Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue

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"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 Clemence
and you; I should have renounced these _fetes_--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 Clemence 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 Clemence.

"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 Clemence.

"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 Clemence 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 Clemence.

"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 Clemence.

"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
fete 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,
Clemence 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 Clemence: "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 Clemence 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 Clemence, "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 Clemence,
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 Clemence, 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 Clemence._

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, Clemence, 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? Clemence, 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."

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