by Eugène Sue
“Yes, Rodolph, if you had not come, this secret would have followed me to the tomb! That would have been my sole vengeance. And yet, no, no! I shall not have the courage. Although you have made me suffer deeply, I yet must have shared with you that supreme happiness which you, more blessed than myself, will, I hope, long enjoy!”
“Madame, what does this mean?”
“When you know, you will be able to comprehend my slowness in informing you, for you will view it as a miracle from heaven; but, strange to say, I, who with a word can cause you pleasure greater than you have ever experienced, I experience, although the minutes of my life are counted, I experience an indefinable satisfaction at prolonging your expectation. And then, I know your heart; and in spite of the fierceness of your character, I fear, without preparation, to reveal to you so incredible a discovery. The emotions of overwhelming joy have also their dangers.”
“Your paleness increases, you can scarcely repress your violent agitation,” said Rodolph; “all this indicates something grave and solemn.”
“Grave and solemn!” replied Sarah, in an agitated voice; for, in spite of her habitual impassiveness, when she reflected on the immense effect of the disclosure she was about to make to Rodolph, she was more troubled than she believed possible; and, unable any longer to restrain herself, she exclaimed, “Rodolph, our daughter lives!”
“Our daughter!”
“Lives, I say!”
These words, the accents of truth in which they were pronounced, shook the prince to his very heart. “Our child!” he repeated, going hurriedly to the chair in which Sarah was, “our child — my daughter!”
“Is not dead, I have irresistible proof; I know where she is; to-morrow you shall see her.”
“My daughter! My daughter!” repeated Rodolph, with amazement. “Can it be that she lives?” Then, suddenly reflecting on the improbability of such an event, and fearing to be the dupe of some fresh treachery on Sarah’s part, he cried, “No, no, it is a dream! Impossible! I know your ambition — of what you are capable — and I see through the drift of this proposed treachery!”
“Yes, you say truly; I am capable of all — everything! Yes, I desired to abuse you; some days before the mortal blow was struck, I sought to find out some young girl that I might present to you as our daughter. After this confession, you will perhaps believe me, or, rather, you will be compelled to credit irresistible evidence. Yes, Rodolph, I repeat I desired to substitute a young and obscure girl for her whom we both deplore; but God willed that at the moment when I was arranging this sacrilegious bargain, I should be almost fatally stabbed!”
“You — at this moment!”
“God so willed it that they should propose to me to play the part of falsehood — imagine whom? Our daughter!”
“Are you delirious, in heaven’s name?”
“Oh, no, I am not delirious! In this casket, containing some papers and a portrait, which will prove to you the truth of what I say, you will find a paper stained with my blood!”
“Your blood!”
“The woman who told me that our daughter was still living declared to me this disclosure when she stabbed me with her dagger.”
“And who was she? How did she know?”
“It was she to whom the child was confided when very young, after she had been declared dead.”
“But this woman? Can she be believed? How did you know her?”
“I tell you, Rodolph, that this is all fated — providential! Some months ago you snatched a young girl from misery, to send her to the country. Jealousy and hatred possessed me. I had her carried off by the woman of whom I have been speaking.”
“And they took the poor girl to St. Lazare?”
“Where she is still.”
“She is there no longer. Ah, you do not know, madame, the fearful evil you have occasioned me by snatching the unfortunate girl away from the retreat in which I had placed her; but—”
“The young girl is no longer at St. Lazare!” cried Sarah, with dismay; “ah, what fearful news is this!”
“A monster of avarice had an interest in her destruction. They have drowned her, madame! But answer! You say that—”
“My daughter!” exclaimed Sarah, interrupting Rodolph, and standing erect, as straight and motionless as a statue of marble.
“What does she say? Good heaven!” cried Rodolph.
“My daughter!” repeated Sarah, whose features became livid and frightful in their despair. “They have murdered my daughter!”
“The Goualeuse your daughter!” uttered Rodolph, retreating with horror.
“The Goualeuse! Yes, that was the name which the woman they call the Chouette used. Dead — dead!” repeated Sarah, still motionless, with her eyes fixed. “They have killed her!”
