"And will you not even see Madame d'Harville, my lord, ere you set out on your journey?"
At the recollection of Clémence, Rodolph started; his affection for her burned as steadfastly and sincerely as ever, but, for the moment, it seemed buried beneath the overwhelming grief which oppressed him. The tender sympathy of Madame d'Harville appeared to him the only source of consolation; but, the next instant, he rejected the idea of seeking consolation in the love of another as unworthy his paternal sorrow.
"No, my kind friend, I shall not see Madame d'Harville previously to quitting Paris. I wrote to her a few days since, telling her of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, and the pain it had caused me. When she learns that the ill-fated girl was my long-lost daughter, she will readily understand that there are some griefs, or rather fatal punishments, it is requisite to endure alone."
A gentle knock was heard at the door at this minute. Rodolph, with displeasure at the interruption, signed for Murphy to ascertain who it was. The faithful squire immediately rose, and, partly opening the door, perceived one of the prince's aides-de-camp, who said a few words in a low tone, to which Murphy replied by a motion of the head, and, returning to Rodolph, said, "Have the goodness, my lord, to excuse me for an instant! A person wishes to see me directly on business that concerns your royal highness."
"Go!" replied the prince.
Scarcely had the door closed on Murphy, than Rodolph, covering his face with his hands, uttered a heavy groan.
"What horrible feelings possess me!" cried he. "My mind seems one vast ocean of gall and bitterness; the presence of my best and most faithful friend is painful to me; and the recollection of a love pure and elevated as mine distresses and embarrasses me. Last night, too, I was cowardly enough to learn the death of Sarah with savage joy. I felicitated myself on being free from an unnatural being like her, who had caused the destruction of my child; I promised myself the horrible satisfaction of witnessing the mortal agonies of the wretch who deprived my child of life. But I was baffled of my dear revenge. Another cruel punishment!" exclaimed he, starting with rage from his chair. "Yet although I knew yesterday as well as to-day that my child was dead, I did not experience such a whirlwind of despairing, self-accusing agony as now rends my soul; because I did not then recall to mind the one torturing fact that will for ever step in between me and consolation. I did not then recall the circumstance of my having seen and known my beloved child, and, moreover, discovered in her untold treasures of goodness and nobleness of character. Yet how little did I profit by her being at the farm! Merely saw her three times—yes, three times—no more! when I might have beheld her each day—nay, have kept her ever beside me. Oh, that will be my unceasing punishment, my never-ending reproach and torture,—to think I had my daughter near me, and actually sent her from me! Nor, though I felt how deserving she was of every fond care, did I even admit her into my presence but three poor distant times."
While the unhappy prince thus continued to torment himself with these and similar reflections, the door of the apartment suddenly opened and Murphy entered, looking so pale and agitated that even Rodolph could not help remarking it; and rising hastily, he exclaimed:
"For heaven's sake, Murphy, what has happened to you?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"Yet you are pale!"
"'Tis with astonishment."
"Astonishment at what?"
"Madame d'Harville."
"Madame d'Harville! Gracious heaven! Some fresh misfortune?"
"No, no, my lord—indeed, nothing unfortunate has occurred. Pray compose yourself! She is—in the drawing-room—"
"Here—in my house? Madame d'Harville here? Impossible!"
"My lord, I told you the surprise had quite overpowered me!"
"Tell me what has induced her to take such a step! Speak, I conjure you! In heaven's name, explain the reason for her acting so contrary to her usually rigid notions!"
"Indeed, my lord, I know nothing. But I cannot even account to myself for the strange feelings that come over me."
"You are concealing something from me!"
"No, indeed, my lord; on the honour of a man, I know only what the marquise said to me."
"And what did she say?"
"'Sir Walter,' said she, with an unsteady voice, though her countenance shone with joy, 'no doubt you are surprised at my presence here; but there are some circumstances so imperative as to leave no time to consider the strict rules of etiquette. Beg of his royal highness to grant me an immediate interview of a few minutes only in your presence, for I know well that the prince has not a better friend than yourself. I might certainly have requested him to call on me, but that would have caused at least an hour's delay; and when the prince has learned the occasion of my coming, I am sure he will feel grateful to me for not delaying the interviewI seek for a single instant.' And as she uttered these words, her countenance wore an expression that made me tremble all over."
"But," returned Rodolph, in an agitated tone, and, spite of all his attempts at retaining his composure, being even paler than Murphy himself, "I cannot guess what caused your emotion; there must be something beyond those words of Madame d'Harville's to occasion it."
"I pledge you my honour if there be I am wholly ignorant of it; but I confess those few words from Madame la Marquise seemed quite to bewilder me. But even you, my lord, are paler than you were."
"Am I?" said Rodolph, supporting himself on the back of his chair, for he felt his knees tremble under him.
"Nay, but, my lord, you are quite as much overcome as I was. What ails you?"
"Though I die in making the effort," exclaimed the prince, "it shall be done. Beg of Madame d'Harville to do me the honour to walk in."
By a singular and sympathetic feeling this extraordinary and wholly unexpected visit of Madame d'Harville had awakened in the breasts of Murphy and Rodolph the same vague and groundless hope, but so senseless did it seem that neither was willing to confess it to the other.
Madame d'Harville, conducted by Murphy, entered the apartment in which was the prince.
Ignorant of Fleur-de-Marie's being the prince's daughter, Madame d'Harville, in the fullness of her delight at restoring to him his protégée, had not reckoned upon its being necessary to observe any particular precaution in presenting her young companion, whom she merely left in the carriage until she had ascertained whether Rodolph chose to make known his real name and rank to the object of his bounty, and to receive her at his own house; but perceiving the deep alteration in his features, and struck with the visible gloom which overspread them, as well as the marks of recent tears so evident in his sunken eye, Clémence became alarmed with the idea that some fresh misfortune, greater than the loss of La Goualeuse would be considered, had suddenly occurred. Wholly losing sight, therefore, of the original cause of her visit, she anxiously exclaimed:
"For heaven's sake, my lord, what has happened?"
"Do you not know, madame? Then all hope is at an end! Alas! your earnest manner, the interview so unexpectedly sought by you, all made me believe—"
"Let me entreat of you not to think for a moment of the cause of my visit; but, in the name of that parent whose life you have preserved, I adjure you to explain to me the cause of the deep affliction in which I find you plunged. Your paleness, your dejection, terrify me. Oh, be generous, my lord, and relieve the cruel anxiety I suffer."
"Wherefore should I burden your kind heart with the relation of woes that admit of no relief?"
"Your words, your hesitation, but increase my apprehensions. Oh, my lord, I beseech you tell me all! Sir Walter, will you not take pity on my fears? For the love of heaven explain the meaning of all this! What has befallen the prince?"
