. At the end of the church, among the people, I saw two officers of my guard, old hardy soldiers, hold down their heads and weep. There seemed to be in the act a sad presentiment. If there was foundation for it, it has been but half realized. The profession terminated, our child was brought back into the hall of the chapter, where the nomination of the new abbess was to take place. Thanks to my privilege as sovereign, I went into this hall to await the return of Fleur-de-Marie. She soon entered. Her emotion, her weakness was so great, that two sisters supported her. I was alarmed, less even by her paleness and the deep alteration of her features than by the expression of her smile: it seemed to me marked by a sort of secret satisfaction. Clémence, I say to you, perhaps soon we shall need all our courage–much courage-I _feel_ so to speak, _within me_ that our child is struck with death! After all, her life would be so unhappy. Here is the second time that, in thinking the death of my daughter possible, I have said that death would put an end to her cruel existence. This idea is a horrible symptom; but if sorrow must strike us, it is better to be prepared, is it not, Clémence? To prepare one’s self for such a misfortune, to taste little by little beforehand that slow anguish, it is an unheard-of refinement of grief. It is a thousand times more dreadful than to have the blow fall unexpectedly; at least the stupor, the annihilation would spare one a part of this cutting anguish. But the customs of compassion prescribe to us a _preparation_. Probably I should never act otherwise myself, my poor friend, if I had to acquaint you with the sad event of which I speak to you. Thus be alarmed, if you observe that I speak to you of _her_ with the delicacy, the caution of desperate sadness, after having announced to you that I do not feel serious inquietude respecting her health. Yes, be alarmed, if I speak to you as I am writing now, for though I left her, to finish this letter, an hour ago in a tolerably calm state, I repeat it to you, Clémence, I seem to _feel within me_ that she suffers more than she appears to do. Heaven grant that I deceive myself, and that I take for presentiments the despairing sadness which this melancholy ceremony inspires. Fleur-de-Marie then entered the large hall of the chapel. All the stalls were occupied by the nuns. She went modestly to take the lowest place on the left, supporting herself on the arm of one of the sisters, for she still seemed very weak. At the upper end of the hall the Princess Juliana was seated, the grand prioress beside her; on the other hand, a second dignitary, holding in her hand the golden cross, the symbol of the authority of the abbess.

A profound silence prevailed. The princess arose, took her cross in her hand, and said, with a serious tone and an expression of much emotion: “My dear daughters, my great age obliges me to confide to younger hands this emblem of my spiritual power;” and she showed her cross. “I am authorized to do it by a bull of our holy father. I will present, then, to the benediction of my Lord Archbishop of Oppenheim, and to the approbation of his royal highness the grand duke, our sovereign, and to yours, my dear daughters, the one of your number whom you have designated to succeed me. Our grand-prioress will make known to you the result of the election, and to the person whom you shall have elected I will deliver up my cross and ring.”

I never moved my eyes from my daughter. Standing in her stall, her two hands crossed on her bosom, her eyes cast down, half enveloped in her white veil, and the long descending folds of her black robe, she remained immovable and thoughtful; she had never for a moment supposed that she could be chosen; her elevation had been only confided to me by the abbess. The grand-prioress took a register and read: “Each of our dear sisters having been, according to rule, invited, eight days since, to place their votes in the hands of our holy mother, and mutually to keep secret their choice until this moment, in the name of our holy mother I declare that one of you, my dear sisters, has, by her exemplary piety, by her evangelical virtues, merited the unanimous suffrage of the community; and this is our Sister Amelia, during her life-time the most high and puissant Princess of Gerolstein.”

At these words, a sort of murmur of sweet surprise and happy satisfaction passed round the hall; the looks of all the nuns were fixed upon my daughter, with an expression of tender sympathy. Notwithstanding my all engrossing anxieties, I was myself deeply moved with this nomination, which, made separately and secretly, offered nevertheless a touching unanimity.

Fleur-de-Marie, astounded, became still more pale; her knees trembled so much that she was obliged to support herself with one hand on the side of the stall. The abbess Spoke again with a very clear but grave voice: “My dear daughters, is it indeed Sister Amelia whom you consider most worthy and most deserving of all of you? Is it indeed she whom you acknowledge as your spiritual superior? Let each of you in turn answer me, my dear daughters.”

And each nun answered in a loud tone: “I have voluntarily and freely chosen, and I do choose Sister Amelia for my holy mother and superior.”