“Sarah!” said Rodolph, as pale and as fearful to look upon as the countess; “be calm, — recover yourself, — answer me! The Goualeuse, — the young girl whom you had carried off by the Chouette from Bouqueval, — was she our daughter?”
“Yes. And they have killed her!”
“Oh, no, no; you are mad! It cannot be! You do not know! No, no; you cannot tell how fearful this would be! Sarah, be firm, — speak to me calmly, — sit down, — compose yourself! There are often resemblances, appearances which deceive if we are inclined to believe what we desire. I do not reproach you; but explain yourself to me, tell me all the reasons which induced you to think this; for it cannot be, — no, no, it cannot be, — it is not so!”
After a moment’s pause, the countess collected her thoughts, and said to Rodolph, in a faltering voice, “Learning your marriage, and thinking of marrying myself, I could not keep our child with me; she was then four years of age.”
“But at that time I begged her of you with prayers, entreaties,” cried Rodolph, in a heartrending tone, “and my letters were unanswered; the only one you wrote to me announced her death!”
“I was desirous of avenging myself of your contempt by refusing your child. It was shameful; but hear me! I feel my life ebbs from me; this last blow has overcome me!”
“No, no, I do not believe you; I will not believe you! The Goualeuse my daughter! Oh, mon Dieu! You would not have this so!”
“Listen to me! When she was four years old, my brother charged Madame Séraphin, the widow of an old servant, to bring the child up until she was old enough to go to school. The sum destined to support our child was deposited by my brother with a notary, celebrated for his honesty. The letters of this man and Madame Séraphin, addressed at the time to me and my brother, are there, in the casket. At the end of a year they wrote me word that my daughter’s health was failing, — eight months afterwards that she was dead, and they sent the register of her decease. At this time Madame Séraphin had entered the service of Jacques Ferrand, after having given our daughter over to the Chouette, through the medium of a wretch who is now at the galleys at Rochefort. I was writing down all this when the Chouette stabbed me. This paper is there also, with a portrait of our daughter when four years of age. Examine all, — letters, declaration, portrait, — and you who have seen her, the unhappy child, will judge—”
These words exhausted Sarah, and she fell fainting into her armchair.
Rodolph was thunderstruck at this disclosure. There are misfortunes so unforeseen, so horrible, that we try not to believe them until the overwhelming evidence compels us. Rodolph, persuaded of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, had but one hope, — that of convincing himself that she was not his daughter. With a frightful calmness that alarmed Sarah, he approached the table, opened the casket, and began to read the letters, examining with scrupulous attention the papers which accompanied them.
These letters, bearing the postmark, and dated, written to Sarah and her brother by the notary and Madame Séraphin, related to the infancy of Fleur-de-Marie, and the investment of the money destined for her. Rodolph could not doubt the authenticity of this correspondence.
The Chouette’s declaration was confirmed by the
particulars collected at Rodolph’s desire, in which a felon named Pierre Tournemine, then at Rochefort, was described as the individual who had received Fleur-de-Marie from the hands of Madame Séraphin, for the purpose of giving her up to the Chouette, — the relentless tormentor of her early years, — and whom she afterwards so unexpectedly recognised when in company with Rodolph at the tapis-franc of the ogress.
The attestation of the child’s death was duly drawn up and attested, but Ferrand himself had confessed to Cecily that it had merely been employed to obtain possession of a considerable sum of money due to the unfortunate infant, whose decease it so falsely recorded, and who had subsequently been drowned by his order while crossing to the Isle du Ravageur.
It was, therefore, with appalling conviction Rodolph learnt at once the double facts of the Goualeuse being his long-lost daughter, and of her having perished by a violent death. Unfortunately, everything seemed to give greater certitude to his belief, and to render further doubt impossible. Ere the prince could bring himself to place implicit credence in the self-condemnation of Jacques Ferrand, as conveyed in the notes furnished by him to Cecily, he had made the closest inquiries at Asnières, and had ascertained that two females, one old, the other young, dressed in the garb of countrywomen, had been drowned while crossing the river to the Isle du Ravageur, and that Martial was openly accused of having committed this fresh crime.