"Nay," interrupted Rodolph, in a voice that vainly struggled for firmness, "since you desire it, madame, learn that since I acquainted you with the death of Fleur-de-Marie I have learned she was my own daughter."
"Your daughter!" exclaimed Clémence, in a tone impossible to describe. "Fleur-de-Marie your daughter!"
"And when just now you desired to see me, to communicate tidings that would fill me with joy,—pardon and pity the weakness of a parent half distracted at the loss of his newly-found treasure!—I ventured to hope—But no,—no,—I see too plainly I was mistaken! Forgive me, my brain seems wandering, and I scarce know what I say or do."
And then sinking under the failure of this last fond imagination of his heart, and unable longer to struggle with his black despair, Rodolph threw himself back in his chair and covered his face with his hands, while Madame d'Harville, astonished at what she had just heard, remained motionless and silent, scarcely able to breathe amid the conflicting emotions which took possession of her mind; at one instant glowing with delight at the thoughts of the joy she had it in her power to impart, then trembling for the consequences her explanation might produce on the overexcited mind of the prince.
Both these reflections were, however, swallowed up in the enthusiastic gratitude which she felt in the consideration that to her had been deputed the happiness not only of announcing to the grief-stricken father that his child still lived, but that the unspeakable raptureof placing that daughter in her parent's arms was likewise vouchsafed to her.
Carried away by a burst of pious thankfulness, and wholly forgetting the presence of Rodolph and Murphy, Madame d'Harville threw herself on her knees, and, clasping her hands, exclaimed, in a tone of fervent piety and ineffable gratitude:
"Thanks, thanks, my God, for this exceeding goodness! Ever blessed be thy gracious name for having permitted me to be the happy bearer of such joyful tidings,—to wipe away a father's tears by telling him his child lives to reward his tenderness!"
Although these words, pronounced with the sincerest fervour and holy ecstasy, were uttered almost in a whisper, yet they reached the listening ears of Rodolph and his faithful squire; and as Clémence rose from her knees, the prince gazed on her lovely countenance, irradiated as it was with celestial happiness and beaming with more than earthly beauty, with an expression almost amounting to adoration.
Supporting herself with one hand, while with the other she sought to still the rapid beating of her heart, Madame d'Harville replied by a sweet smile and an affirmative inclination of the head to the eager, soul-searching look of Rodolph, a look wholly beyond our poor powers to describe.
"And where is she?" exclaimed the prince, trembling like a leaf.
"In my carriage."
But for the intervention of Murphy, who threw himself before Rodolph with the quickness of lightning, the latter would have rushed to the vehicle.
"Would you kill her, my lord?" exclaimed the squire, forcibly retaining the prince.
"She was merely pronounced convalescent yesterday," added Clémence; "therefore, as you value her safety, do not venture to try the poor girl's strength too far."
"You are right," said Rodolph, scarcely able to restrain himself sufficiently to follow this prudent advice, "you are quite right. Yes, I will be calm,—I will not see her at present; I will wait until her first emotions have subsided. Oh, 'tis too much to endure in so short a space of time!" Then addressing Madame d'Harville, he said, in an agitated tone, while he extended to her his hand, "I feel that I am pardoned, and that you are the angel of forgiveness who brings me the glad tidings of my remission."
"Nay, my lord, we do but mutually requite our several obligations. You preserved to me my father, and Heaven permits me to restore your daughter at a time you bewailed her as lost. But I, too, must beg to be excused for the weakness which resists all my endeavours to control it; the sudden and unexpected news you have communicated to me has quite overcome me, and I confess I should not have sufficient command over myself to go in quest of Fleur-de-Marie,—my emotion would terrify her."
"And by what means was she preserved?" exclaimed Rodolph; "and whose hand snatched her from death? I am most ungrateful not to have put these questions to you earlier."
"She was rescued from drowning by a courageous female, who snatched her from a watery grave just as she was sinking."
"Do you know who this female was?"
"I do; and to-morrow she will be at my house."
"The debt is immense!" rejoined the prince; "but I will endeavour to repay it."
"Heaven must have inspired me with the idea of leaving Fleur-de-Marie in the carriage," said the marquise. "Had I brought her in with me the shock must have killed her."
"Now, then," said the prince, who had been for some minutes occupied in endeavouring to subdue his extremeagitation, "I can promise you, my kind friends, that I have my feelings sufficiently under control to venture to meet my—my—daughter. Go, Murphy, and fetch her to my longing arms."
Rodolph pronounced the word daughter with a tenderness of voice and manner impossible to describe.
"Are you quite sure you are equal to the trying scene, my lord?" inquired Clémence; "for we must run no risks with one in Fleur-de-Marie's delicate state."
"Oh, yes,—yes! Be under no alarm! I am too well aware of the dangerous consequences any undue emotion would occasion my child; be assured I will not expose her to anything of the sort. But go—go—my good Murphy; I beseech you hasten to bring her hither."
"Don't be alarmed, madame," said the squire, who had attentively scrutinised the countenance of the prince; "she may come now without danger. I am quite sure that his royal highness will sufficiently command himself."
"Then go—go—my faithful friend; you are keeping me in torments."
"Just give me one minute, my lord," said the excellent creature, drying the moisture from his eyes; "I must not let the poor thing see I have been crying. There, there—that will do! I should not like to cross the antechamber looking like a weeping Magdalen." So saying, the squire proceeded towards the door, but suddenly turning back, he said, "But, my lord, what am I to say to her?"
"Yes, what had he better say?" inquired the prince of Clémence.
"That M. Rodolph wishes to see her,—nothing more."
"Oh, to be sure! How stupid of me not to think of that! M. Rodolph wishes to see her,—capital, excellent!" repeated the squire, who evidently partook ofMadame d'Harville's nervousness, and sought to defer the moment of his embassy by one little pretext and the other. "That will not give her the least suspicion, not the shadow of a notion what she is wanted for. Nothing better could have been suggested."
But still Murphy stirred not.
"Sir Walter," said Clémence, smiling, "you are afraid!"
"Well, I won't deny it!" said the squire. "And, spite of my standing six feet high, I feel and know I am trembling like a child."
"Then take care, my good fellow!" said Rodolph. "You had better wait a little longer if you do not feel quite sure of yourself."
"No, no, my lord; I have got the upper hand of my fears this time!" replied Murphy, pressing his two herculean fists to his eyes. "I know very well that at my time of life it is ridiculous for me to show such weakness! I'm going, my lord, don't you be uneasy!" So saying, Murphy left the room with a firm step and composed countenance.
