Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue

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As soon as she appeared, Lady d'Harville ran toward her, took her by the
hand, and placing her arm around her for support, she conducted her toward
the prince, who, standing near the chimney, had not been able to move.
Murphy, after having confided Fleur-de Marie to the care of Lady
d'Harville, hastily disappeared behind the folds of one of the immense
window-curtains, finding that he was not altogether sure of his
self-possession. At the sight of her benefactor, her savior, who regarded
her with silent ecstasy, Fleur-de-Marie, already so agitated, began to
tremble.

"Compose yourself, my child," said Lady d'Harville; "there is your friend,
M. Rudolph, who awaits you impatiently; he has been very uneasy about you."

"Oh! yes, very--very uneasy," said Rudolph, still immovable, his heart
almost breaking at the sight of the sweet pale face of his child.

Thus, in spite of his resolution, the prince was for a moment obliged to
turn his head to conceal his emotion.

"Stay, my child, you are still very weak; sit down there," said Clemence,
to turn her attention from the prince; and she led her to a large arm-chair
of bronze and gilt, in which the Goualeuse seated herself. Her agitation
increased every moment: she was oppressed, speech failed her; she had not a
word of gratitude for Rudolph.

At length, on a sign from Lady d'Harville, who was leaning on the back of
the chair, and holding one of Fleur-de-Marie's hands in her own, the prince
approached softly to the other side of the seat. With more self-command, he
then said to Fleur-de-Marie, who turned toward him her enchanting face:

"At length, my child, you are once more reunited to your friends, and
forever! You never shall leave them more Now you must forget what you have
suffered."

"Yes, my child, the best way to prove that you love us," added Clemence,
"is to forget the past."

"Believe me, M. Rudolph--believe me, my lady, that if I do recall it
sometimes, it will only be to say to myself, that, without you, I should
still be very unhappy."

"Yes; but we will take care that you have no more such gloomy thoughts. Our
tenderness will not leave you the time, my dear Marie," answered Rudolph,
"for you know that I gave you this name at the farm."

"Yes, M. Rudolph. And is Madame George, who allowed me to call her mother,
well?"

"Very well, my child. But I have important news to tell you."

"Me, M. Ruldoph?"

"Since I have seen you, great discoveries have been made concerning your
birth."

"My birth!"

"It is known who were your parents--who was your father."

Rudolph was so much choked by his tears on his pronouncing these words,
that Fleur-de-Marie, very much affected, turned quickly toward him: he had
turned away his head. An incident, half burlesque, diverted the attention
of La Goualeuse, and prevented her from remarking more closely the emotion
of her father: the worthy squire, who still remained behind the curtain,
and, apparently was very attentively looking into the garden of the hotel,
could not refrain from blowing his nose with a most formidable noise, for
he wept like a child.

"Yes, my dear Marie," Clemence hastened to say, "your father is known--he
still lives."

"My father!" cried the Goualeuse, with an outburst which put the composure
of Rudolph to a new trial.

"And some day," resumed Clemence, "very soon, perhaps, you will see him.
What will doubtless surprise you very much is, that he is of high
standing--noble birth."

"And my mother, madame-shall I see her?"

"Your father will answer this question, my child; but shall you not be very
happy to see him?"

"Oh! yes, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes.

"How much you will love him, when you know him," said the marchioness.

"From that day forward, a new life will commence for you, Marie," added the
prince.

"Oh! no, M. Rudolph," answered the Goualeuse, unaffectedly.

"My new life commenced on the day when you took pity on me--when you sent
me to the farm."

"But your father will cherish you," said the prince.

"I do not know him, and to you I owe all, M. Rudolph."

"Then you love me as much--more, perhaps, than you would love your father?"

"I bless you, and I respect you as I do God. M. Rudolph, because you have
done for me that which God alone else could have done," answered the
Goualeuse, with enthusiasm, forgetting her habitual timidity. "When my lady
had the goodness to speak to me in prison, I said to her what I said to
everybody--yes, M. Rudolph; to those who were very unfortunate, I said,
'Hope! M. Rudolph succors the unfortunate.' To those who hesitated between
good and evil, I said, 'Courage, be virtuous; M. Rudolph rewards those who
are virtuous.' To those who were wicked, I said, 'Take care! M. Rudolph
punishes the wicked.' In fine, when I thought I was about to die, I said to
myself, 'God will have mercy upon me, for M. Rudolph has judged me worthy
of his interest.'"

