by Eugène Sue
“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 and prosperous 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, at least, 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.
CHAPTER VII.
THE MARRIAGE.
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-Marie still 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 d
ifficulty in obtaining that happiness; Rodolph will refuse me, as a punishment for the past. But I must and will accomplish my longing desire! 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!”