A momentary silence followed his departure, and then, for the first time, Clémence remembered she was alone with the prince, and under his roof. Rodolph drew near to her, and said, with an almost timid voice and manner:
"If I select this day—this hour—to divulge to you the dearest secret of my heart, it is that the solemnity of the present moment may give greater weight to that I would impart, and persuade you to believe me sincere, when I assure you I have loved you almost from the hour I first beheld you. While obstacles stood in the way of my love I studiously concealed it; but you are now free to hear me declare my affection, and to ask you to become a mother to the daughter you restore to me."
"My lord," cried Madame d'Harville, "what words are these?"
"Oh, refuse me not," said Rodolph, tenderly; "let this day decide the happiness of my future life."
Clémence had also nourished a deep and sincere passion for the prince; and his open, manly avowal of a similar feeling towards herself, made under such peculiar circumstances, transported her with joy, and she could but falter out in a hesitating voice:
"My lord, 'tis for me to remind you of the difference of our stations, and the interests of your sovereignty."
"Permit me first to consider the interest of my own heart, and that of my beloved child. Oh, make us both happy by consenting to be mine! So that I who, but a short time since, owned no blessed tie, may now proudly indulge in the idea of having both a wife and daughter; and give to the sorrowing child who is just restored to my arms the delight of saying, 'My father—my mother—my sister!'—for your sweet girl would become mine also."
"Ah, my lord," exclaimed Clémence, "my grateful tears alone can speak my sense of such noble conduct!" Then suddenly checking herself, she added, "I hear persons approaching, my lord; your daughter comes."
"Refuse me not, I conjure you!" responded Rodolph, in an agitated and suppliant tone. "By the love I bear you, I beseech you to make me happy by saying, 'Our daughter comes!'"
"Then be itourdaughter, if such is your sincere wish," murmured Clémence, as Murphy, throwing open the door, introduced Fleur-de-Marie into the salon.
The astonished girl had, upon entering the immense hôtel from the spacious portico under which she alighted from the marquise's carriage, first crossed an anteroom filled with servants dressed in rich liveries; then a waiting-room, in which were other domestics belonging to the establishment, also wearing the magnificent livery of the house of Gerolstein; and lastly, the apartment inwhich the chamberlain and aides-de-camp of the prince attended his orders.
The surprise and wonder of the poor Goualeuse, whose ideas of splendour were based on the recollection of the farm at Bouqueval, as she traversed those princely chambers glittering with gold, silver, paintings, and mirrors, may easily be imagined.
Directly she appeared, Madame d'Harville ran towards her, kindly took her hand, and throwing her arm around her waist, as though to support her, led her towards Rodolph, who remained supporting himself by leaning one arm on the chimneypiece, wholly incapable of advancing a single step.
Having consigned Fleur-de-Marie to the care of Madame d'Harville, Murphy hastily retreated behind one of the large window curtains, not feeling too sure of his own self-command.
At the sight of him who was, in the eyes of Fleur-de-Marie, not only her benefactor but the worshipped idol of her heart, the poor girl, whose delicate frame had been so severely tried by illness, became seized with a universal trembling.
"Compose yourself, my child!" said Madame d'Harville. "See, there is your kind M. Rodolph, who has been extremely uneasy on your account, and is most anxious to see you."
"Oh, yes—uneasy, indeed!" stammered forth Rodolph, whose breast was wrung with anguish at the sight of his child's pale, suffering looks, and, spite of his previous resolution, the prince found himself compelled to turn away his head to conceal his deep emotion.
"My poor child!" said Madame d'Harville, striving to divert the attention of Fleur-de-Marie, "you are still very weak!" and, leading her to a large gilded armchair, she made her sit down, while the astonished Goualeuse seemed almost to shrink from touching the elegant cushions with which it was lined. But she did notrecover herself; on the contrary, she seemed oppressed. She strove to speak, but her voice failed her, and her heart reproached her with not having said one word to her venerated benefactor of the deep gratitude which filled her whole soul.
At length, at a sign from Madame d'Harville, who, leaning over Fleur-de-Marie, held one of the poor girl's thin, wasted hands in hers, the prince gently approached the side of the chair, and now, more collected, he said to Fleur-de-Marie, as she turned her sweet face to welcome him:
"At last, my child, your friends have recovered you, and be sure it is not their intention ever to part with you again. One thing you must endeavour to do, and that is to banish for ever from your mind all your past sufferings."
"Yes, my dear girl," said Clémence, "you can in no way so effectually prove your affection for your friends as by forgetting the past."
"Ah, M. Rodolph, and you, too, madame, pray believe that if, spite of myself, my thoughts do revert to the past, it will be but to remind me that but for you that wretched past would still be my lot."
"But we shall take pains to prevent such mournful reminiscences ever crossing your mind. Our tenderness will not allow you time to look back, my dear Marie," said Rodolph; "you know I gave you that name at the farm."
"Oh, yes, M. Rodolph, I well remember you did. And Madame Georges, who was so good as even to permit me to call her mother, is she quite well?"
"Perfectly so, my child; but I have some most important news for you. Since I last saw you some great discoveries have been made respecting your birth. We have found out who were your parents, and your father is known to us."
The voice of Rodolph trembled so much while pronouncingthese words that Fleur-de-Marie, herself deeply affected, turned quickly towards him, but, fortunately, he managed to conceal his countenance from her.
A somewhat ridiculous occurrence also served at this instant to call off the attention of the Goualeuse from too closely observing the prince's emotion,—the worthy squire, who still remained behind the curtain, feigning to be very busily occupied in gazing upon the garden belonging to the hôtel, suddenly blew his nose with a twanging sound that reëchoed through the salon; for, in truth, the worthy man was crying like a child.
"Yes, my dear Marie," said Clémence, hastily, "your father is known to us—he is still living."
"My father!" cried La Goualeuse, in a tone of tender delight, that subjected the firmness of Rodolph to another difficult test.
"And some day," continued Clémence,—"perhaps very shortly, you will see him. But what will, no doubt, greatly astonish you, is that he is of high rank and noble birth."
"And my mother, shall I not see her, too, madame?"
"That is a question your father will answer, my dear child. But tell me, shall you not be delighted 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 Clémence.
"A new existence will commence for you from that very day, will it not, Marie?" asked the prince.
"Oh, no, M. Rodolph," replied Fleur-de-Marie, artlessly; "my new existence began when you took pity on me, and sent me to the farm."
"But your father loves you fondly—dearly!" said the prince.
"I know nothing of my father, M. Rodolph; but to you I owe everything in this world and the next."
"Then you love me better, perhaps, than you would your father?"
"Oh, M. Rodolph, I revere and bless you with all my heart! For you have been a saviour and preserver to me both of body and soul," replied La Goualeuse, with a degree of fervour and enthusiasm that overcame her natural diffidence.