Fleur-de-Marie, carried away by her gratitude toward her benefactor, had
overcome her fears: a slight carnation tinged her cheeks, and her beautiful
blue eyes, which she raised toward heaven as if in prayer, shone with the
softest luster. A silence of some seconds succeeded the enthusiastic words
of Fleur-de-Marie; the emotions which affected the actors in this scene
were profound.

"I see, my child," resumed Rudolph, hardly containing his joy, "that in
your heart I have almost taken the place of your father."

"It is not my fault, M. Rudolph. It is, perhaps, wrong in me; but, as I
have told you, I know you, and I do not know my father, and," added she,
holding down her head in confusion, "and then you know the past, M.
Rudolph; and yet you have overwhelmed me with favors; but my father does
not know it. Perhaps he will regret having found me," added the unfortunate
child, shuddering, "and since he is, as my lady said, of high birth,
doubtless he will be ashamed--he will blush for me!"

"_Blush_ for you!" cried Rudolph, drawing himself up proudly.

"Reassure yourself, poor child; your father will place you in a position so
brilliant, so lofty, that the greatest among the great of this world will
regard you henceforth with the utmost respect. Blush for you! no, no; you
will rank with the noblest princesses of Europe."

"My lord!" cried Murphy and Clemence at the same time, alarmed at the
vehemence of Rudolph and the increasing pallor of Fleur-de-Marie, who
looked at her father with surprise.

"Blush for you!" continued he; "oh! if I ever rejoiced and felt pride in my
sovereign rank it is that, thanks to this rank, I can elevate you as much
as you have heretofore been abased. Do you hear, my darling child--my
beloved daughter? for it is I--I, who am your father!"

And the prince, no longer able to conquer his emotion, threw himself at the
feet of Fleur-de-Marie, whom he covered with tears and caresses.

"God be praised!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, clasping her hands. "I am permitted
to love my benefactor as much as I would have loved him. He is my father. I
can cherish him without remorse. Be praised, my---"

She could not finish--the shock was too violent; Fleur-de-Marie fainted in
the arms of her father.

Murphy ran to the door, opened it, and said, "Dr David instantly for his
royal highness; some one is ill!"

"Curses on me? I have killed her," cried Rudolph--in tears, kneeling before
his daughter. "Marie, my child, listen to me; it is your father.
Pardon--Oh! pardon for not having retained this secret longer. I have
killed her!"

"Calm yourself, my lord," said Clemence; "there is, doubtless, no danger.
See her cheeks are tinged with color; it is the shock--only the shock."

"But hardly convalescent, she will die. Woe is me!"

At this moment, David, the black physician, entered precipitately: holding
in his hands a small box filled with vials, and a paper, which he handed to
Murphy.

"David, my child is dying. I have saved your life--you must save my child!"
cried Rudolph.

Although amazed at these words of the prince, who spoke of his child, the
doctor ran to Fleur-de-Marie, whom Lady d'Harville held in her arms, took
hold of the young girl's pulse, placed his hand on her forehead, and
turning toward Rudolph, who, pained and alarmed, awaited his doom, he said:
"There is no danger, let your highness be assured."

"You speak the truth--no danger--none?"

"Not any, your highness. A few drops of ether, and this attack will pass
over."

"Oh! thank you, David--my good David!" cried the prince, warmly. Then
turning toward Clemence, Rudolph added, "She lives--our daughter will
live."

Murphy had just cast his eyes over the note which David had placed in his
hand; he shuddered, and looked at the prince with affright.

"Yes, my old friend," said Rudolph, "in a short time my daughter will say
to Lady d'Harville," My mother!'"

"My lord," said Murphy, trembling, "the news of yesterday was false."

"What do you say?"

"A violent attack, followed by a fainting fit, had caused them to think
that the Countess M'Gregor was dead."

"The countess--"

"This morning there are hopes of saving her."

"Oh!" cried the prince, while Clemence looked at him with surprise, not
comprehending his altered appearance.

"My lord," said David, still occupied with Fleur-de Marie, "there is no
cause for the slightest uneasiness. But fresh air is necessary; the chair
can be rolled on the terrace by opening the door of the garden, she will
then soon recover."

Murphy ran immediately to open the glass door, and aided by David, he
gently rolled the chair into the garden, leaving Rudolph and Clemence
alone.

CHAPTER XXII

DEVOTION.

"Ah! madame," cried Rudolph, as soon as Murphy and David had departed, "you
do not know that the Countess M'Gregor is the mother of Fleur-de-Marie!"

"Great heavens!"