Let us add, in conclusion, that, despite the utmost care and attention on the part of Doctor Griffon, Count de Saint-Remy, and La Louve, Fleur-de-Marie was long ere she could be pronounced out of danger, and then so extreme was her exhaustion, both of body and mind, that she had been unfit for the least conversation, and wholly unequal to making any effort to apprise Madame Georges of her situation.
This coincidence of circumstances left the prince without the smallest shadow of hope; but had such even remained, it was doomed to disappear before a last and fatal proof of the reality of his misfortune. He, for the first time, ventured to cast his eyes towards the miniature he had received. The blow fell with stunning conviction on his heart; for in the exquisitely beautiful features it revealed, rich in all the infantine loveliness ascribed to cherubic innocence, he recognised the striking portrait of Fleur-de-Marie, — her finely chiselled nose, the lofty forehead, with the small, delicately formed mouth, even then wearing an expression of sorrowing tenderness. Alas! Had not Madame Séraphin well accounted for this somewhat uncommon peculiarity in an infant’s face by saying, in a letter written by her to Sarah, which Rodolph had just perused, “The child is continually inquiring for its mother, and seems to grieve very much at not seeing her.” There were also those large, soft, blue eyes, “the colour of a blue-bell,” as the Chouette observed to Sarah, upon recognising in this miniature the features of the unfortunate creature she had so ruthlessly tormented as Pegriotte, and as a young girl under the appellation of La Goualeuse. At the sight of this picture the violent and tumultuous emotions of the prince were lost amid a flood of mingled tears and sighs.
While Rodolph thus indulged his bitter grief, the countenance of Sarah become powerfully agitated; she saw the last hope which had hitherto sustained her of realising the ambitious dreams of her life fade away at the very moment when she had expected their full accomplishment.
All at once Rodolph raised his head, dashed away his tears, and, rising from his chair, advanced towards Sarah with folded arms and dignified, determined air. After silently gazing on her for some moments, he said:
“’Tis fair and right it should be so! I raised my sword against my father’s life, and I am stricken through my own child! The parricide is worthily punished for his sin! Then, listen to me, madame! ’Tis fit you should learn in this agonising moment all the evils which have been brought about by your insatiate ambition, your unprincipled selfishness! Listen, then, heartless and unfeeling wife, base and unnatural mother!”
“Mercy, mercy! Rodolph, pity me, and spare me!”
“There is no pity, there can be no pardon for such as you, who coldly trafficked in a love pure and sincere as was mine, with the assumed pretext of sharing a passion generous and devoted as was my own for you. There can be no pity for her who excites the son against the father, no pardon for the unnatural parent who, instead of carefully watching over the infancy of her child, abandons it to the care of vile mercenaries, in order to satisfy her grasping avarice by a rich marriage, as you formerly gratified your inordinate ambition by espousing me. No! There is no mercy, pity, or pardon for one who, like yourself, first refuses my child to all my prayers and entreaties, and afterwards, by a series of profane and vile machinations, causes her death! May Heaven’s curse light on you, as mine does, thou evil genius of myself and all belonging to me!”
“He has no relenting pity in his heart! He is deaf to all my appeals! Wretched woman that I am! Oh, leave me — leave me — I beseech!”
