Charlotte Mary Yonge - "The Two Guardians"

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Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue

E >> Eugene Sue >> Mysteries of Paris, V3




"Yes, unless Nicholas makes his escape; he is in the same prison with a
monster called Skeleton, who has a plot on foot to escape. Nicholas told
this to a prisoner who was discharged, and he informed Martial; for my
Martial has been weak enough to go and see his rascally brother at La
Force. Then, encouraged by this visit, this wretch has had the impudence to
send word to his brother that any moment he may escape, and that Martial
should hold himself ready, at Micou's, with money, and clothes for a
disguise."

"Your Martial has so kind a heart!"

"Kind heart as much as you please, La Goualeuse, but hang me if I let my
husband aid an assassin who wished to kill him! Martial will not denounce
the plot--that is already a great deal. Besides, now that you are nearly
well, La Goualeuse, we are going to start with the children on our tour
through France; we will never plant our feet in Paris again; it was painful
enough for Martial to be called son of the guillotined--what will it be
when mother, brother, and sister are also executed!"

"You will wait, at least, until I have spoken to M. Rudolph concerning you,
if I see him again. You have become changed; I told you that I would reward
you, and I wish to keep my word; otherwise how can I pay the debt I owe
you? You have saved my life; and during my illness you overwhelmed me with
attentions."

"Exactly; now I should seem self-interested if I allowed you to ask
anything for me from your protector. You are saved; I repeat to you that I
have made my expenses."

"Good Louve, reassure yourself; it is not you who are self-interested, it
is I who am grateful."

"Listen, then!" said La Louve, suddenly rising; "it sounds like the noise
of a carriage. Yes, yes, it approaches; hold! there it is; did you see it
pass before the gate? there is a lady within."

"Oh! goodness!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, with emotion; "I thought I
recognized--"

"Whom?"

"A handsome lady whom I saw at Saint Lazare, who was very kind to me."

"Is she aware that you are here?"

"I do not know; but she is acquainted with the person of whom I have spoken
and who (if he wish, and he will, I hope) can make a reality of our Saint
Lazare castles in the air."

A noise of footsteps approaching rapidly was heard behind the hedge;
Francois and Amandine, who, thanks to the kindnss of Saint Remy, had not
left La Louve, came rushing into the garden, crying:

"La Louve, here is a fine lady with my lord: they want to see
Fleur-de-Marie at once."

"I was not mistaken," said Goualeuse.

Almost at the same moment, Saint Remy appeared, accompanied by Lady
d'Harville.

Hardly had she perceived Fleur-de-Marie, than she cried, running toward her
and pressing her in her arms:

"Poor dear child! I see you again. Ah! saved! saved miraculously from a
horrible death! With what happiness I find you--I, who, as well as your
friends, thought you were lost forever!"

"I am also very happy to see you again, madame; for I have never forgotten
your kindness to me," said Fleur-de-Marie, returning the tender caresses of
Lady d'Harville with charming modesty.

"Ah! you do not know what will be the surprise, the wild joy of your
friends, who, at this moment, weep for you so bitterly."

Fleur-de-Marie, taking the hand of La Louve, who had withdrawn a short
distance, said to Lady d'Harville, presenting her:

"Since my safety is so dear to my benefactors, lady, permit me to bespeak,
through you, their kindness for my companion, who saved me at the risk of
her life."

"Be assured, my child; your friends will prove to the brave Louve that they
know it is to her they owe the happiness of seeing you again."

La Louve, blushing, confused, daring neither to answer nor raise her eyes
toward Lady d'Harville, so much did the presence of a woman of her rank
abash her, could not conceal her astonishment at hearing Clemence pronounce
her name.

"But there is not a moment to lose," said the marchioness. "I am dying with
impatience to take you with me, Fleur-de-Marie; I have brought in my
carriage a shawl and a warm cloak; come, come, my child." Then, addressing
the count, she added, "Will your lordship be good enough to give my address
to this courageous woman, so that she can come to-morrow and say farewell
to Fleur-de-Marie? So, you will be obliged to come and see us," she said to
La Louve.