Overpowered with an expressible emotion, my poor child fell on her knees, joined her hands, and so remained till every vote was given. Then the abbess, placing the cross and ring in the hands of the grand prioress, advanced toward my daughter, to take her by the hand and lead her to the seat of the abbess. My dear, my love, I have interrupted myself a moment, I must take courage and finish the relation of this heart-rending scene. “Rise, my dear daughter,” said the abbess to her: “Come to take the place which belongs to you; your evangelical virtues, and not your rank, have gained it for you.” Saying these words, the venerable princess bent toward my daughter to assist her to rise.

Fleur-de-Marie took a few trembling steps, then, arriving in the middle of the hall of the chapel, she stopped and said, with a voice the calmness and firmness of which astonished me:

“Pardon me, holy mother, I would speak to my sisters.”

“Ascend first, my dear daughter, your seat as abbess,” said the princess; “it is from thence that you must let them hear your voice.”

“That place, holy mother, cannot be mine,” replied Fleur-de-Marie, with a low and trembling voice.

“What do you say, my dear daughter?”

“Such a high dignity is not made for me, holy mother.”

“But the voices of your sisters call you to it.”

“Permit me, holy mother, to make here on my knees a solemn confession; my sisters will see, and you also, holy mother, that the most humble condition is not humble enough for me.”

“Your modesty misleads you my dear daughter,” said the superior, with kindness, believing, in fact, that the unfortunate child was yielding to a feeling of exaggerated modesty; but I, I divined those confessions which Fleur-de-Marie was about to make. Dazed with horror, I cried out in a supplicating voice, “My child I conjure–“

At these words, to tell you, my friend all that I read in the profound look which Fleur-de Marie cast upon me, would be impossible. As you see directly, she had understood me–yes, she had understood that I should partake in the shame of this horrible revelation; she understood that, after such a revelation, I might be accused of falsehood, for I had a ways left it to be believed that Fleur-de-Marie had never left her mother.

At this thought the poor child believed herself guilty of the blackest ingratitude toward me. She had not strength to go on–she was silent, and held down her head from exhaustion.

“Yes once again, my dear daughter,” resumed the abbess, “your modesty deceives you; the unanimity of your sisters’ choice proves to you how worthy you are to take my place. If you have taken part in the pleasures of the world, your renouncing these pleasures is but the more meritorious. It is not her Royal Highness Princess Amelia who is chosen–it is _Sister Amelia_. For us, your life began when you entered this house of the Lord, and it is this example and holy life which we recompense. I say to you, moreover, my dear daughter, that if before entering this retreat your life had been as guilty as it has been, on the contrary, pure and praiseworthy, that the angelic virtues of which you have given us the example since your abode here would expiate and redeem, in the eyes of the Lord, any past life, however guilty it may have been. After this, my daughter, judge if your modesty ought not to be assured.”

These words of the abbess were the more precious to Fleur-de-Marie, inasmuch as she believed the past ineffaceable. Unfortunately, this scene had deeply distressed her, and, though she affected calmness and firmness, it seemed to me that her countenance changed in an alarming manner. Twice she groaned as she passed her poor emaciated hand over her forehead.

“I think I have convinced you, my dear daughter,” resumed the Princess Juliana, “and you would not cause your sisters a severe pain by refusing this mark of their conndence and their affection.”

“No, holy mother,” said she, with an expression which struck me, and with a voice becoming weaker and weaker, “I _now_ think I may except it. But, as I feel greatly fatigued and somewhat ill, if you will permit it, holy mother, the ceremony of my consecration shall not take place for a few days.”

“It shall be as you desire, my dear daughter; but while we wait till your office shall be blessed and consecrated, take this ring: come to your place; our dear sisters will render you their homage, according to the rules.”

I saw at every moment her emotion increasing, her countenance changing more and more; finally, this scene was beyond her strength; she fainted before the procession of the sisters was finished. Judge of my terror; we carried her into the apartment of the abbess. David had not left the convent; he hastened and bestowed the first caress upon her. Oh, that he may not have deceived me: he assures me that this new accident was caused only by extreme weakness occasioned by the fastings, the fatigues, and the privation of sleep which my daughter has imposed upon herself during her novitiate. I believe him, because, in fact, her angelic features, though of a frightful paleness, did not betray any suffering; when she recovered her consciousness, I was even struck with the serenity which shone on her forehead. It seems to me that she was concealing the secret hope of an approaching deliverance. The superior having returned to the chapter to close the session, I remained alone with my daughter.