“Nay, you shall hear me out! Do you remember our last meeting, now seventeen years ago? You were unable longer to conceal the consequences of our secret marriage, which, like you, I believed indissoluble. I well knew the inflexible character of my father, as well as the political marriage he wished me to form; but braving alike his displeasure and its results, I boldly declared to him that you were my wife before God and man, and that ere long you would bring into the world a proof of our love. My father’s rage was terrible; he refused to believe in our union. Such startling opposition to his will appeared to him impossible; and he threatened me with his heaviest displeasure if I presumed again to insult his ear by the mention of such folly. I then loved you with a passion bordering on madness. Led away by your wiles and artifices, I believed your cold, stony heart felt a reciprocity of tenderness for me, and I therefore unhesitatingly replied that I never would call any woman wife but yourself. At these words his fury knew no bounds. He heaped on you the most insulting epithets, exclaiming that the marriage I talked of was null and void, and that to punish you for your presumption in daring even to think of such a thing, he would have you publicly exposed in the pillory of the city. Yielding alike to the violence of my mad passion, and the impetuosity of my disposition, I presumed to forbid him, who was at once my parent and my sovereign, speaking thus disrespectfully of one I loved far beyond my own life, and I even went so far as to threaten him if he persisted in so doing. Exasperated at my conduct, my father struck me. Blinded by rage, I drew my sword, and threw myself on him with deadly fury. Happily the intervention of Murphy turned away the blow, and saved me from being as much a parricide in deed as I was in intention. Do you hear me, madame? A parricide! And in your defence!”
“Alas! I knew not this misfortune.”
“In vain have I sought to expiate my crime. This blow to-day is sent by Heaven’s avenging hand to repay my heavy crime.”
“But have I not sufficiently suffered from the inveterate enmity of your father, who dissolved our marriage? Wherefore add to my misery by doubts of the sincerity of my affection for you?”
“Wherefore?” exclaimed Rodolph, darting on her looks of the most withering contempt. “Learn now my reasons, and cease to wonder at the loathing horror with which you inspire me. After the fatal scene in which I had threatened the life of my father, I surrendered my sword, and was kept in the closest confinement. Polidori, through whose instrumentality our union had been effected, was arrested; and he distinctly proved that our marriage had never been legally contracted, the minister, as well as the other persons concerned in its solemnisation, being merely creatures tutored and bribed by him; so that both you, your brother, and myself, were equally deceived. The more effectually to turn away my father’s wrath from himself, Polidori did still more; he gave up one of your letters to your brother, which he had managed to intercept during a journey taken by Seyton.”
“Heavens! Can it be possible?”
“Can you now account for my contempt and aversion towards you?”
“Too, too well!”
“In this letter you developed you
r ambitious projects with unblushing effrontery. Me you spoke of with the utmost indifference, treating me but as the blind instrument by which you should arrive at the princely station predicted for you. You expressed your opinion that my father had already lived long enough, — perhaps too long; and hinted at probabilities and possibilities too horrible to repeat!”
“Alas! All is now but too apparent. I am lost for ever!”
“And yet to protect you, I had even menaced my father’s existence!”
“When he next visited me, and, without uttering one word of reproach, put into my hands your letter, every line of which more clearly revealed the black enormity of your nature, I could but kneel before him and entreat his pardon. But from that hour I have been a prey to the deepest, the most acute remorse. I immediately quitted Germany for the purpose of travelling, with the intent, if possible, of expiating my guilt; and this self-imposed task I shall continue while I live. To reward the good, to punish the evil-doer, relieve those who suffer, penetrate into every hideous corner where vice holds her court, for the purpose of rescuing some unfortunate creatures from the destruction into which they have fallen, — such is the employment I have marked out for myself.”
“It is a noble and holy task, — one worthy of being performed by you.”
“If I speak of this sacred vow,” said Rodolph, disdainfully, “it is not to draw down your approbation or praise. But hearken to what remains to be told; I have lately arrived in France, and I wished not to let my great purpose of continual expiatory acts stand still during my sojourn in this country. While I sought then to succour those of good reputation, who were in unmerited distress, I was also desirous of knowing that class of miserable beings who are beaten down, trampled under feet, and brutalised by want and wretchedness, well knowing that timely help, a few kind and encouraging words, may frequently have power to save a lost creature from the abyss into which he is falling. In order to be an eye-witness of the circumstances under which my work of expiation would be useful, I assumed the dress and appearance of those I wished to mix with. It was during one of these exploring adventures that I first encountered—” Then, as though shuddering at the idea of so terrible a disclosure, Rodolph, after a momentary hesitation, added, “No, no; I have not courage to finish the dreadful story!”