"Oh! lady, I will come, very sure," answered she, "since it is to say adieu
to La Goualeuse; I should be very sad not to be able to see her once more."

A few moments afterward Lady d'Harville and La Goualeuse were on the road
to Paris.

* * * * *

Rudolph, after having beheld the death of Jacques Ferrand, so terribly
punished for his crime, had returned home in a state of deep dejection.
After a long and sleepless night, he had sent for Sir Walter Murphy, to
confide to this old and faithful friend the heartrending discovery
concerning Fleur-de-Marie that he had made the previous evening. The worthy
Englishman was overwhelmed; better than any other person, he could
comprehend and partake of the profound grief of the prince. The latter,
pale, prostrated, his eyes red from weeping, had just made Murphy this
painful revelation.

"Take courage," said the latter, wiping his eyes; for, notwithstanding his
firmness, he had also wept. "Yes, take courage, my lord--much courage. I
offer no vain consolations--this sorrow has no cure."

"You are right. What I felt yesterday is nothing compared to my present
sufferings."

"Yesterday your highness felt the shock, but the reaction will each day be
more grievous. Therefore, call up all your energy. The future is sad--very
sad."

"And then, yesterday, the contempt and horror with which this woman
inspired me! But may God have pity on her, for at this moment she is before
him. Yesterday, in fine, surprise, hatred, fright, so many violent
passions, smothered within me these elements of despairing tenderness, that
at present I can restrain myself no longer--I can hardly weep. And yet now,
with you, I can. Hold! you see, I have no strength--I am cowardly--pardon
me. Tears again--always--oh! my child! my poor child!"

"Weep, weep, your highness. Alas! the loss is irreparable."

"And so many dreadful miseries to make her forget," cried Rudolph, in a
touching tone, "after all that she has suffered! Think of the fate which
awaited her!"

"Perhaps this transition might have been too abrupt for the unfortunate,
already so cruelly tried."

"Oh! no, no! not so. If you knew with what delicacy--with what reserve, I
should have apprised her of her birth; how gently I should have prepared
her for this revelation--it was so simple, so easy. Oh! if this were the
only question, do you see," added the prince, with a bitter smile, "I
should have been composed, and not embarrassed. Throwing myself on my knees
before the idolized child, I would have said, 'You who have been until now
so cruelly treated, be at length happy--and forever happy. You are my
daughter.' But no," said Rudolph, "no, that is not it--that would have been
too hasty, too rash. Yes, I would have restrained myself and said to her,
in a calm manner, 'My child, I must tell you something that will astonish
you much. Yes; imagine that they have discovered traces of your parents;
your father lives, and your father is--I am your father.'" Here the prince
again interrupted himself. "No, no; this is also too sudden, too abrupt;
but it is not my fault that this revelation is always springing to my lips;
one must have more self-command--you comprehend, my friend, you comprehend?
To be there before your daughter, and restrain your feelings!" Then, giving
way again to despair, Rudolph cried, "But to what purpose these vain words?
I shall never speak to her again. Oh! that which is frightful--frightful to
think of, is, that I have had my daughter near me during a whole day--yes,
that day, forever accursed, on which I took her to the farm; that day when
all the treasures of her angelic mind were revealed to me in all their
purity, and nothing in my heart whispered, 'She is your daughter!'
nothing--nothing! Oh! how blind, stupid I was, not to imagine this. I was
unworthy to be a father."

"But, sir--"

"But, in truth," cried the prince, "did it not depend upon myself whether I
should ever leave her? Why did I not adopt her? I, who lament so much for
my child? Why, instead of sending this unfortunate child to Madame George,
did I not keep her with me? To-day I should only have had to extend my arms
to her. Why have I not done that? Why? Ah! because one only does good by
halves; because one only values treasures when they have disappeared
forever: because instead of raising at once to her true level this
admirable young girl, who, in spite of misery and abandonment, was, through
her mind and heart, greater, nobler, perhaps, than she ever would have been
by the advantages of birth and education. I thought I was doing much for
her by placing her at a farm with some good people, as I would for the
first interesting beggar that I met in the streets. It is my fault--it is
my fault. If I had done that she would not have been dead. Oh! yes, I am
punished--I have deserved it--bad son, bad father!"