“My good father, can you forget my ingratitude? Can you forget that, at the moment I was about to make this painful confession, you asked me to spare you!”

“Oh! do not speak of it, I supplicate you.”

“And I had not dreamed,” continued she, with bitterness, “that in saying, in the face of all, from what an abyss of degradation you had drawn me, I was revealing a secret that you had kept out of tenderness to me; it was to accuse you publicly–you, my father–of a dissimulation to which you had resigned yourself only to secure to me a brilliant and honored existence. Oh! can you pardon me?”

Instead of answering her, I pressed my lips upon her forehead; she felt my tears flow. After having kissed my hands several times, she said to me, “Now I feel better, my good father, now that I am, as our rules says, here, and dead to the world. I should wish to make some dispositions in favor of several persons; but as all I posses is yours, will you authorize me, my good father?”

“Can you doubt it? but I beseech you,” said I to her, “do not indulge these sad thoughts; by and by you shall employ yourself in this duty: you have time enough.”

“Undoubtedly, my good father, I have yet much time to live,” added she, with an accent that, I know not why, made me shudder. I looked at her most attentively; but no change in her features justified my uneasiness. “Yes, I have yet much time to live,” resumed she, “but I must not occupy myself longer with terrestrial things, for to-day I renounce all which attached me to the world. I beseech you, do not refuse me.”

“Direct me: I will do anything you wish.”

“I should wish that my tender mother would always keep in the little back parlor, where she usually sits, my embroidery frame, with the tapestry I have begun in it.”

“Your wishes shall be fulfilled, my child; your room has remained exactly as it was the day you left the palace; for everything belonging to you is an object of religious worships to us. Clémence will be deeply touched at your remembrance of her.”

“As to you, my good father, take, I beg you, my large ebony chair, in which I have thought and dreamed so much.”

“It shall be placed by the side of mine in my working cabinet, and I shall see you in it every day, seated beside me, as you so often used to sit.” Could I tell her this, and restrain my tears?

“Now I should wish to leave some memorials of me to those who took so much interest in me when I was unfortunate. To Madame George I should like to give my writing-desk, of which I have lately made use. This gift will be appropriate,” added she, with a sweet smile, “for it was she at the farm who began to teach me to write. As to the venerable curate of Bouqueval, who instructed me in religion, I destine for him the beautiful Christ in my oratory.”

“Good, my child.”

“I should like to send my bandeau of pearls to good little Rigolette. It is a simple ornament that she can wear on her beautiful black hair; and then, if it were possible, since you know where Martial and La Louve are, in Algiers, I should wish that the courageous woman, who once saved my life, should have my enameled cross. These different pledges of remembrance, my good father, I should wish to have sent to them _from Fleure-de Marie._”

“I will execute your wishes; have you forgotten none?”

“I believe not, my good father.”

“Think carefully: among those who love you, is there not some one very unhappy–as unhappy as your mother and myself; some one finally who regrets as deeply as we do your entrance into the convent?”

The poor child understood me she pressed my hand; a slight blush colored for a moment her pale face.

Anticipating a question which she feared, undoubtedly, to ask me, I said to her, “He is better; they no longer fear for his life.”

“And his father?”

“He feels the improvement in the health of his son–he, too, is better. And to Henry, what will you give? A remembrance from you will be such a dear, such a precious consolation to him.”

“My father, offer him my praying-desk. Alas! I have often watered it with my tears, in begging of Heaven strength to forget Henry, since I was not worthy of his love.”

“How happy he will be to see that you had a thought for him!”

“The Asylum for Orphans and young women abandoned by their relations, I should desire, my good father–“

Here Rudolph’s letter was interrupted by the following words which were almost illegible: “Clémence, Murphy will finish this letter: I have no longer any mind–I am distracted. Oh, the thirteenth of January!!!”

The conclusion of this letter is the handwriting of Murphy, was thus conceived:

YOUR HIGHNESS,–In obedience to the orders of his royal highness, I complete this sad recital. The two letters of my lord must have prepared your royal highness for the overwhelming news which it remains to me to acquaint you with. It was three o’clock; my lord was employed in writing to your royal highness; I was waiting in a neighboring apartment until he should give me the letter, to forward it immediately by a courier. Suddenly I saw the Princess Juliana enter with an air of consternation. “Where is his royal highness?” said she to me, with a voice filled with emotion. “Princess, my lord is writing to the grand duchess the news of the day.”

