by Eugène Sue
“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 extreme agitation, “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 of Madame 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 it our daughter, 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 in which 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 not recover 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 Ma
dame 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 pronouncing these 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 with kindness; 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 you hear? 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 sa
id:
“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 addressing Clémence, 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.
