Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “To whom are you writing so long a letter?” said he, smiling.

  “To Maximilian, father.”

  “Oh,” said he, with an expression of affectionate reproach, “he has all your confidence! He is very happy!”

  He pronounced these last words in so sorrowful a tone that I held out the letter to him, almost without reflection, saying:

  “Read it, father.”

  My friend, he has read all! After having remained musing some time he said to me:

  “Henry, I shall write and inform the grand duke of all that passed during your stay at Gerolstein.”

  “Father, I entreat you not!”

  “Is what you have written to Maximilian scrupulously true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love your cousin?”

  “I adore her; but—”

  My father interrupted me.

  “Then, in that case, I shall write to the grand duke and demand her hand for you.”

  “But, father, such a demand will be madness on my part!”

  “It is true; but still, in making this demand, I shall acquaint the prince with my reasons for making it. He has received you with the greatest kindness, and it would be unworthy of me to deceive him. He will be touched at the frankness of my demand, and, though he refuse it, as he certainly will, he will yet know that, should you ever again visit Gerolstein, you cannot be on the same familiar terms with the princess.”

  You know that, although so tenderly attached to me, my father is inflexible in whatever concerns his duty; judge, then, of my fears, of my anxiety.

  I hastily terminate this long letter, but I will soon write again. Sympathise with me, for I fear I shall go mad if the fever that preys on me does not soon abate. Adieu, adieu! Ever yours,

  Henry d’H.-O.

  We will now conduct the reader to the palace of Gerolstein, inhabited by Fleur-de-Marie since her return from France.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE PRINCESS AMELIE.

  THE APARTMENT OF Fleur-de-Marie (we only call her the Princess Amelie officially) had been by Rodolph’s orders splendidly furnished. From the balcony of the oratory the two towers of the Convent of Ste. Hermangeld were visible, which, embosomed in the woods, were in their turn overtopped by a high hill, at the foot of which the abbey was built.

  One fine summer’s morning Fleur-de-Marie gazed listlessly at this splendid landscape; her hair was plainly braided, and she wore a high, white dress with blue stripes; a large muslin collar was fastened around her throat by a small blue silk handkerchief, of the same hue as her sash.

  Seated in a large armchair of carved ebony, she leant her head on her small and delicately white hand. Fleur-de-Marie’s attitude and the expression of her face showed that she was a prey to the deepest melancholy.

  At this instant a female of a grave and distinguished appearance entered the room, and coughed gently to attract Fleur-de-Marie’s attention. She started from her reverie, and, gracefully acknowledging the salutation of the newcomer, said:

  “What is it, my dear countess?”

  “I come to inform your royal highness that the grand duke will be here in a few minutes, and, also, to ask a favour of you.”

  “Ask it, you know how happy I am to oblige you.”

  “It concerns an unhappy creature who had unfortunately quitted Gerolstein before your royal highness had founded the asylum for orphans and children abandoned by their parents.”

  “What do you wish I should do for her?”

  “The father went to seek his fortune in America, leaving his wife and daughter to gain a precarious subsistence. The mother died, and this poor girl, then only sixteen, was seduced and abandoned. She fell lower and lower, until at length she became, like so many others, the opprobrium of her sex.”

  Fleur-de-Marie turned red and shuddered. The countess, fearing she had wounded the delicacy of the princess by the mention of this girl’s condition, replied:

  “I pray your royal highness to pardon me; I have, doubtless, shocked you by speaking of this wretched creature, but her repentance seemed so sincere that I ventured to plead for her.”

  “You were quite right. Pray continue,” said Fleur-de-Marie, subduing her emotion. “Every fault is worthy of pity when followed by repentance.”

  “After two years passed in this wretched mode of existence she repented sincerely, and came back to Gerolstein. She chanced to lodge in the house of a good and pious widow; encouraged by her kindness, the poor creature told her all her sad story, adding that she bitterly regretted the faults of her early life, and that all she desired was to enter some religious house, where by prayer and penitence she might atone for her sins. She is only eighteen, very beautiful, and possesses a considerable sum of money, which she wishes to bestow on the convent she enters.”

