Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue

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Every day passed like a dream: my cousin gradually came to treat me with a
true sisterly familiarity; she did not conceal from me the pleasure that
she felt in seeing me; she confided to me all that interested her. Two or
three times she begged me to accompany her when she went with the grand
duchess to visit the young orphans; often, also, she spoke to me of my
future plans with a maturity of reason, a serious and reflective interest,
that astonished me, coming from a girl of her age; she was very fond, too,
of inquiring of my infancy, and of my mother, alas! ever regretted. Every
time that I wrote to my father, she begged me to recall her to his
remembrance; then, for she embroidered to admiration, she gave me one day
for him a charming piece of tapestry, upon which she had worked for a long
time. What more shall I tell you, my friend? a brother and sister, meeting
again after a long separation, would not have enjoyed a sweeter intimacy.
Let me add that, when, by some unusual chance, we were left alone, the
entrance of a third could never have changed the subject, or even the
accent of our conversation. You will be perhaps astonished, my friend, at
this brotherly feeling between two young people, especially as you recall
what I have acknowledged to you; but the more confidence and familiarity my
cousin showed me, the more I watched over, the more I constrained myself,
for fear of putting an end to the adorable familiarity. And then, what
increased still more my reserve, the princess showed, in her intercourse
with me, so much frankness, so much noble confidence, and especially so
little coquetry, that I am almost certain that she has always been ignorant
of my violent passion, though there remains a slight doubt on this subject,
arising from a circumstance that I will relate immediately. If this
brotherly intercourse could always have lasted, perhaps this happiness
might have been sufficient for me; but even while I was enjoying this with
delight, I reflected that my service or the new career in which the prince
was inducing me to engage would soon call me to Vienna or abroad; I
reflected, in short that, presently, perhaps, the grand duke would think of
marrying his daughter in a manner worthy of her. These thoughts became the
more painful to me as the moment of my departure approached. My cousin soon
observed the change that was at work in me. The evening before the day I
left her, she told me for a long time she had found me gloomy and
abstracted. I endeavored to elude her questions; I attributed my sadness to
a vague ennui.

"I cannot believe you," said she to me; "my father treats you almost as a
son; everybody loves you; to be unhappy would be ingratitude."

"Ah well!" said I to her, without being able to conquer my emotion, "it is
not ennui; it is grief--yes, a penetrating grief that I feel."

"And why? What has happened to you?" she asked me, with interest.

"Just now, my cousin, you told me that your father treated me as a son;
that everybody loved me. Ah! well, before long, I must renounce these
precious attachments; I must, in short, leave Gerolstein, and, I confess to
you, this thought fills me with despair."

"And the remembrance of those that are dear to us--is this then, nothing,
my cousin?"

"Ah, yes--but years, but events bring so many unforeseen changes!"

"There are at least attachments which are not changed: such as my father
has always shown you. What I feel for you is of this kind, you know full
well; we are brother and sister--never to forget one another," added she,
raising toward me her large blue eyes, filled with tears.

This glance overwhelmed me; I was on the point of betraying myself;
fortunately, I restrained myself.

"It is true that feeling lasts," said I to her, in an embarrassed manner;
"but circumstances alter. For instance, my cousin, when in a few years I
shall return, do you think that then this intimacy, whose charm I value so
fully, may yet continue?"

"Why should it not continue?"

"Because you will then be, undoubtedly, married, my cousin--you will have
other duties--and you will have forgotten your poor brother."