"When this kind lady was so good as to visit me in prison, I said to her, as I did to every one else, 'Oh, if you have any trouble, only let M. Rodolph know it, and he will be sure to relieve you.' And when I saw any person hesitating between good and evil, I used to advise them to try and be virtuous, telling them M. Rodolph always found a way to punish the wicked. And to such as were far gone in sin, I said, 'Take care, M. Rodolph will recompense you as you deserve.' And even when I thought myself dying, I felt comfort in persuading myself that God would pity and pardon me, since M. Rodolph had deigned to do so."
Carried away by her intense feelings of gratitude and reverence for her benefactor, Fleur-de-Marie broke through her habitual timidity; while thus expressing herself a bright flush coloured her pale cheeks, while her soft blue eyes, raised towards heaven as though in earnest prayer, shone with unusual brilliancy.
A silence of some seconds succeeded to this burst of enthusiasm, while the spectators of the scene were too deeply affected to attempt a reply.
"It seems, then, my dear child," said Rodolph, at length, "that I have almost usurped your parent's place in your affections?"
"Indeed, M. Rodolph, I cannot help it! Perhaps it is very wrong in me to prefer you as I do, but I know you, and my father is a stranger to me." Then letting her head fall on her bosom, she added, in a low, confused manner, "And besides, M. Rodolph, though you are acquainted with the past, you have loaded me withkindness; while my father is ignorant of—of—my shame,—and may, probably, regret, when he does know, having found an unfortunate creature like myself. And then, too," continued the poor girl, with a shudder, "madame tells me he is of high birth; how, then, can he look upon me without shame and aversion?"
"Shame!" exclaimed Rodolph, drawing himself up with proud dignity; "no, no, my poor child, your grateful, happy father will raise you to a position so great, so brilliant, that the richest and highest in the land shall behold you with respect. Despise and blush for you!—never! You shall take your place among the first princesses of Europe, and prove yourself worthy of the blood of queens which flows in your veins."
"My lord! My lord!" cried Clémence and Murphy at the same time, equally alarmed at the excited manner of Rodolph, and the increasing paleness of Fleur-de-Marie, who gazed on her father in silent amazement.
"Ashamed of you!" continued he. "Oh, if ever I rejoiced in my princely rank it is now that it affords me the means of raising you from the depths to which the wickedness of others consigned you. Yes, my child! My long-lost, idolised child! In me behold your father!" And utterly unable longer to repress his feelings, the prince threw himself at the feet of Fleur-de-Marie, and covered her hand with tears and caresses.
"Thanks, my God," exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, passionately clasping her hands, "for permitting me to indulge that love for my benefactor with which my heart was filled. My father! Oh, blessed title, that enables me to love him even as I—" And unable to bear up against the suddenness of the disclosure, Fleur-de-Marie fell fainting in the prince's arms.
Murphy rushed to the waiting-room, and shouted vehemently:
"Send for Doctor David directly! Directly, do youhear? For his royal highness,—no—no, for some one who is suddenly taken ill here."
"Wretch that I am!" exclaimed Rodolph, sobbing almost hysterically at his daughter's feet, "I have killed her! Marie, my child, look up! It is your father calls you! Forgive—oh, forgive my precipitancy—my want of caution in disclosing to you this happy news! She is dead! God of heaven! Have I then but found her to see her torn from me for ever?"
"Calm yourself, my lord," said Clémence, "there is no danger, depend upon it. The colour returns to her cheeks; the surprise overcame her."
"But so recently risen from a bed of sickness that surprise may kill her! Unhappy man that I am, doomed for ever to misery and suffering!"
At this moment the negro doctor, David, entered the room in great haste, holding in one hand a small case filled with phials, and in the other a paper he handed to Murphy.
"David!" exclaimed Rodolph, "my child is dying! I once saved your life, repay me now by saving that of my daughter."
Although amazed at hearing the prince speak thus, David hurried to Fleur-de-Marie, whom Madame d'Harville was supporting in her arms, examined her pulse and the veins of her temples, then turning towards Rodolph, who in speechless agony was awaiting his decree, he said:
"Your royal highness has no cause for alarm; there is no danger."
"Can it be true? Are you quite sure she will recover?"
"Perfectly so, my lord; a few drops of ether administered in a glass of water is all that is requisite to restore consciousness."
"Thanks, thanks, my good, my excellent David!" cried the prince, in an ecstasy of joy. Then addressingClémence, Rodolph added, "Our daughter will be spared to us."
Murphy had just glanced over the paper given him by David; suddenly he started, and gazed with looks of terror at the prince.
"Yes, my old and faithful friend," cried Rodolph, misinterpreting the expression of Murphy's features, "ere long my daughter will enjoy the happiness of calling the Marquise d'Harville mother."
"Yesterday's news," said Murphy, trembling violently, "was false."
"What say you?"
"The report of the death of the Countess Macgregor, my lord, is unfounded; her ladyship had undergone a severe crisis of her illness, and had fallen into a state of insensibility, which was mistaken by those around her for death itself, and from hence originated the account of her having expired; but to-day hopes are entertained of her ultimate recovery."
"Merciful heavens! Can this be possible?" exclaimed the prince, filled with sudden alarm; while Clémence, who understood nothing of all this, looked on with undisguised astonishment.
"My lord," said David, still occupied with Fleur-de-Marie, "there is no need of the slightest apprehension respecting this young lady, but it is absolutely necessary she should be in the open air; this chair might be easily rolled out on the terrace, by opening the door leading to the garden; she would then immediately recover consciousness."
Murphy instantly ran to open the glass door, which led to a broad terrace, then, aided by David, he gently rolled the armchair on to it.
"Alas!" cried Rodolph, as soon as Murphy and David were at a distance, "you have yet to learn that the Countess Sarah is the mother of Fleur-de-Marie; and I believed her dead."
A few moments of profound silence followed; Madame d'Harville became deadly pale, while an icy coldness seemed to chill her heart.
"Let me briefly explain," continued Rodolph, in extreme agitation, mingled with bitter sarcasm, "that this ambitious and selfish woman, caring for nothing but my rank and title, contrived, during my extreme youth, to draw me into a secret marriage, which was afterwards annulled. Being desirous of contracting a second marriage, the countess occasioned all the misfortunes of her unhappy child, by abandoning her to the care of mercenary and unprincipled people."
"Now I can account for the repugnance you manifested towards her."
"And you may likewise understand why she so bitterly pursued you, and had twice so nearly effected your destruction by her infamous slanders. Still a prey to her insatiate ambition, she hoped, by separating me from any other attachment, to draw me a second time within her snares. And this heartless woman still exists."
"Nay, nay, my lord, that tone of bitter regret is not worthy of you, any more than the feeling which dictated it."