  “I undertake to provide for her,” said Fleur-de-Marie; “since she repents, she is worthy of compassion; her remorse must be more bitter in proportion as it is sincere.”

  “I hear the grand duke,” said the lady in waiting, without remarking Fleur-de-Marie’s agitation; and, as she spoke, Rodolph entered, holding a large bouquet of roses in his hand.

  At the sight of the prince the countess retired, and scarcely had she left the apartment than Fleur-de-Marie threw herself into her father’s arms, and leant her head on his shoulder.

  “Good morning, love,” said Rodolph, pressing her to his heart. “See what beautiful roses; I never saw finer ones.” And the prince made a slight motion as if to disengage himself from her and look at her, when, seeing her weeping, he threw down the bouquet, and, taking her hands, cried:

  “You are weeping! What is the matter?”

  “Nothing, dear father,” said Fleur-de-Marie, striving to smile.

  “My child,” replied Rodolph, “you are concealing something from me; tell me, I entreat you, what thus distresses you. Never mind the bouquet.”

  “Oh, you know how fond I am of roses; I always was! Do you recollect,” added she, “my poor little rose-tree? I have preserved the pieces of it so carefully!”

  At this terrible allusion, Rodolph cried:

  “Unhappy child! Is it possible that, in the midst of all the splendour that surrounds you, you think of the past? Alas! I hoped my tenderness had made you forget it.”

  “Forgive me, dear father; I did not mean what I said. I grieve you.”

  “I grieve, my child, because I know how painful it is for you thus to ponder over the past.”

  “Dear father, it is the first time since I have been here.”

  “The first time you have mentioned it, but not the first time you have thought of it; I have for a long time noticed your sadness, and was unable to account for it. My position was so delicate, though I never told you anything, I thought of you constantly. When I contracted my marriage, I thought it would increase your happiness. I did not venture to hope you would quite forget the past; but I hoped that, cherished and supported by the amiable woman whom I had chosen for my wife, you would look upon the past as amply atoned for by your sufferings. No matter what faults you had committed, they have been a thousand times expiated by the good you have done since you have been here.”

  “Father!”

  “Oh, let me tell you all, since a providential chance has brought about this conversation I at once desired and dreaded! I would, to secure your happiness, have sacrificed my affection for Madame d’Harville and my friendship for Murphy, had I thought they recalled the past to you.”

  “Oh, their presence, when they know what I was, and yet love me so tenderly, seems a proof of pardon and oblivion to me! I should have been miserable if for my sake you had renounced Madame d’Harville’s hand.”

  “Oh, you know not what sacrifice Clémence herself would have made, for she was aware of the full extent of my duties to you!”

  “Duties to me! What have I done to deserve so much goodness?”

  “Until the moment that Heaven restored you to me, your life had been one of sor
row and misery, and I reproach myself with your sufferings as if I had caused them, and when I see you happy, it seems to me I am forgiven. My only wish, my sole aim, is to render you as happy as you were before unhappy, to exalt you as you have been abased, for the last trace of your humiliation must disappear when you see the noblest in the land vie with each other who shall show you most respect.”

  “Respect to me! Oh, no! It is to my rank and not to myself they show respect.”

  “It is to you, dear child, — it is to you!”

  “You love me so much, dear father, that every one thinks to please you by showing me respect.”

  “Oh, naughty child!” cried Rodolph, tenderly kissing his daughter; “she will not cede anything to my paternal pride.”

  “Is not your pride satisfied at my attributing the kindness I receive to you only?”

  “No, that is not the same thing; I cannot be proud of myself, but of you. You are ignorant of your own merits; in fifteen months your education has been so perfected that the most enthusiastic mother would be proud of you.”

  At this moment the door of the salon opened, and Clémence, grand duchess of Gerolstein, entered, holding a letter in her hand.

  “Here, love, is a letter from France,” said she to Rodolph; “I brought it myself, because I wished to bid good-morrow to my dear child, whom I have not yet seen to-day.”