Murphy knew that such grief was inconsolable, and remained silent.

"I shall not remain here--Paris is hateful to me; to-morrow I go--"

"You are right, my lord."

"We will stop at the farm of Bouqueval. I will shut myself up for some
hours in her chamber, where she passed the only happy days of her life. I
will have collected with religious care all that belonged to her--the books
she commenced to read; the paper she had written on; the clothes she has
worn--all, even to the furniture--even to the tapestry of her rooms, of
which I myself will take an exact delineation. And at Gerolstein, in the
private park where I have raised a monument to the memory of my outraged
father, I will have a small house built, in which shall be rebuilt
_this_ room; there I will go to weep for my daughter. Of these two
funeral monuments, one will recall my crime to my father, the other the
chastisement which reached me through my child. Thus, then, let everything
be prepared to-morrow morning."

Murphy, willing to try if he could not turn the prince a moment from his
gloomy thoughts, said, "All shall be ready, sir; only you forget that
to-morrow the marriage of Germain, the son of Madame George, and Rigolette
takes place. Not only have you made a provision for Germain, and
munificently endowed the bride, but you have also promised to be present at
the wedding as a witness. Then are they to be informed of the name of their
benefactor."

"It is true I have promised. They are at the farm, and I cannot go there
to-morrow without being present at the ceremony, and I will confess I have
not the courage."

"The sight of the happiness of these young people will, perhaps, calm your
sorrow."

"No, no, grief is selfish, and seeks retirement. To-morrow you will go in
my place; and you will beg Madame George to collect everything belonging to
my daughter. Let a plan of her room be made, and sent to me in Germany.

"Will your highness depart without seeing Lady d'Harville?"

At the name of Clemence, Rudolph started; he still cherished for her a
sincere attachment, but at this moment it was, thus to speak, drowned in
the wave of bitterness which inundated his heart. By a strange
contradiction, the prince felt that the tender affection of Lady d'Harville
would alone have aided him to support the grief which overwhelmed him, and
he reproached this thought as unworthy the fervency of his paternal grief.

"I shall go without seeing the lady," answered Rudolph. "A few days since I
wrote her how much I sorrowed for the death of Fleur-de-Marie. When she
knows that Fleur-de-Marie was my daughter, she will comprehend the grief
that seeks to be alone--yes, alone, so that it may be expiatory; and it is
terrible, that expiation which fate imposes on me--terrible! for it
commences, for me, at the time when the decline of life also commences."

Some one knocked lightly and discreetly at the door; Rudolph started in
impatience; Murphy rose and went to see who was there. Through the
half-open door an aid-de-camp of the prince said a few words to the knight,
in a low tone. He answered by a sign, and, turning toward Rudolph, said,
"Will your highness permit me to be absent for a moment? Some one wishes to
speak to me on business of importance."

"Go," answered the prince.

Hardly had Murphy departed, than Rudolph, uttering a heavy sigh concealed
his face in his hands.

"Oh!" cried he, "that which I feel alarms me. My heart overflows with
hatred; the presence of my best friend weighs me down; the memory of a pure
and noble love importunes and troubles me, and then--it is cowardly and
unworthy. But last night I learned, with savage joy, the death of Sarah--of
this unnatural mother, who has caused the death of my child. I amused
myself in beholding the ravings and torments of the horrid monster who
killed my daughter--oh, madness!--I arrived too late. Yet, yesterday I did
not suffer so; and yesterday, as to-day, I thought my child dead--oh! yes;
but I did not say to myself these words which henceforth will imbitter my
life: 'I have seen my daughter; I have spoken to her; I have admired all
that was adorable in her. Oh! how much time I might have passed at that
farm! When I think that I only went there three times; yes, no more; and I
could have gone there every day--to see my child every day! What do I say
to keep her ever with me!' Oh! such shall be my punishment."

Suddenly the door of the cabinet opened, and Murphy entered; he was very
pale--so pale that the prince half arose, and cried, "Murphy, what is the
matter?"

"Nothing, my lord."

"You are very pale."

"It is astonishment."