* * * * *

I swear to you, my friend, I said no more to her. I know not yet if she saw
in these words an avowal which was displeasing to her, or whether she, like
myself, was sadly struck by the inevitable changes that the future must
necessarily make in our intercourse; but, instead of answering me, she
remained a moment silent, overwhelmed; then, rising suddenly, her
countenance pale and disordered, she went out, after examining some
embroidery by the young Countess d'Oppenheim, one of her ladies of honor,
who was working in the embrasure of one of the windows of the saloon where
our conversation took place. The evening of this day I received a new
letter from my father, which recalled me suddenly here. The next morning I
went to take leave of the grand duke; he told me that my cousin was a
little unwell, that I might entrust to him my last words to her; he pressed
me to his heart, like a father, regretting, he added, my sudden departure,
and especially that this departure was occasioned by the anxiety that the
health of my father gave me; then, recalling to me, with the greatest
kindness, his counsel on the subject of the new career which he begged me
to embrace immediately, he added, that on my return from my embassies, or
on my leaves of absence, he should see me again at Gerolstein with warm
pleasure. Happily, on my arrival here I found the state of my father a
little improved; he still keeps his bed, and is constantly feeble, but his
health no longer gives me any serious anxiety. Unfortunately, he has
already noticed my depression, my gloomy taciturnity, several times; but he
has supplicated me in vain to confide to him the cause of my melancholy
grief. I should not dare it, notwithstanding his blind tenderness for me;
you know his severity as regards everything which appears to him wanting in
frankness and loyalty. Yesterday, I watched with him; when alone by his
side, believing him asleep, I could not restrain my tears, which flowed in
silence as I thought of my happy days at Gerolstein. He saw me weep, for he
soon awaked while I was absorbed in my grief; he questioned me with the
most touching kindness; I attributed my sadness to the anxiety that his
health had caused me, but he was not deceived by this evasion. Now that you
know all, my good Maximilian, say is not my fate forlorn enough! What shall
I do--what resolve?

Ah, my friend, I cannot tell you my anguish. What is to happen, my God! All
is utterably lost! I am the most wretched of men if my father does not
renounce his project. I will tell you what has just happened; just now I
had finished this letter, when, to my great astonishment, my father, whom I
believed in bed, entered my cabinet, where I was writing to you; he saw
upon my desk my first four great pages all filled; I was at the end of this
last--"

"To whom do you write so at length?" he asked, smiling.

"To Maximilian, father."

"Oh!" said he to me, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "I know
that he possessed your confidence entirely; _he is very happy--he!_"

He pronounced these last words so sadly, in such a bounded tone, that,
touched by his accent, I replied to him, giving him my letter, almost
without reflection: "Read, father."

My friend, he has read all. Do you know what he said to me, after remaining
for some time thoughtful?

"Henry, I am going to write to the grand duke all that passed during your
stay at Gerolstein."

"My father, I conjure you, do not do it."

"Is what you relate to Maximilian perfectly true?"

"Yes, my father."

"In this case, until now your conduct has been upright. The prince will
appreciate it. But in future you should not show yourself unworthy of his
noble confidence; you would do so if, abusing his offer, you should return
hereafter to Gerolstein, with the intention, perhaps, of making yourself
beloved by his daughter."

"My father, could you think----"

"I think that you love with passion, and that passion is, sooner or later,
an evil consoler."

"How, my father? you will write to the prince that----"

"'You love your cousin desperately.'"

"In the name of heaven, my father, I supplicate you, do nothing of this!"

"Do you love your cousin?"

"I love her to idolatry; but----"

My father interrupted me: "If this is the case, I shall write to the grand
duke to demand of him for you the hand of his daughter."

"But, my father, such a claim is madness for me!"

"It is true; nevertheless, I ought frankly to make this demand of the
prince, representing to him the reasons that lead me to this step. He has
received you with the most true hospitality, he has shown you fatherly
kindness; it would be unworthy me and you to deceive him. I know the
greatness of his soul; he will feel that I am dealing as an honest man; if
he refuses to give you his daughter, and this is almost unquestionable, he
will know at least that in future, if you should return to Gerolstein, you
ought to be no more in the same intimacy with her. You have shown me, my
child," added my father, kindly, "the letter that you have written to
Maximilian. I am now informed of everything; it is my duty to write to the
grand duke, and I am going to write this very moment."

You know, my friend, that my father is the best of men, but he has an
inflexible tenacity of will when the question is what regards his
_duty_; judge of my anguish, my terror. Though the step he is going to
take may be, after all, frank and honorable, it does not trouble me less.
How will the grand duke receive this mad offer? Will he not be displeased
with it? and will not the Princess Amelia be as much wounded that I have
allowed my father to take such a step without her consent?

Ah, my friend, pity me, I know not what to think. It seems as though I were
looking upon an abyss, and that a dizziness were coming over me.

I finish in haste this long letter; I shall write you soon. Yet once more
pity me, for, in truth, I fear I shall become crazy if the fever that
excites me lasts longer. Adieu, adieu! Yours from my heart, and ever,

HENRY D'H.-O.

* * * * *

We now conduct our reader to the palace of Gerolstein, where Fleur-de-Marie
had dwelt since her return from France.

CHAPTER IV.

THE PRINCESS AMELIA.