  “This letter arrives most opportunely,” said Rodolph. “We were speaking of the Past; that monster we must destroy, since he threatens the repose of our child.”

  “Is it possible that these fits of melancholy we have so often remarked—”

  “Were occasioned by unhappy recollections; but now that we know the enemy we shall destroy him.”

  “From whom is this letter?” asked Clémence.

  “From Rigolette, Germain’s wife.”

  “Rigolette?” cried Fleur-de-Marie. “Oh, I am so glad!”

  “Do you not fear that this letter may serve to awaken fresh recollections?” said Clémence, in a low tone to Rodolph.

  “On the contrary, I wish to destroy these recollections, and I shall, doubtless, find arms in this letter, for Rigolette is a worthy creature, who appreciated and adored our child.”

  Rodolph then read the following letter aloud:

  “Bouqueval Farm, August 15, 1841.

  “Monseigneur: — I take the liberty of writing to you to communicate a great happiness which has occurred to us, and to ask of you another favour, — of you, to whom we already owe so much, or rather to whom we owe the real paradise in which we live, myself, my dear Germain, and his good mother. It is this, monseigneur: For the last ten days I have been crazy with joy, for ten days ago I was confined with such a love of a little girl, which I say is the image of Germain, he says it is exactly like me, and our dear mother says it is like us both; the fact is, it has beautiful blue eyes like Germain, and black curly hair like mine.”

  “Good, worthy people, they deserve to be happy!” said Rodolph. “If ever there was a couple well matched it is they.”

  “But really, monseigneur, I must ask your pardon for this chatter. Your ears must often tingle, monseigneur, for the day never passes that we do not talk of you, when we say to each other how happy we are, how happy we were, for then your name naturally occurs. Excuse this blot, monseigneur; but, without thinking of it, I had written Monsieur Rodolph, as I used to say formerly, and then I scratched it out. I hope you will find my writing improved as well as my spelling, for Germain gives me lessons, and I do not make those long ugly scrawls I used to do when you mended my pens.”

  “I must confess,” said Rodolph, with a smile, “that my little protégée makes a mistake, and I am sure Germain is more frequently employed in kissing the hand of his scholar than in directing it.”

  “My dear duke, you are unjust,” said Clémence, looking at the letter; “it is rather a very large hand, but very legible.”

  “Why, yes, she has really improved,” observed Rodolph; “it would in former days have taken eight pages to contain what she now writes in two.” And he continued:

  “It is quite true, you know, monseigneur, that you used to mend my pens, and when we think of it, we two Germains, we feel quite ashamed when we recollect how free from pride you were. Ah, I am again chattering instead of saying what we wish to ask of you, monseigneur; for my husband unites with me, and it is very important, for we attach a great deal to it, as you will see. We entreat of you, monseigneur, to have the goodness to choose for us and give us a name for our dear little daughter; this has been the wish of the godfather and godmother, — and who do you think they are, monseigneur? Two persons whom you and the Marquise d’Harville have taken from misery and made very happy, as happy as we are. They are Morel, the lapidary, and Jeanne Duport, a worthy creature whom I met in prison when I went there to visit my dear Germain, and whom the marquise afterwards took out of the hospital.

  “And now, monseigneur, you must know why we have chosen M. Morel for godfather, and Jeanne Duport for godmother. We said it would be one way of again thanking M. Rodolph for all his kindness, to have, as godfather and godmother for our little one, worthy persons who owe everything to him and the marchioness; whilst, at the same time, Morel and Jeanne Duport are the worthiest people breathing, they are of our own class in life, and besides, as we say with Germain, they are our kinsfolk in happiness, for, like us, they are of the family of your protégés.”

  “Really, my dear father, this idea is most delightful and excellent!” said Fleur-de-Marie; “to take for godfather and godmother persons who owe everything to you and my dear second mother!”

  “Yes, indeed, dearest,” said Clémence; “and I am deeply touched at their remembrance.”

  “And I am very happy to find that my favours have been so well bestowed,” said Rodolph, continuing his letter.

