Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours forever, R.

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

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

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

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

"She kisses your hand with pious respect.

"SISTER AMELIA."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII

THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY.

_Rudolph to Clemence._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you say, my dear daughter?"

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

"But the voices of your sisters call you to it."

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

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

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

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