"What astonishment?"

"Madame d'Harville!"

"Madame d'Harville? Some new misfortune!"

"No, no, my lord, reassure yourself; she is there in the parlor."

"She here! in my house! it is impossible!"

"I tell your highness, the surprise---"

"Such a step on her part--but what is the matter, in the name of heaven?"

"I do not know--I cannot explain what I feel."

"You conceal something from me."

"On my honor, no. I do not know what she meant?"

"But what did she say?"

"'Sir Walter,' and although her voice trembled, her face was beaming with
joy, 'my presence here must surprise you very much; but there are certain
circumstances so important, that they leave no time to think of
appearances. Entreat his highness to grant me, immediately, an audience in
your presence; for I know that the prince has no better friend. I should
have begged him to come to my own house, but that would have delayed our
interview for an hour, which the prince will confess should not have been
retarded a moment,' added she, with an expression which made me tremble."

"But," said Rudolph, in a broken voice, and becoming still paler than
Murphy, "I cannot imagine the cause of your trouble--of your emotion--of
your looks; there is something else--this interview--"

"On my honor, I do not know anything more. These words alone, of the
marchioness, have unsettled me. Why, I am ignorant. But you yourself--you
are very pale, sir."

"I?" said Rudolph, supporting himself on a chair, for he felt his knees
giving way under him.

"I tell your highness, that you are as much disturbed as I am. What is the
matter?"

"Although I should die under the blow, beg Madame d'Harville to enter,"
cried the prince. By a strange sympathy, the visit, so unexpected, so
extraordinary, had awakened in both Murphy and Rudolph a certain vague and
indefinite hope; but this hope seemed so extravagant, that neither one nor
the other dared to avow it.

Madame d'Harville, followed by Murphy, entered the cabinet. Ignorant, as we
have said, that Fleur-de-Marie was the daughter of the prince, Madame
d'Harville, in her joy at bringing back his protegee, had not thought she
would be able to present her to him without previous preparation: she had
left her in the carriage at the door, as she did not know whether the
prince was willing to make himself known to the young girl, and receive her
in his own house. But perceiving the great alteration in the looks of
Rudolph, and remarking in his eyes the traces of recent tears, Clemence
thought he had met with some misfortune more severe than the death of La
Goualeuse; thus forgetting the object of her visit, she cried, "What is the
matter with your highness?"

"Are you ignorant, madame? Ah! all hope is lost. Your haste--the interview
you have so earnestly demanded--I thought----"

"Oh! I entreat you, let us not speak of the object of my visit. In the name
of my father, whose life you saved, I have almost the right to demand from
you the cause of the affliction in which you are plunged. Your state of
dejection, your paleness, alarms me. Oh! speak, my lord; be
generous--speak--have pity on my distress."

"For what good, madame? my wound is incurable."

"These words redouble my alarm, my lord; explain yourself--Sir Walter, what
is it?"

"Well!" said Rudolph, in a hollow voice, making a violent effort to
restrain himself, "since I informed you of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, I
have learned that she was my child."

"Fleur-de-Marie your child!" cried Clemence, in a tone impossible to be
described.

"Yes; and just now, when you asked to see me immediately, to inform me of
something that would overwhelm me with joy--have pity on my weakness--but a
father, mad with grief at the loss of his child, is capable of indulging in
many mad hopes. For a moment I thought--that--but no, no; I see I deceived
myself. Pardon me; I am but a miserable, foolish man."

Rudolph, exhausted by the violence of his feelings, fell back in his chair,
covering his face with his hands. Madame d'Harville remained stupefied,
immovable, dumb, breathing with difficulty--in turns a prey to joy, to
fear, for the effect which the revelation she was about to make might have
upon the prince--in fine, exalted by a holy gratitude toward Providence,
who intrusted her--_her_--to announce to Rudolph that his daughter
lived, and she had brought her back to him. Clemence, agitated by these
emotions, so violent, so diverse, could not utter a word. Murphy, after
having for a moment partaken of the mad hopes of the prince, seemed quite
as much overcome as he was. Suddenly the marchioness, yielding to an
unexpected and involuntary emotion, forgetting the presence of Murphy and
Rudolph, sunk on her knees, clasped her hands, and cried, with an
expression of fervent piety and ineffable gratitude:

"Thanks, my God! be praised! I acknowledge Thy sovereign will. Thanks once
more, for Thou hast chosen me to inform him that his child is saved!"