“Sir Walter, you must inform my lord–a terrible event. You are his friend, be so kind as to inform him; from you the blow will be less terrible.”

I understood everything; I thought it more prudent to take this sad revelation upon myself, the superior having added that the Princess Amelia was slowly sinking away, and that my lord must hasten to receive the last sighs of his daughter. I unfortunately had not time to take any precautions. I entered the saloon; his royal highness perceived my paleness. “You have come to acquaint me of some misfortune.”

“An irreparable misfortune, my lord–courage.”

“Ah, my presentiments!” cried he, and, without adding a word, he ran to the cloister. I followed him.

From the apartment of the superior, the Princess Amelia had been transported into her cell after her last interview with my lord. One of the sisters was watching by her; at the end of an hour she perceived that the voice of the Princess Amelia, who spoke to her at intervals, was becoming weaker, and that she was more distressed. The sister hastened to inform the superior; Dr. David was called; he hoped to remedy this new loss of strength by a cordial, but it was in vain; the pulse was scarcely perceptible; he saw, with despair, that reiterated emotions had probably exhausted the strength of the Princess Amelia; there remained no hope of saving her. It was then that my lord arrived. Princess Amelia had just received the last sacrament; a ray of intelligence still lingered about her; in one of her hands, crossed on her bosom, was the _remains of her little rose-bush._

My lord fell on his knees by her pillow: he sobbed. “My daughter, my beloved child,” cried he in a heart-rending tone.

The Princess Amelia heard him, turned her head gently toward him, opened her eyes, endeavored to smile, and said, with a feeble voice:

“My good father, pardon–Henry also–my good mother–forgive.”

Such were her last words! After an hour of silent agony, she gave up her spirit to God.

When his daughter had yielded up her last sigh, my lord did not say a word; his calmness was frightful; he closed the eyes of the princess, kissed her forehead again and again, took piously the remains of the little rose-bush, and left the cell.

“I followed him; he returned to the house without the cloister, and showing me the letter that he had begun to write to your royal highness, and to which he in vain attempted to add some words, for his hand trembled convulsively, he said to me:

“It is impossible for me to write. I am distraught, my mind is gone. Write to the grand duchess that I no longer have a daughter!”

I have executed the orders of my lord. Permit me, as his oldest servant, to beseech your royal highness to hasten your return as soon as the health of the Count d’Orbigny will permit it. The presence of your royal highness alone can calm the despair of the prince. He wishes to watch every night by his daughter till the day when she shall be buried in the grand ducal chapel. I have accomplished my sad task, madame; be so kind as to excuse the incoherence of this letter, and accept the expression of respectful devotion with which I have the honor to be your loyal highness’s very obedient servant,

WALTER MURPHY.

The night before the funeral service of the Princess Amelia, Clémence arrived at Gerolstein with her father. Rudolph was not alone the day of the funeral of Fleur-de-Marie.

THE END.

[Transcriber’s Note: The following appeared in our print copy. Some are rare words or variant spellings; others are typographical errors. We have left these as in the print copy.

“Countes” in chapter 1 (elsewhere “Countess”); “Ruldoph” and “Ruldolph” (“Rudolph”) in chapter 5; “amoment’s” (“a moment’s”) in chapter 7; “ell” (probably for “cell”) in chapter 8; “th” (“the”) in chapter 8;
“trangress” (“transgress”) in chapter 8; “blackhole” (“black hole”; i.e., “prison cell”) in chapter 9; “magsman” (Slang for “swindler”) in chapter 9; “bootlining” (“boot lining”) in chapter 10; “surprise” in “more and more surprise” (“surprised”) in chapter 11; “burk” in the poetic quotation in chapter 12; “intead” (“instead”) in chapter 12;
“kindnss” (“kindness”) in chapter 21; “corypheus” in chapter 22;
“Rohefort” (“Rochefort”) in chapter 25; “charcter” (“character”) in chapter 29; “KAMINETN” and “KAMINETZ” both appear in the Epilogue; “timidily” in chapter 4 of the Epilogue; “Fräulien” (for “Fräulein”) in chapter 4 of the Epilogue; “conndence” in chapter 7 of the Epilogue.]