"I thought her dead; and what you are still ignorant of," added Rudolph,
with bitterness, "is that this woman, as selfish as ambitious, loving me
only as a prince, had, in my younger days, contrived to lead me into a
marriage, which was afterward dissolved. Wishing then to marry again, the
countess has caused all the misfortunes of her child by abandoning her to
mercenary hands."

"Ah! now I understand the aversion that your highness had for her."

"You comprehend also why she wished to ruin you by infamous anonymous
communications! Always impelled by her implacable ambition, she thought to
force me to return to her by isolating me from all endearments."

"Oh! what a wicked intention!"

"And she is not dead!"

"This regret is not worthy of your highness."

"It is because you are not aware of all the injury she has caused! At this
time, when, on finding my daughter again, I was about to give her a mother
worthy of her--oh! no, no--this woman is a demon of vengeance in my path!"

"Come, your highness, take courage!" said Clemence, wiping away the tears,
which fell in spite of her: "you have a great and holy duty to fulfill. You
said yourself, that henceforth the fate of your daughter should be as happy
as it had been miserable; that she should be as elevated as she had been
abased. For that you must legitimatize her birth; for that, your highness,
you must espouse the Countess M'Gregor."

"Never--never! It would be to reward perjury, selfishness and the mad
ambition of this unnatural mother. I will acknowledge my daughter; you will
adopt her, and thus, as I hoped, she will find in you maternal affection."

"No, you will not do that; no, you will not leave the birth of your child
in the shade. The countess is of a noble and ancient house; for you,
doubtless, this alliance is disproportionate, but it is honorable. By this
marriage, your daughter will not be legitimatized, but legitimate; and
thus, whatever may happen to her, she can be proud of her father, and
openly acknowledge her mother."

"But to renounce you--is impossible. Oh! you do not think what happiness it
would have been for me, divided between you and my child--my only love in
this world."

[Illustration: THE PLEA FOR CHARITY]

"Your child remains to your highness: heaven has miraculously restored her
to you. Not to be perfectly happy will be ingratitude!"

"Oh! you do not love me as I love you."

"Believe it, your highness, believe it; the sacrifice that you make to duty
will seem less painful."

"But if you love me--if your regrets are as bitter as mine, you will be
very unhappy. What will remain for you?"

"Charity, your highness! that admirable sentiment which you have awakened
in my heart; that sentiment which has caused me to forget so many sorrows,
and to which I am indebted for so many sweet and tender consolations."

"Pray listen to me. Be it so: I will marry this woman; but once the
sacrifice accomplished, will it be possible for me to live with her, with
her who only inspires me with aversion and contempt? No, no; we shall
remain forever separated; never shall she see my child. Thus Fleur-de-Marie
will lose in you the most tender of mothers."

"But there will remain for her the most tender of fathers. By the marriage,
she will be the legitimate daughter of a sovereign prince of Europe; and
thus, as your highness has said, her position will be as splendid as it was
obscure."

"You are without pity. I am very unhappy."

"Dare you speak thus--you, so great, so just--you, who so nobly comprehend
duty, devotion, and self-denial? A short time since, before this
providential revelation, when you wept for your child with such bitter
tears, if any one had said to you, 'Make one wish--one alone, and it shall
be realized,' you would have cried, 'My daughter!--oh! my daughter--let
her live!' This is accomplished; your daughter is restored to you, and you
call yourself unhappy. Ah! may Fleur-de-Marie not hear your highness."

"You are right," said Rudolph, after, a long silence; "so much happiness
would have been heaven upon earth; but I do not deserve that. I will do my
duty. I do not regret my hesitation. I owe to it a new proof of the beauty
and noble sentiments of your mind."

"This mind--it is you who have exalted and elevated it. If that which I do
is well, it is you whom I praise for it. Courage, my lord; as soon as
Fleur-de-Marie can stand the fatigue of traveling, take her with you. Once
in Germany, a country so calm and grave, her transformation will be
complete, and the past will only be to her a sad and distant dream."

"But you? but you?"

"I--I can well tell you that now, because I shall always say it with joy
and pride: my love for you shall be my guardian angel, my savior, my
virtue, my future. Every day I will write you; pardon me this demand--it is
the only one I shall make. Your highness, you will reply to me sometimes,
to give me news of her, who, for a moment at least, I called my daughter,"
said Clemence, without being able to restrain her tears; "and who shall
always be so, at least in my thoughts; in fine, when time shall have given
us the right openly to avow the unalterable affection which binds us--ah,
well! I swear it in the name of your daughter, if you desire it, I will go
and live in Germany--in the same city with you--never more to part; and
thus terminate a life which might have been more happy, but which will have
been at least worthy and honorable."