Although said in a low voice, these words, pronounced in a tone of sincere
and holy fervor, reached the ears of Murphy and the prince. The latter
raised his head quickly at the moment Clemence arose from the ground. It is
impossible to describe the look, action, and expression of Rudolph, on
contemplating Madame d'Harville, whose charming features, stamped with a
celestial joy, shone at this moment with superhuman beauty. Leaning with
one hand on the marble table, and compressing with the other the rapid
pulsations of her heart, she gave an affirmative nod of the head in answer
to a look from Rudolph, which once more we are unable to describe.

"Below--in my carriage."

Save for the presence of Murphy, who, quick as lightning, threw himself
before Rudolph, he would have rushed at once to the street.

"My lord, you would kill her!" cried the squire, holding back the prince.

"Only since yesterday she is convalescent. For her life, no imprudence, my
lord," added Clemence.

"You are right," said Rudolph, restraining himself with difficulty; "you
are right--I will be calm--I will not see her yet--I will wait--let my
first emotions be controlled. Ah! it is too much--too much in one day!"
added he, in a broken voice. Then, addressing Madame d'Harville, and
extending his hand toward her, he cried, with a burst of inexpressible
gratitude, "I am pardoned! You are the angel of mercy!"

"Your highness restored to me my father--Heaven willed that I should bring
back your child," answered Clemence. "But, in my turn, I ask your pardon
for my weakness. This revelation--so sudden, so unexpected--has confused
me. I confess that I have not the courage to go for Fleur-de-Marie--my
agitation would alarm her."

"And how was she saved?" cried Rudolph. "See my ingratitude. I have not yet
asked you this question."

"At the moment she was drowning, she was rescued from a watery grave by a
courageous woman."

"Do you know her?"

"To-morrow she will come to see me."

"The debt is immense," said the prince, "but I shall know how to pay it."

"What a happy circumstance, my God! that I did not bring Fleur-de-Marie
with me," said the marchioness; "this scene would have been fatal to her."

"It is true, madame," said Murphy; "it is a providential chance that she is
not here."

"Now," said the prince, who had for a few moments been endeavoring to
conquer his emotions, "now I have self-command, I assure you. Murphy, go
and seek _my daughter._" These words, _my daughter_, were
pronounced by the prince with an accent we will not attempt to express.

"Are you quite sure of yourself?" said Clemence. "No imprudence."

"Oh! be tranquil. I know the danger there would be for her--I will not
expose her to it. My good Murphy, I entreat you--go--go!"

"Reassure yourself, madame," answered the squire, who had attentively
observed the prince; "she can come. My lord will restrain himself."

"Then go--go quickly, my old friend."

"Yes, my lord; I ask but for a moment--one is not made of iron," said the
good man, wiping away the traces of his tears; "she must not see that I
have been weeping."

"Excellent man!" replied Rudolph, cordially pressing his hand.

"I am ready. I did not wish to pass through the servants' lines all in
tears, like a Magadalen. But what shall I say?"

"Yes, what shall he say?" demanded the prince from Clemence.

"That M. Ruldolph wishes to see her--nothing more, it seems to me."

"Undoubtedly. Say that M. Rudolph wishes to see her, nothing more. Come,
go--go."

"It is certainly the very best thing that can be said to her," answered the
squire. "I will merely say that M. Rudolph wishes to see her; that will not
cause her to conjecture anything--to foresee anything: it is the most
reasonable way, truly."

But Sir Walter did not stir.

"Sir Walter," said Clemence, smiling, "you are afraid."

"It is true, my lady; in spite of my six-foot stature and my rough
exterior, I am still under the influence of violent emotions."

"My friend, take care," said Rudolph; "wait a moment longer, if you are not
sure of your self-possession."