"You do not know the wretchedness she has already caused me; and even now that I had dared to dream of happiness, and looked forward to obtaining in you the comfort and solace of my life, as well as a mother for my newly recovered child, this woman again crosses my path, and, like the spirit of evil, dashes the cup from my lips ere it is tasted."
"Come, come, my lord," said poor Clémence, striving to look cheerful, though her tears flowed fast, spite of all her efforts to restrain them, "take courage, you have a great and holy duty to perform. But just now, when impelled by a natural burst of paternal affection, you said that the future destiny of your daughter should be happy andprosperous as her past life had been the reverse, that you would elevate her in the eyes of the world even more than she had been sunken and depressed. To do this you must legitimise her birth, and the only means by which that can be achieved is by espousing the Countess Macgregor."
"Never, never! That would be to reward the perjury, selfishness, and unbridled ambition of the unnatural mother of my poor child. But Marie shall not suffer by my resolution. I will publicly acknowledge her, you will kindly take her under your protection, and, I venture to hope, afford her a truly maternal shelter."
"No, my lord, you will not act thus! You will not permit the cloud of doubt or mystery to hang over the birth of your daughter. The Countess Sarah is descended from an ancient and noble family; such an alliance is, certainly, disproportionate for you, but still is an honourable one; it will effectually legitimise your daughter, and whatever may be her future destiny, she will have cause to boast of her father, and openly declare who was her mother."
"But think not I can or will resign you! It were easier to lay down my life than surrender the blessed hope of dividing my time and affection between two beings I so dearly love as yourself and my daughter."
"Your child will still remain to you, my lord. Providence has miraculously restored her to you; it would be sore ingratitude on your part to deem your happiness incomplete."
"You could not argue thus if you loved as I love."
"I will not undeceive you, great as is your error; on the contrary, I would have you persist in that belief, it will make the task I recommend less painful to you."
"But if you really loved me,—if you suffered as bitterly and severely as I do at the thoughts of my marrying another, you would be wretched as I am. What will console you for our separation?"
"My lord, I shall try to find solace in the discharge of my charitable duties,—duties I first learned to love and practise from your counsels and suggestions, and which have already afforded me so much consolation and sweet occupation."
"Hear me, I beseech you,—since you tell me it is right, I will marry this woman; but the sacrifice once accomplished, think not I will remain a single hour with her, or suffer her to behold my child; thus Fleur-de-Marie will lose in you the best and tenderest of mothers."
"But she will still retain the best and tenderest of fathers. By your marriage with the Countess Sarah she will be the legitimate daughter of one of Europe's sovereign princes, and, as you but just now observed, my lord, her position will be as great and splendid as it has been miserable and obscure."
"You are then pitilessly determined to shut out all hope from me? Unhappy being that I am!"
"Dare you style yourself unhappy,—you so good, so just, so elevated in rank, as well as in mind and feeling? Who so well and nobly understand the duty of self-denial and self-sacrifice? When but a short time since you bewailed your child's death with such heartfelt agony, had any one said to you, 'Utter the dearest wish of your soul and it shall be accomplished,' you would have cried, 'My child—my daughter! Restore her to me in life and health!' This unexpected blessing is granted you, your daughter is given to your longing arms, and yet you style yourself miserable! Ah, my lord, let not Fleur-de-Marie hear you, I beseech you!"
"You are right," said Rodolph, after a long silence, "such happiness as I aspired to would have been too much for this world, and far beyond my right even to dream of. Be satisfied your words have prevailed,—I will act according to my duty to my daughter, and forget the bleeding wound it inflicts on my own heart.But I am not sorry I hesitated in my resolution, since I owe to it a fresh proof of the perfection of your character."
"And is it not to you I owe the power of struggling with personal feelings and devoting myself to the good of others? Was it not you who raised and comforted my poor depressed mind, and encouraged me to look for comfort where only it could be found? To you, then, be all the merit of the little virtue I may now be practising, as well as all the good I may hereafter achieve. But take courage, my lord, bear up, as becomes one of your firm, right-minded nature. Directly Fleur-de-Marie is equal to the journey, remove her to Germany; once there, she will benefit so greatly by the grave tranquillity of the country that her mind and feelings will be soothed and calmed down to a placidity and gentle enjoyment of the present, while the past will seem but as a troubled dream."
"But you—you?"
"Ah, I may now confess with joy and pride that my love for you will be, as it were, a shield of defence from all snares and temptations,—a guardian angel that will preserve me from all that could assail me in body or mind. Then I shall write to you daily. Pardon me this weakness, 'tis the only one I shall allow myself; you, my lord, will also write to me occasionally, if but to give me intelligence of her whom once, at least, I called my daughter," said Clémence, melting into tears at the thoughts of all she was giving up, "and who will ever be fondly cherished in my heart as such; and when advancing years shall permit me fearlessly and openly to avow the regard which binds us to each other, then, my lord, I vow by your daughter that, if you desire it, I will establish myself in Germany, in the same city you yourself inhabit, never again to quit you, but so to end a life which might have been passed more agreeably, as far as our earthly feelings were concerned, but which shall, atleast, have been spent in the practice of every noble and virtuous feeling."
"My lord," exclaimed Murphy, entering with eagerness, "she whom Heaven has restored to you has regained her senses. Her first word upon recovering consciousness was to call for you. 'My father!—my beloved father!' she cried, 'oh, do not take me from him!' Come to her, my lord, she is all impatience again to behold you!"
A few minutes after this Madame d'Harville quitted the prince's hôtel, while the latter repaired in all haste to the house of the Countess Macgregor, accompanied by Murphy, Baron de Graün, and an aide-de-camp.
From the moment in which she had learnt from Rodolph the violent death of Fleur-de-Marie, Sarah had felt crushed and borne down by a disclosure so fatal to all her ambitious hopes. Tortured equally by a too late repentance, she had fallen into a fearful nervous attack, attended even by delirium; her partially healed wound opened afresh, and a long continuation of fainting fits gave rise to the supposition of her death. Yet still the natural strength of her constitution sustained her even amid this severe shock, and life seemed to struggle vigorously against death.
Seated in an easy chair, the better to relieve herself from the sense of suffocation which oppressed her, Sarah had remained for some time plunged in bitter reflections, almost amounting to regrets, that she had been permitted to escape from almost certain death.
Suddenly the door of the invalid's chamber opened, and Thomas Seyton entered, evidently struggling to restrain some powerful emotion. Hastily waving his hand for the countess's attendants to retire, he approached his sister, who seemed scarcely to perceive her brother's presence.
"How are you now?" inquired he.
"Much the same; I feel very weak, and have at times a most painful sensation of being suffocated. Why was I not permitted to quit this world during my late attack?"
"Sarah," replied Thomas Seyton, after a momentary silence, "you are hovering between life and death,—any violent emotion might destroy you or recall your feeble powers and restore you to health."