"My lord!" cried Murphy, entering precipitately, "she whom God has restored
to you has recovered her senses. Her first words were, 'My father!' She
asks to see you."

A few moments after, Lady d'Harville left the mansion. Accompanied by
Murphy, Baron de Graun, and an aid-de-camp, the prince went in great haste
to the residence of the Countess M'Gregor.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE WEDDING.

Since Rudolph had informed her of the murder of Fleur-de-Marie, Countess
Sarah M'Gregor, overwhelmed by this revelation, which ruined all her hopes,
tortured by deep remorse, had been attacked by violent nervous spasms, and
a frightful delirium; her wound, hardly healed, reopened, and a fainting
fit of long duration had caused her attendants to suppose her dead.
However, from the strength of her constitution, she did not sink under this
severe attack; a new glimmering of life once more reanimated her. Seated in
an arm-chair, in order to relieve the oppression which suffocated her,
Sarah, almost regretting the death from which she had just escaped, was
occupied with bitter thoughts. Suddenly Thomas Seyton entered the chamber
of the countess; he with difficulty restrained some internal agitation; at
a sign from him her two women withdrew.

"How are you now?" said he to his sister.

"In the same state--I am very weak, and from time to time almost
suffocated. Why did not heaven take me away from this world during my last
attack?"

"Sarah," said Thomas Seyton, after a pause, "you are between life and
death--a violent emotion might kill you, as it might save you."

"I have now no more emotions to experience, my brother."

"Perhaps--"

"The death of Rudolph would find me indifferent; the ghost of my drowned
daughter--drowned by my fault--is there--always there, before me. It is not
an emotion--it is incessant remorse. I am really a mother now, since I no
longer have a child."

"I would prefer to find in you that cold ambition which made you regard
your daughter as a means to realize the dream of your life."

"The frightful reproaches of the prince have killed this ambition; the
maternal sentiment is awakened in me at the picture of the extreme misery
of my daughter."

"And," said Seyton, hesitating and weighing each word, "if by
chance-supposing an impossible thing--a miracle--you were informed that
your daughter still lived--how would you support such a discovery?"

"I should die with shame and despair at the sight of her."

"Do not believe that--you would be too much elated with the triumph of your
ambition; for, if your daughter had lived, the prince would have married
you--he told you so."

"In admitting this mad supposition, it seems to me that I should not have a
right to live. After having received the hand of the prince, my duty would
be to deliver him of an unworthy wife--my daughter of an unnatural mother."

The embarrassment of Thomas Seyton increased every moment. Charged by
Rudolph, who was in an adjoining room, to inform Sarah that Fleur-de-Marie
was alive, he did not know how to accomplish it. The state of the countess
was so critical that she might expire from one moment to another; there
was, then, no time to be lost in celebrating the marriage _in extremis_
which was to legitimate the birth of Fleur-de-Marie. For this sad ceremony,
the prince had brought with him a clergyman, with Murphy and Baron de Graun
as witnesses; the Duke de Lucenay and Lord Douglas, notified in haste by
Seyton, were to serve as witnesses for the countess, and had just arrived.
Time was pressing; but remorse, feelings of maternal tenderness, which
replaced, in Sarah's heart, her merciless ambition, rendered the task of
Seyton still more difficult. All his hope was that his sister deceived him
or deceived herself, and that her pride would be awakened, as soon as she
had gained this crown, so long and ambitiously coveted.

"Sister," said Thomas Seyton, "I am in a terrible perplexity; one word from
me, perhaps, will restore you to life--perhaps will send you to your tomb."

"I have already told you that I have no more emotions to dread."

"One alone, however--"

"Which?"

"If it concerned your child?"

"My child is dead."

"If she were not?"

"We have exhausted this supposition already. Enough, brother, my remorse
suffices."

"But if it were not a supposition? if by chance--an incredible chance--your
daughter had been rescued from death; if she lived?"

"You alarm me; do not talk thus."

"Well, then, may God pardon me and judge you! she lives still."

"My daughter?"

"She lives, I tell you. The prince is here with a clergyman. I have sent
for two of your friends for witnesses; the wish of your life is at length
realized--the prediction is fulfilled--you are a sovereign."

