by Eugène Sue
“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 woman went 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 to witness 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.
CHAPTER VIII.
BICÊTRE.
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 two fiacres drew 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 cap à 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 she said, “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 to you, 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.”
Then addressing her husband, who was walking before her with Madame Georges, she said, “Don’t walk so very fast, Germain, you will tire our mother!” And, with a look of proud satisfaction, she said, turning to Louise, “Does not he deserve to have a good wife? See how attentive he is to his mother! He certainly is very handsome, too, — a thousand times more so than Cabrion, or M. Girandeau, the travelling clerk! You remember him, don’t you, Louise?
“Talking of Cabrion puts me in mind to ask you whether M. Pipelet and his wife have arrived yet? The doctor wished them to come here to-day with us, because your father has talked much about them during his wanderings.”
“No, they are not here at present, but they will not be long. When we called for them they had already set out.”
“And then as for being punctual in keeping an appointment, M. Pipelet is as exact as a clock to the
hour and minute! But let me tell you a little more about my marriage and M. Rodolph. Only think, Louise, it was he who sent me with the order for Germain’s liberation! You can imagine our delight at quitting that horrid prison. Well, we went home to my room, and there Germain and I together prepared a nice little bit of dinner; but, bless you! we might just as well have spared ourselves the trouble, for, after it was ready, neither of us could eat a bit for joy. When evening came Germain left me, promising to return the next day.
“Well, at five o’clock next morning, I got up and sat down to my work, for I was terribly behindhand with it. As eight o’clock struck some one knocked at the door; who should it be but M. Rodolph! Directly I saw him, I began to thank him from the bottom of my heart for all he had done for Germain and myself. He would not allow me to proceed. ‘My kind neighbour,’ said he, ‘I wish you to give this letter to Germain, who will soon be here. Then you will take a fiacre, and proceed without delay to a small village, near Ecouen, called Bouqueval. Once there, inquire for Madame Georges; and I wish you all imaginable pleasure from your trip.’ ‘M. Rodolph,’ I said, ‘pray excuse me, but that will make me lose another day’s work and I have already got two to make up for.’ ‘Make yourself perfectly easy, my pretty neighbour,’ said he, you will find plenty of work at Madame Georges’s, I promise you; she will prove an excellent customer, I have no doubt, and I have particularly recommended you to her.’ ‘Oh, that alters the case, M. Rodolph, then I’m sure I shall be but too glad to go.’ ‘Adieu, neighbour,’ said M. Rodolph. ‘Good-bye,’ cried I, ‘and many thanks for so kindly recommending me.’
“When Germain came, I told him all about it; so as we were quite sure M. Rodolph would not send us upon any foolish errand, we set off as blithe as birds. Only imagine, Louise, what a surprise awaited us on our arrival! I declare I can scarcely think of it without tears of happiness coming into my eyes. We went to the very Madame Georges you see walking before us, and who should she turn out to be but the mother of Germain!”