"There can be no further trial for me, brother!"
"You know not that—"
"I could now even hear that Rodolph were dead without a shock. The pale spectre of my murdered child—murdered through my instrumentality, is ever before me. It creates not mere emotion, but a bitter and ceaseless remorse. Oh, brother, I have known the feelings of a mother only since I have become childless."
"I own I liked better to find in you that cold, calculating ambition, that made you regard your daughter but as a means of realising the dream of your whole existence."
"That ambition fell to the ground, crushed for ever beneath the overwhelming force of the prince's reproaches. And the picture drawn by him of the horrors to which my child had been exposed awakened in my breast all a mother's tenderness."
"And how," said Seyton, hesitatingly and laying deep emphasis on each word he uttered, "if by a miracle, a chance, an almost impossibility, your daughter were still living, tell me how you would support such a discovery."
"I should expire of shame and despair!"
"No such thing! You would be but too delighted at the triumph such a circumstance would afford to your ambition; for had your daughter survived, the prince would, beyond a doubt, have married you."
"And admitting the miracle you speak of could happen, I should have no right to live; but so soon as the prince had bestowed on me the title of his consort, my duty would have been to deliver him from an unworthy spouse, and my daughter from an unnatural mother."
The perplexity of Thomas Seyton momentarily increased. Commissioned by Rodolph, who was waiting in an adjoining room, to acquaint Sarah that Fleur-de-Mariestill lived, he knew not how to proceed. So feeble was the state of the countess's health, that an instant might extinguish the faint spark that still animated her frame; and he saw that any delay in performing the nuptial rite between herself and the prince might be fatal to every hope. Determined to legitimise the birth of Fleur-de-Marie by giving every necessary formality to the ceremony, the prince had brought with him a clergyman to perform the sacred service, and two witnesses in the persons of Murphy and Baron de Graün. The Duc de Lucenay and Lord Douglas, hastily summoned by Seyton, had arrived to act as attesting witnesses on the part of the countess.
Each moment became important, but the remorse of Sarah, mingled as it was with a maternal tenderness that had entirely replaced the fiery ambition that once held sway in her breast, rendered the task of Seyton still more difficult. He could but hope that his sister deceived either herself or him, and that her pride and vanity would rekindle in all their former brightness at the prospect of the crown so long and ardently coveted.
"Sister," resumed Seyton, in a grave and solemn voice, "I am placed in a situation of cruel perplexity. I could utter one word of such deep importance that it might save your life or stretch you a corpse at my feet."
"I have already told you nothing in this world can move me more."
"Yes, one—one event, my sister."
"And what is that?"
"Your daughter's welfare."
"I have no longer a child,—she is dead!"
"But if she were not?"
"Cease, brother, such useless suppositions,—we exhausted that subject some minutes since. Leave me to unavailing regrets!"
"Nay, but I cannot so easily persuade myself that if, by some almost incredible chance, some unhoped-for aid, your daughter had been snatched from death, and still lived—"
"I beseech you talk not thus to me,—you know not what I suffer."
"Then listen to me, sister, while I declare that, as the Almighty shall judge you and pardon me, your daughter lives!"
"Lives! said you? My child lives?"
"I did, and truly so; the prince, with a clergyman and the necessary witnesses, awaits in the adjoining chamber; I have summoned two of our friends to act as our witnesses. The desire of your life is at length accomplished, the prediction fulfilled, and you are wedded to royalty!"
As Thomas Seyton slowly uttered the concluding part of his speech, he observed, with indescribable uneasiness, the want of all expression in his sister's countenance, the marble features remained calm and imperturbable, and her only sign of attending to her brother's words was a sudden pressure of both hands to her heart, as if to still its throbbing, or as though under the influence of some acute pain, while a stifled cry escaped her trembling lips as she fell back in her chair. But the feeling, whatever it was, soon passed away, and Sarah became fixed, rigid, and tranquil, as before.
"Sister!" cried Seyton, "what ails you? Shall I call for assistance?"
"'Tis nothing! Merely the result of surprise and joy at the unhoped-for tidings you have communicated to me. At last, then, the dearest wish of my heart is accomplished!"
"I was not mistaken," thought Seyton, "ambition still reigns paramount in her heart, and will carry her in safety through this trial. Well, sister," said he, aloud, "what did I tell you?"
"You were right," replied she, with a bitter smile, as she penetrated the workings of her brother's thoughts, "ambition has again stifled the voice of maternal tenderness within me!"
"You will live long and happily to cherish and delight in your daughter."
"Doubtless I shall, brother. See how calm I am!"
"Ah, but is your tranquillity real or assumed?"
"Feeble and exhausted, can you imagine it possible for me to feign?"
"You can now understand the difficulty I felt in breaking this news to you?"
"Nay, I marvel at it, knowing as you did the extent of my ambition. Where is the prince?"
"He is here."
"I would fain see and speak with him before the ceremony." Then, with affected indifference, she added, "And my daughter is also here, as a matter of course?"
"She is not here at present; you will see her by and by."
"True, there is no hurry; but send for the prince, I entreat of you."
"Sister, I know not why, but your manner alarms me, and there is a strangeness in your very looks as well as words!"
And Seyton spoke truly. The very absence of all emotion in Sarah inspired him with a vague and indefinable uneasiness; he even fancied he saw her eyes filled with tears she hastily repressed. But unable to account for his own suspicions, he at once quitted the chamber.
"Now, then," said Sarah, "if I may but see and embrace my daughter, I shall be satisfied. I fear there will be considerable difficulty in obtaining that happiness; Rodolph will refuse me, as a punishment for the past. But I must and will accomplish my longingdesire! Oh, yes! I cannot—will not be denied! But the prince comes!"
Rodolph entered, and carefully closed the door after him. Addressing Sarah in a cold, constrained manner, he said:
"I presume your brother has told you all?"
"He has!"
"And your ambition is satisfied."
"Quite—quite satisfied?"
"Every needful preparation for our marriage has been made; the minister and attesting witnesses are in the next room."
"I know it."
"They may enter, may they not, madame?"
"One word, my lord. I wish to see my daughter."
"That is impossible!"
"I repeat, my lord, that I earnestly desire to see my child."
"She is but just recovering from a severe illness, and she has undergone one violent shock to-day; the interview you ask might be fatal to her."
"Nay, my lord, she may be permitted to embrace her mother without danger to herself."
"Why should she run the risk? You are now a sovereign princess!"
"Not yet, my lord; nor do I intend to be until I have embraced my daughter!"
Rodolph gazed on the countess with unfeigned astonishment.
"Is it possible," cried he, "that you can bring yourself to defer the gratification of your pride and ambition?"