  “With the money you gave him, Morel has now become a jewel broker, and earns enough to bring up his family very respectably. Poor Louise, who is a very good girl, is going, I believe, to be married to a very worthy young man, who loves and respects her as he ought to do, for she has been unfortunate, but not guilty, and Louise’s husband that is to be is perfectly sensible of this.”

  Rodolph laid great stress on these last words, looked at his daughter for a moment, and then continued:

  “I must add, monseigneur, that Jeanne Duport, through the generosity of the marquise, has been separated from her husband, that bad man who beat her and took everything from her; she has now her eldest daughter with her: they keep a small trimming shop, and are doing very well. Germain writes to you regularly, monseigneur, every month, on the subject of the Bank for Mechanics out of Work and Gratuitous Loans; there are scarcely any sums in arrear, and we find already the good effects of it in this quarter. Nine, at least, poor families can support themselves in the dead season of work without sending their clothes and bedding to the pawnbroker’s. And when work comes in, it does one’s heart good to see the haste with which they return the money lent, and they bless you for the loans so serviceably advanced.

  “Yes, monseigneur, they bless you; for, although you say you did nothing in this but appoint Germain, and that an unknown did this great benefit, we must always, suppose it was you who founded it, as it appears to us the most natural idea. There is, besides, a most famous trumpet to repeat that it is you who are the real benefactor. This trumpet is Madame Pipelet, who repeats to every one that it could be no one but her king of lodgers (excuse her, M. Rodolph, but she always calls you so) who established such a charitable institution, and her old darling Alfred is of the same opinion; he is so proud and contented with his post as porter to the bank that he says all the tricks of M. Cabrion would not have the slightest effect on him now.

  “Germain has read in the newspapers that Martial, a colonist of Algeria, has been mentioned with great praise for the courage he had shown in repulsing, at the head of the settlers, an attack of plundering Arabs, and that his wife, as intrepid as himself, ha
d been slightly wounded by his side, where she handled her musket like a real grenadier; since this time, says the newspaper, she has been called Madame Carabine.

  “Excuse this long letter, monseigneur, but I think you will not be displeased to hear from us news of all those whose benefactor you have been. I write to you from the farm at Bouqueval, where we have been since the spring with our good mother. Germain leaves us in the morning for his business, and returns in the evening. In the autumn we shall return to Paris.

  “It is so strange, M. Rodolph, that I, who could never endure the country, am now so fond of it; I suppose it is because Germain likes it so very much.

  “As to the farm, M. Rodolph, you who know, no doubt, where the good little Goualeuse is, will perhaps tell her that we very often think of her as one of the dearest and gentlest creatures in the world; and that, for myself, I never think of my own happy condition without saying to myself, since M. Rodolph was also the M. Rodolph of dear Fleur-de-Marie, that, no doubt, she is by his kindness as happy as we are, and that makes one feel still more happy. Ah, how I chatter! What will you say to all this? But you are so good, and then, you know, it is your fault if I go on as long and as merrily as Papa Crétu and Ramonette, who no longer have a chance with me in singing. You will not refuse our request, will you, monseigneur? If you will give a name to our dear little child, it will seem to us that it will bring her good fortune, like a lucky star.

  “If I conclude by saying to you, M. Rodolph, that we try to give every assistance in our power to the poor, it is not to boast, but that you may know that we do not keep to ourselves all the happiness you have given to us; besides, we always say to those we succour: ‘It is not us whom you should thank and bless; it is M. Rodolph, the best, most generous person in the world.’

  “Adieu, monseigneur! And pray believe that when our dear little child begins to lisp, the first word she shall utter will be your name, M. Rodolph, and the next those you wrote on the basket which contained your generous wedding presents to me, ‘Labour and discretion, honour and happiness.’ Thanks to these four words, our love and our care, we hope, monseigneur, that our child will be always worthy to pronounce the name of him who has been our benefactor, and that of all the unfortunates he ever knew — Forgive me, monseigneur, but I cannot finish without the big tears in my eyes, but they are tears of happiness. Excuse all errors, if you please; it is not my fault, but I cannot see very clearly, and I scribble.