The apartment occupied by Fleur-de-Marie (we shall call her the Princess
Amelia only officially), in the grand ducal palace, had been furnished by
Rudolph's care, with extreme taste and elegance. From the balcony of the
young girl's oratory could be seen, in the distance, the two towers of the
Convent of St. Hermangilda, which, rising above immense masses of verdure,
were themselves commanded by a high wooded mountain, at the foot of which
the abbey stood. On a beautiful morning in summer, Fleur-de-Marie was
allowing her glances to wander over the splendid landscape, which extended
far away in the distance. Her hair was dressed, but she wore a morning
dress of thin material, white, with narrow blue stripes; a large
handkerchief of plain cambric falling upon her shoulders, left visible the
two ends and the knot of a little silk cravat, of the same blue as the
girdle of her dress. Seated in a large, high-backed elbow chair made of
carved ebony and cramoisie velvet, her elbow supported by one arm of this
seat, her head a little bent down, she supported her cheek upon the back of
her small white hand, delicately veined with azure. The languishing
attitude of Fleur-de-Marie, her paleness, the fixedness of her gaze, the
bitterness of her half-smile, revealed a deep melancholy. After some
moments, a heavy, sad sigh relieved her breast. Then, letting her hand
which supported her cheek fall again, she bent her head further upon her
breast. You would have said that the wretched girl was bending beneath the
weight of some heavy misfortune. At this moment a woman of mature age, with
a grave and distinguished air, dressed in elegant simplicity, entered the
oratory, almost timidily, and coughed slightly, to attract the attention of
Fleur-de-Marie. Arousing herself from her reverie, she raised her head
quickly, and said, saluting her with a motion full of grace,

"What do you wish, my dear countess?"

"I come to inform your highness that my lord begs you to await him; for he
will meet you here in a few minutes," replied Princess Amelia's maid of
honor, with respectful formality.

"I was wondering that I had not yet saluted my father to-day; I wait his
visit each morning with so much impatience! But I hope that I do not owe to
any illness of Fraeulein Harneim the pleasure of seeing you, my dear
countess, at the palace two days in succession."

"Let your highness feel no uneasiness on that point; Fraeulein Harneim has
begged me to take her place to-day; to-morrow she will have the honor of
resuming her service of your highness, who will, perhaps excuse the
change."

"Certainly, for I shall lose nothing by it; after having had the pleasure
of seeing you two days in succession, my dear countess, I shall have for
two other days Fraeulien Harneim with me."

"You highness honors us," replied the maid of honor, bending again; "this
extreme kindness encourages me to ask a favor."

"Speak, speak; you know my eagerness to be of assistance to you."

"It is true that for a long time your highness has accustomed me to your
goodness; but this regards a subject so painful, that I should not have the
courage to enter upon it, if it did not concern a very deserving object;
for this reason I dare to depend upon the extreme indulgence of your
highness."

"Your have no need of any indulgence, my dear countess; I am always very
grateful for every occasion that is given me for doing a little good."

"This concerns a poor creature who, unfortunately, had quitted Gerolstein
before your highness had established that institution, which is so
charitable, and so useful for young orphan or forsaken girls, whom nothing
protects from evil passions."

"And what has happened to her? what do you beg for her?"

"Her father, a very adventurous man, went to seek his fortune in America,
leaving his wife and daughter to a precarious mode of existence. The mother
died; the daughter, hardly sixteen years old when left to herself, quitted
the country to follow to Vienna a seducer, who soon forsook her. Then, as
always happens, the first step in the path of vice led this wretched girl
to an abyss of infamy; in a short time she became, like so many other
miserable creatures, the opprobrium of her sex."

Fleur-de-Marie cast down her eyes, blushed, and could not conceal a slight
shudder, which did not escape the maid of honor. Fearing to have wounded
the chaste susceptibility of the princess by conversing with her upon such
a creature, she continued, with embarrassment:

"I asks a thousand pardons of your royal highness; I have undoubtedly
offended you by drawing your attention to so polluted a being; but the
miserable one shows so sincere a repentance, that I thought I could solicit
for her a little pity."

"And you were right. Go on, I pray you," said Fleur-de-Marie, conquering
her sad emotion; "indeed, all errors are worthy of pity when repentance
follows them."