"Till I have indulged the greater gratification of a mother's feelings. Does that surprise you, my lord?"
"It does indeed!"
"And shall I see my daughter?"
"I repeat—"
"Have a care, my lord,—the moments are precious,—mine are possibly numbered! As my brother said,the present trial may kill or cure me. I am now struggling, with all my power, with all the energy I possess, against the exhaustion occasioned by the discovery just made to me. I demand to see my daughter, or otherwise I refuse the hand you offer me, and, if I die before the performance of the marriage ceremony, her birth can never be legitimised!"
"But Fleur-de-Marie is not here; I must send for her."
"Then do so instantly, and I consent to everything you may propose; and as, I repeat, my minutes are probably numbered, the marriage can take place while they are conducting my child hither."
"Although 'tis a matter of surprise to hear such sentiments from you, yet they are too praiseworthy to be treated with indifference. You shall see Fleur-de-Marie; I will write to her to come directly."
"Write there—on that desk—where I received my death-blow!"
While Rodolph hastily penned a few lines, the countess wiped from her brows the cold damps that had gathered there, while her hitherto calm and unmovable features were contracted by a sudden spasmodic agony, which had increased in violence from having been so long concealed. The letter finished, Rodolph arose and said to the countess:
"I will despatch this letter by one of my aides-de-camp; she will be here in half an hour from the time my messenger departs. Shall I, upon my return to you, bring the clergyman and persons chosen to witness our marriage, that we may at once proceed?"
"You may,—but no, let me beg of you to ring the bell; do not leave me by myself; let Sir Walter despatch the letter, and then return with the clergyman."
Rodolph rang; one of Sarah's attendants answered the summons.
"Request my brother to send Sir Walter Murphy here," said the countess, in a faint voice. The womanwent to perform her mistress's bidding. "This marriage is a melancholy affair, Rodolph," said the countess, bitterly, "I mean as far as I am concerned; to you it will be productive of happiness." The prince started at the idea. "Nay, be not astonished at my prophesying happiness to you from such a union; but I shall not live to mar your joys."
At this moment Murphy entered.
"My good friend," said the prince, "send this letter off to my daughter. Colonel —— will be the bearer of it, and he can bring her back in my carriage; then desire the minister and all concerned in witnessing the marriage ceremony to assemble in the adjoining room."
"God of mercy!" cried Sarah, fervently clasping her hands as the squire disappeared, "grant me strength to fold my child to my heart! Let me not die ere she arrives!"
"Alas! why were you not always the tender mother you now are?"
"Thanks to you, at least, for awakening in me a sincere repentance for the past, and a hearty desire to devote myself to the good of those whose happiness I have so fearfully disturbed! Yes, when my brother told me, a short time since, of our child's preservation,—let me say our child, it will not be for long I shall require your indulgence,—I felt all the agony of knowing myself irrecoverably ill, yet overjoyed to think that the birth of our child would be legitimised; that done, I shall die happy!"
"Do not talk thus."
"You will see I shall not deceive you again; my death is certain."
"And you will die without one particle of that insatiate ambition which has been your return! By what fatality has your repentance been delayed till now?"
"Though tardy, it is sincere; and I call Heaven towitness that, at this awful moment, I bless God for removing me from this world, and that I am spared the additional misery of living, as I am aware I should have been a weight and burden to you, as well as a bar to your happiness elsewhere. But can you pardon me? For mercy's sake, say you do! Do not delay to speak forgiveness and peace to my troubled spirit until the arrival of my child, for in her presence you would not choose to pronounce the pardon of her guilty mother. It would be to tell her a tale I would fain she never knew. You will not refuse me the hope that, when I am gone, my memory may be dear to her?"
"Tranquillise yourself, she shall know nothing of the past."
"Rodolph, do you too say I am forgiven! Oh, forgive me—forgive me! Can you not pity a creature brought low as I am? Alas, my sufferings might well move your heart to pity and to pardon!"
"I do forgive you from my innermost soul!" said the prince, deeply affected.
The scene was most heartrending. Rodolph opened the folding-doors, and beckoned in the clergyman with the company assembled there, that is to say, Murphy and Baron de Graün as witnesses on the part of Rodolph, and the Duc de Lucenay and Lord Douglas on the part of the countess; Thomas Seyton followed close behind. All were impressed with the awful solemnity of the melancholy transaction, and even M. de Lucenay seemed to have lost his usual petulance and folly.
The contract of marriage between the most high and powerful Prince Gustave Rodolph, fifth reigning Duke of Gerolstein, and Sarah Seyton of Halsburg, Countess Macgregor, which legitimised the birth of Fleur-de-Marie, had been previously drawn up by Baron de Graün, and, being read by him, was signed by the parties mentioned therein, as well as duly attested by the signature of their witnesses.
Spite of the countess's repentance, when the clergyman, in a deep solemn voice, inquired of Rodolph whether his royal highness was willing to take Sarah Seyton of Halsburg, Countess Macgregor, for his wife, and the prince had replied in a firm, distinct voice, "I will," the dying eyes of Sarah shone with unearthly brilliancy, an expression of haughty triumph passed over her livid features,—the last flash of expiring ambition.
Not a word was spoken by any of the spectators of this mournful ceremony, at the conclusion of which the four witnesses, bowing with deep but silent respect to the prince, quitted the room.
"Brother," said Sarah, in a low voice, "request the clergyman to accompany you to the adjoining room, and to have the goodness to wait there a moment."
"How are you now, my dear sister?" asked Seyton. "You look very pale."
"Nay," replied she, with a haggard smile, "fear not for me; am I not Grand Duchess of Gerolstein?" Left alone with Rodolph, Sarah murmured in a feeble and expiring voice, while her features underwent a frightful change, "I am dying; my powers are exhausted! I shall not live to kiss and bless my child!"
"Yes, yes, you will. Calm yourself; she will soon be here."
"It will not be! In vain I struggle against the approach of Death. I feel too surely his icy hand upon me; my sight grows dim; I can scarcely discern even you."
"Sarah!" cried the prince, chafing her damp, cold hands with his. "Take courage, she will soon be here; she cannot delay much longer!"
"The Almighty has not deemed me worthy of so great a consolation as the presence of my child!"
"Hark, Sarah! Methinks I hear the sound of wheels. Yes, 'tis she,—your daughter comes!"
"Promise me, Rodolph, she shall never know the unnatural conduct of her wretched but repentant mother," murmured the countess, in almost inarticulate accents.
The sound of a carriage rolling over the paved court was distinctly heard, but the countess had already ceased to recognise what was passing around her, her words became more indistinct and incoherent. Rodolph bent over her with anxious looks; he saw the rising films of death veil those beautiful eyes, and the exquisite features grow sharp and rigid beneath the touch of the king of terrors.