"This time, my lord, I am victorious," said the baronet, after having
passed over his eyes his Herculean hand. "Really, at my age, this weakness
is perfectly ridiculous. Fear nothing now."

And Murphy left the apartment with a firm step and tranquillized air. A
moment of silence ensued; then Clemence, blushing, remembered that she was
in Rudolph's house, and alone with him. The prince approached her, and
said, almost timidly, "If I choose this day--this moment--to make you a
sincere avowal, it is because the solemnity of this day--this moment--will
add still more to the gravity of the confession. Ever since I have known
you I have loved you. So long as concealment of this love was necessary, I
concealed it; now that you are free, and have restored me my daughter, will
you be to her a mother?"

"I, my lord!" cried Madame d'Harville. "What do you say?"

"I entreat you, do not refuse me; let this day decide my future happiness,"
said Rudolph tenderly.

Clemence also had loved the prince for a long time; she thought she was in
a dream. The avowal of Rudolph, at once so simple, so serious, so
touching--made under such circumstances, transported her with an
unhoped-for happiness; she answered, hesitatingly, "My lord, it is for you
to recall to mind the difference of rank--the interest of your
sovereignty."

"First let me think of the interest of my heart--of that of my cherished
daughter; make us both happy--oh! very happy. Permit me, who but now was
without family, to say, 'My wife--my daughter;' allow this poor child--also
without family--to say, 'My father--my mother--my sister;' for you have a
daughter, who will become mine."

"Oh! my lord, to such noble words one can only answer by grateful tears,"
cried Clemence. Then, composing herself, she added, "My lord, some one
comes; it is your child."

"Oh! do not refuse me," cried Rudolph, in a supplicating voice; "in the
name of my love, say our child."

"Our child," murmured Clemence; at the same moment Murphy opened the door,
leading in Fleur-de-Marie.

The girl, descending from the carriage, had crossed an ante-chamber, filled
with footmen in full livery; a waiting-room, where valets attended; then
the ushers' saloon; and, finally, the waiting-rooms, occupied by a
chamberlain and the aides of the prince in full uniform. Let the reader
imagine the astonishment of the poor Goualeuse, who knew no other splendors
than those of the farm at Bouqueval, on traversing these princely
apartments, resplendent with gold, mirrors, and paintings.

Alex Ross: Winner of the Guardian first book award
Stuart Evers: They made a real difference to Britain's literary culture, and it would be a terrible shame if they got forgotten in the age of Amazon

Congratulations to Alex Ross, winner of the Guardian first book award
One of only seven copies of The Tales of Beedle the Bard handwritten by JK Rowling is unveiled at the New York Public Library as the mass market edition goes on sale around the world

The arcane first book that's also a bestseller

Congratulations to Alex Ross, the deserving winner of the 2008 Guardian first book award. There's been a massed chorus of appreciation for this work already, so I shan't add much, except to say that what I particular enjoy about it is the connections it makes between musics and musicians. I'm the sort of person who goes to a lot of concerts, plays the violin, has some kind of grasp of how the history of music works – but frankly, it's all a bit fragmented and vague, since I have never studied the history of music properly and I can't really do the textbook musicological stuff. As I was reading Ross's book, it dawned on me that most of my knowledge of 20th-century music was based on reading the occasional Grove essay – and mostly, reading programme notes. What Ross's book does brilliantly is knit all these odd and isolated bits of knowledge together, so that everything starts to synthesise rather wonderfully, and you get to know what Sibelius thought of Stravinsky, say (not much – "stillborn affectations" was the phrase employed); or that Alban Berg was lionised by George Gershwin; or that David Bowie referenced Philip Glass and vice versa. That, and then the material is set against its historical and political background, such that this is a book for history-lovers as much as music-lovers.

By the way, there's a pungent criticism of the new-music scene by Hans Eisler in 1928, as quoted by Ross. How much have things changed, I wonder?

"The big music festivals have become downright stock exchanges, where the value of the works is assessed and contracts for the coming season are settled. Yet all this noise is carried out in the vacuum of a bell glass, so to speak, so that not a sound can be heard outside. An empty officiousness celebrates orgies of inbreeding, while there is a complete lack of interest or participation of a public of any kind."

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