Thomas Seyton pronounced these words while fixing on his sister a look of
anguish, watching for each sign of emotion. To his great astonishment, the
features of Sarah remained almost impassible; she placed her hand upon her
heart, and falling back in her chair, suppressed a slight cry, which
appeared to have been caused by some sudden and excruciating pain, after
which her face became composed and calm.

"What is the matter, sister?"

"Nothing--surprise--unhoped-for joy. At length my wishes are crowned."

"I was not deceived," thought Thomas Seyton. "Ambition rules--she is
saved." Then, addressing his sister, he said, "What did I tell you?"

"You were right," replied she, with a bitter smile, divining her brother's
thoughts; "ambition has once more stifled maternity within me."

"You will live; and will love your daughter?"

"I do not doubt it--I shall live--see how calm I am. Where is the prince?"

"He is here."

"I wish to see him before the ceremony. My daughter is here also, without
doubt."

"No; you will see her afterward."

"Now that I have the time, ask, I pray you, the prince to come."

"My sister, I do not know why--but your manner is strange."

"Would you have me laugh? Do you think satisfied ambition has a soft and
tender expression? Let the prince come!"

In spite of himself, Seyton was uneasy at Sarah's calmness. For a moment he
thought he saw in her eyes restrained tears; after a little longer
hesitation, he opened a door, which he left open, and went out.

"Now," said Sarah, "let me but see and embrace my child, I shall be
satisfied. It will be very difficult to be obtained: Rudolph, to punish me,
will refuse; but I will succeed."

Rudolph entered and closed the door.

"Your brother has told you all?" demanded the prince, coldly.

"All!"

"Your ambition is satisfied?"

"It is satisfied."

"The clergyman and the witnesses are here."

"I know it. One word, my lord."

"Speak, madame."

"I wish to see my daughter."

"It is impossible."

"I tell your highness that I wish to see my child."

"She is hardly convalescent--she has been quite ill this morning; this
interview might be fatal to her."

"But at least she will embrace her mother."

"For what purpose? You are now a sovereign."

"I am not yet, and I will not be until I have embraced my child."

Rudolph looked at the countess with profound astonishment. "How!" he cried,
"you subject the satisfaction of your pride--"

"To the satisfaction of my maternal tenderness; that surprises your
highness."

"Alas! yes."

"Shall I see my child?"

"But--"

"Take care, my lord; my moments are perhaps counted. As my brother said,
this crisis may save or kill me. At this moment I collect all my strength,
all my energy, and I need them much to struggle against the shock of such a
discovery. I wish to see my child, or I refuse your hand; and if I die, her
birth is not legitimate."

"Fleur-de-Marie is not here; I should have to send for her at my house."

"Send for her at once, and I consent to all. As my moments, perhaps, are
counted, I have said it. The marriage can take place while some one goes
for Fleur-de-Marie."

"Although this feeling astonishes me, it is too praiseworthy to be
disregarded. You shall see Fleur-de-Marie; I will write to her."

"There, on the desk where I was wounded." While Rudolph hastily wrote a few
lines, the countess wiped away the icy sweat which stood upon her brow; her
features now betrayed violent and concealed suffering.

His note being written, Rudolph arose and said to the lady, "I will send
this to my daughter by one of my aids-de-camp. She will be here in half an
hour. Shall I bring with me, on my return, the clergyman and witnesses?"

"You can, or, rather, I beg you will do so. Ring--do not leave me alone!"

Rudolph rang the bell, and requested the servant who answered the summons
to desire Sir Walter Murphy to come to him.

"This union is sad, Rudolph," said the countess, bitterly; "sad for me. For
you it will be happy, for I shall not survive it."

At this moment Murphy entered.

"My friend," said Rudolph, "send this letter immediately by the colonel; he
will bring my daughter back with him in the carriage. Beg the clergyman and
witnesses to walk into the next room."

"Oh, heaven!" cried Sarah, in a supplicating tone, when the squire had
departed, "grant me strength enough to see her--let me not die before she
arrives!"

"Oh, why have you not always been as good a mother?"

"Thanks to you, at least, I know repentance--devotion--self-denial. Yes,
just now, when my brother said our child lived--let me say _our_
child--I felt that I was stricken unto death. I did not tell him, but I was
happy. The birth of our child will be legitimatized and I should die
afterward."

"Do not speak thus!"

"Oh! this time I do not deceive you--you will see."

"And no vestige remains of that implacable ambition which has ruined you!
Why has fate willed that your repentance should be so late?"

"It is late, but profound--sincere; I swear it to you. At this solemn
moment, if I thank heaven to take me from the world, it is because my life
has been to you a horrible burden."

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