"And that is the case here, as I have remarked to your highness. After two
years of this abominable life, grace touched this abandoned one. A prey to
a late remorse, she has returned here. Chance so favored her, that, on her
arrival here, she was lodged at a house belonging to a worthy widow, whose
gentleness and piety are well known. Encouraged by the pious goodness of
the widow, the poor creature has confessed to her her faults, adding that
she felt a just horror for her past life, and that she would purchase, at
the price of the most severe penance, the happiness of entering a religious
house, where she might expiate her errors and deserve their redemption. The
worthy widow to whom she has intrusted this confidence, knowing that I had
the honor to serve your highness, has written to me to recommend to me this
unfortunate one, who, by means of the all-powerful agency of your highness
with the Princess Juliana, lady superior of the abbey, might hope to enter
St. Hermangilda Abbey as lay sister; she asks as a favor to be employed in
the most painful hours that her penance may be more meritorious. I have
several times desired to converse with this woman before allowing myself to
implore for her the pity of your highness, and I am firmly convinced that
her repentance will be lasting. It is neither want nor age that has brought
her to the true good; she is scarcely eighteen years old; she is yet very
beautiful, and possesses a small sum of money, that she wishes to devote to
a charitable object if she obtains the favor that she solicits."

"I will take charge of her," said Fleur-de-Marie, restraining with
difficulty her emotion, so much resemblance did her past life offer to that
of the unfortunate one in whose favor she was solicited: she added, "the
repentance of this miserable one is too praiseworthy to be left without
encouragement."

"I know not how to express my gratitude to your highness. I hardly dared
hope your highness would deign to be so charitably interested in such a
creature."

"She has been guilty--she repents," said Fleur-de-Marie, with an accent of
commiseration and inexpressible sadness; "it is right to nourish pity for
her. The more sincere her remorse, the more painful must it be, my dear
countess."

"I hear my lord, I believe," said the maid of honor, suddenly, without
remarking the deep and increasing emotion of Fleur-de-Marie.

In fact, Rudolph was entering a saloon which opened into the oratory,
holding in his hand an enormous bunch of roses. At the sight of the prince
the countess discreetly retired. Hardly had she disappeared, when
Fleur-de-Marie threw herself upon her father's neck, resting her forehead
upon his shoulder, and remained thus some seconds without speaking.

"Good-morning, good-morning, my dear child," said Rudolph, pressing his
daughter to his breast with feeling, without yet observing her sadness.
"See this mass of roses; what a fine harvest I gathered for you this
morning; it was this that prevented me from coming sooner; I hope that I
have never brought you a more magnificent bouquet. Take it."

And the prince, still holding his bouquet in his hand, moved backward
gently, to disengage his daughter from his arms and look at her; but seeing
her burst into tears, he threw the bouquet upon the table, took
Fleur-de-Marie's hands in his, and exclaimed, "You weep! Oh, what is the
matter?"

"Nothing, nothing, my dear father," said Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears
and endeavoring to smile upon Rudolph.

"Tell me, I beg you, what is the matter? What can have made you sad?"

"I assure you, father, it is nothing to distress you. The countess has just
solicited my interest for a poor woman, so interesting, so unhappy, that in
spite of myself I am moved by her recital."

"Truly? Is it only this?"

"It is only this," answered Fleur-de-Marie, taking from a table the flowers
that Rudolph had thrown there; "but how you spoil me!" added she, "what a
magnificent bouquet, and when I think that each day you bring me such,
gathered by yourself."

"My child," said Rudolph, gazing upon his daughter with anxiety, "you
conceal something from me; your smile is sad--constrained. Tell me, I beg
you, what distresses you: do not occupy yourself with this bouquet."

"Ah, you know this bouquet is my joy every morning; and then I love roses
so much--I have always loved them so much. You remember," added she, with
an affecting smile, "you remember my poor little rose-bush. I have always
kept its remains."

At this painful allusion to the past, Rudolph exclaimed, "Unhappy child!
Are my suspicions founded? In the midst of the splendor that surrounds you,
would you yet sometimes think of that horrible time? Alas, I had thought to
have made you forget it by tenderness."

"Pardon, pardon, father! these words escaped me. I make you sad."

"I am myself sad, poor angel," said Rudolph sorrowfully, "because these
returns to the past must be fearful to you--because they would poison your
life if you were weak enough to abandon yourself to them."

"Father, this was by chance. Since our arrival here, this is the first
time--"

"This is the first time you have spoken of it--yes; but, perhaps, this is
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 Clemence 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."

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