"Forgive me,—my child! Let me—see—my—child! Pardon—at least! And—after—death—the honours—due—to my—rank—" she faintly said, and these were the last articulate words she uttered,—the one, fixed, dominant passion of her life mingled, even in her last moments, with the sincere repentance she expressed and, doubtless, felt. Just at that awful moment Murphy entered.
"My lord," cried he, "the Princess Marie is arrived!"
"Let her not enter this sad apartment. Desire Seyton to bring the clergyman hither." Then pointing to Sarah, who was slowly sinking into her last moments, Rodolph added, "Heaven has refused her the gratification of seeing her child!"
Shortly after that the Countess Sarah Macgregor breathed her last.
A fortnight had elapsed since Sarah's death, and it was mid-Lent Sunday. This date established, we will conduct the reader to Bicêtre, an immense building, which, though originally designed for the reception of insane persons, is equally adapted as an asylum for seven or eight hundred poor old men, who are admitted into this species of civil invalid hospital when they have reached the age of seventy years, or are afflicted with severe infirmities.
The entrance to Bicêtre is by a large court, planted with high trees, and covered in the centre by a mossy turf, intersected with flower beds duly cultivated. Nothing can be imagined more healthful, calm, or cheerful than the promenade thus devoted to the indigent old beings we have before alluded to. Around this square are the spacious and airy dormitories, containing clean, comfortable beds; these chambers form the first floor of the building, and immediately beneath them are the neatly kept and admirably arranged refectories, where the assembled community of Bicêtre partake of their common meal, excellent and abundant in its kind, and served with a care and attention that reflects the highest praise on the directors of this fine institution.
In conclusion of this short notice of Bicêtre, we will just add that at the period at which we write the building also served as the abode of condemned criminals, who there awaited the period of their execution.
It was in one of the cells belonging to the prison that the Widow Martial and Calabash were left to count the hours till the following day, on which they were to suffer the extreme penalty of the law.
Nicholas, the Skeleton, and several of the same description of ruffians had contrived to escape from La Force the very night previous to the day on which they were to have been transferred to Bicêtre.
Eleven o'clock had just struck as twofiacresdrew up before the outer gate; from the first of which descended Madame Georges, Germain, and Rigolette, and from the second Louise Morel and her mother. Germain and Rigolette had now been married for some fifteen days.
We must leave the reader to imagine the glow of happiness that irradiated the fair face of the grisette, whose rosy lips parted but to smile, or to lavish fond words upon Madame Georges, whom she took every occasion of calling "her dear mother." The countenance of Germain expressed a more calm and settled delight. With his sincere affection for the merry-hearted being to whom he was united was mingled a deep and grateful sense of the kind and disinterested conduct of Rigolette towards him when in prison, although the charming girl herself seemed to have completely forgotten all about it, and even when Germain spoke of those days she would entreat him to change the subject, upon the plea of finding all such recollections so very dull and dispiriting. Neither would the pretty grisette substitute a bonnet for the smart little cap worn before her marriage, and certainly never was humility and avoidance of pretension better rewarded; for nothing could have been invented more becoming to the piquant style of Rigolette's beauty than the simple capà la paysanne, trimmed with a large orange-coloured rosette at each side, contrasting so tastefully with the long tresses of her rich dark hair, now worn in long hanging curls; for, as shesaid, "she could now allow herself to take a little pains with her appearance."
The fair bride wore a handsome worked muslin collar, while a scarf, of similar colour to the trimmings of her cap, half concealed her graceful, pliant figure, which, notwithstanding her having leisure to adorn herself, was still unfettered by the artificial restraints of stays; although the tight gray silk dress she wore fitted without a fold or a crease over her lightly rounded bosom, resembling the beautiful statue of Galatea in marble. Madame Georges beheld the happiness of the newly married pair with a delight almost equal to their own.
As for Louise Morel, she had been set at liberty after undergoing a most searching investigation, and when a post-mortem examination of her infant had proved that it had come to its death by natural means; but the countenance of the poor victim of another's villainy had lost all the freshness of youth, and bore the impress of deep sorrow, now softened and subdued by gentleness and resignation. Thanks to Rodolph, and the excellent care that had been taken of her through his means, the mother of Louise, who accompanied her, had entirely recovered her health.
Madame Georges having informed the porter at the lodge that she had called by the desire of one of the medical officers of the establishment, who had appointed to meet herself and the friends by whom she was accompanied at half past eleven o'clock, she was requested to choose whether she would await the doctor within doors or in the large square before the building; determining to do the latter, and supporting herself on the arm of her son, while the wife of Morel walked beside her, she sauntered along the shady alleys that bordered this delightful spot, Louise and Rigolette following them.
"How very glad I am to see you again, dear Louise," said the bride. "When we came to fetch you on our arrival from Bouqueval, I wanted to run up-stairs toyou, but my husband would not let me; he said I should tire myself, so I stayed in the coach, and that is the reason why we meet now for the first time since—"
"You so kindly came to console me in prison, Mlle. Rigolette," cried Louise, deeply affected. "You are so feeling for all in trouble, whether of body or mind!"
"In the first place, my dear Louise," replied the grisette, hastily interrupting praises that were to her oppressive, "I am not Mlle. Rigolette any longer, but Madame Germain. I do not know whether you heard—"
"That you were married? Oh, yes, I did. But pray let me thank you as you deserve."
"Ah, but Louise," persisted Madame Germain, "I am quite sure you have not learnt all the particulars; how my marriage is all owing to the generosity of him who was at once the protector and benefactor of yourself and family, Germain, his mother, and my own self."
"Ah, yes, M. Rodolph,—we bless his name morning and evening. When I came out of prison the lawyer who had been to see me from time to time, by M. Rodolph's order, told me that, thanks to the same kind friend who had already interested himself so much for us, M. Ferrand (and here at the very mention of the name an involuntary shudder passed over the poor girl's frame) had settled an annuity on my poor father and myself,—some little reparation for the wrongs he had done us. You are aware that my poor dear father is still confined here, though still improving in health."
"And I also know that the kind doctor who has appointed our being here to-day even hopes your dear parent may be enabled to return with you to Paris; he thinks that it will be better to take some decided steps to throw off this malady, and that the unexpected presence of persons your father was in the daily habit of seeing may produce the most favourable effects,—perhaps cure him; and that is what I think will be the case."
"Ah, mademoiselle, I dare not hope for so much happiness."
"Madame Germain, my dear Louise, if it is all the same to you; but to go on with what I was telling you, you have no idea, I am sure, who M. Rodolph really is?"
"Yes, I have,—the friend and protector of all who are unhappy."
"True, but that is not all. Well, as I see you really are ignorant of many things concerning our benefactor, I will tell you all about it."