by Eugène Sue
“Conceive, dearest father, what was my confusion when I learnt from the superior that the portrait was a living subject, — that of her nephew! My trouble was extreme, and earnestly did I endeavour to erase from my heart all the fond associations connected with that picture. In vain! the pertinacity with which I strove to forget but riveted the impression I had received; and, unfortunately, dear father, you rendered the task of forgetting more difficult, by continually eulogising the heart, disposition, and principles of Prince Henry.”
“You loved him, then, my child, from merely seeing his likeness and hearing his praises?”
“Without positively loving him, I felt myself attracted towards him by an irresistible impulse, for which I bitterly reproached myself; my only consolation was the thought that no person knew my fatal secret. For how could I presume to love? How excuse my ingratitude in not contenting myself with the tenderness bestowed on me by you, my father, and you, also, dearest mother? In the midst of all these conflicting feelings I met my cousin, for the first time, at a ball given by you to the Archduchess Sophia; his resemblance to the portrait too well assured me it was he; and your introducing Prince Henry to me as a near relative afforded me ample opportunities of discovering that his manners were as captivating as his mind was cultivated.”
“It is easy to conceive, then, that a mutual passion sprung up between you! Indeed, he won upon my regard ere I was aware of the ground he had gained; he spoke of you so admiringly, yet so respectfully.”
“You had yourself praised him so highly.”
“Not more than he deserved. It is impossible to possess a more noble nature, or a more generous and elevated character.”
“I beseech you, dearest father, to spare me the fresh trial of hearing him thus praised by you. Alas! I am already wretched enough.”
“Go on, my child. I have a reason in thus extolling your cousin — I will explain hereafter. Proceed.”
“Though aware of the danger of thus daily associating with my cousin, I felt unable to withdraw myself from the pleasure his society afforded me; nor, spite of my implicit reliance on your indulgence, dear father, durst I disclose my fears to you. I could then only redouble my efforts to conceal my unfortunate attachment, and — shall I confess? — there were moments when, forgetting the past, I gave myself up to all the dear delights of a friendship hitherto unknown to me. But the departure of Prince Henry from your court tore the veil from my eyes, and showed me how truly and ardently I loved him, though not with a sister’s love, as I had made myself believe. I had resolved to open my heart entirely to you on this subject,” continued Fleur-de-Marie, whose strength seemed utterly exhausted by her long confession, “and then to ask you what remained for one so every way unfortunate but to seek the repose of a cloister.”
“Then, dearest daughter, let me answer the question ere you have put it, by saying there is a prospect as bright and smiling awaits your acceptance, as that you propose is cheerless and gloomy.”
“What mean you?”
“Now, then, listen to me. It was impossible for an affection as great as mine to be blinded to the mutual affection subsisting between yourself and your cousin; my penetration also quickly discovered that his passion for you amounted to idolatry; that he had but one hope, one desire on earth, — that of being loved by you. At the time I played off that little joke respecting the portrait, I had not the least expectation of Henry’s visiting Gerolstein. When, however, he did come, I saw no reason for changing the manner in which I had always treated him, and I therefore invited him to visit us on the same terms of friendly relationship he had hitherto done. A very little time had elapsed ere Clémence and myself saw plainly enough the cause of his frequent visits, or the mutual delight you felt in each other’s society. Then mine became a difficult task.
“On the one hand, I rejoiced as a father that one so every way worthy of you should have won your affection; then on the other hand, my poor dear child, your past misfortunes forbade me to encourage the idea of uniting you to your cousin, to whom I several times spoke in a manner very different to the tone I should have adopted, had I contemplated bestowing on him your hand.
“Thus placed in a position so delicate, I endeavoured to preserve a strict neutrality, discouraging Prince Henry’s attentions by every means in my power, and yet manifesting towards himself the same paternal kindness with which I had always treated him; and besides, my poor girl, after a life of so much unhappiness as yours, I could not bring myself suddenly to tear away the innocent pleasure you appeared to feel in the company of your cousin. It was something to see you even temporarily happy and cheerful, and even now your acquaintance with Prince Henry may be the means of securing your future tranquillity.”
“Dear father, I understand you not.”
“Prince Paul, Henry’s father, has just sent me this letter. While considering such an alliance as an honour too great to aspire to, he solicits your hand for his son, who, he states, is inspired with a passion for you.”
“Dearest father!” cried Fleur-de-Marie, concealing her face with her hands, “do you forget?”
“I forget nothing, — not even that to-morrow you enter a convent, where, besides, being for ever lost to me, you will pass the remainder of your days in tears and austerity. If I must part with you, let it be to give you to a husband who will love you almost as tenderly as your father.”
“Married! — and to him, father! You cannot mean it!”
“Indeed I do; but on one condition: that directly after your marriage has been celebrated here, without pomp or parade, you shall depart with your husband for some tranquil retreat in Italy or Switzerland, where you may live unknown, and merely pass for opulent persons of middle rank. And my reason for attaching this proviso to my consent is because I feel assured that, in the bosom of simple and unostentatious happiness, you would by degrees forget the hateful past, which is now only more painfully contrasted with the pomp and ceremony by which you are surrounded.”
“Rodolph is right,” said Clémence. “With Henry for your companion, and happy in each other’s affection, past sorrows will soon be forgotten.”
“And as I could not wholly part with you, Clémence and I would pay you a visit each year. Then when time shall have healed your wounded spirit, my poor child, and present felicity shall have effaced all recollections of the past, you will return to dwell among us, never more to part.”
“Forget the past in present happiness!” murmured Fleur-de-Marie.
“Even so, my child,” replied Rodolph, scarcely able to restrain his emotion at seeing his daughter’s scruples thus shaken.
“Can it be possible,” cried Fleur-de-Marie, “that such unspeakable felicity is reserved for me? The wife of Henry. And one day to pass my life between him — yourself — and my second mother!” continued she, more subdued by the ineffable delight such a picture created in her mind.
“All — all that happiness shall be yours, my precious child!” exclaimed Rodolph, fondly embracing Fleur-de-Marie. “I will reply at once to Henry’s father that I consent to the marriage. Comfort yourself with the certainty that our separation will be but short; the fresh duties you will take upon yourself in a wedded life will serve to drive away all past retrospections and painful reminiscences; and should you yourself be a mother, you will know and feel how readily a parent sacrifices her own regrets and griefs to promote the happiness of her child.”
“A mother! I a mother!” exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, with bitter despair, awakening at that word from the sweet illusion in which her memory seemed temporarily lulled. “Oh, no! I am unworthy to bear that sacred name! I should expire of shame in the presence of my own child, if indeed I could survive the horrible disclosures I must necessarily make to its father of my past life! Oh, never — never!”
“My child, for pity’s sake, listen to me!”
Pale and beautiful amidst her deep distress, Fleur-de-Marie arose with all the majesty of incurable sorrow, and, looking earnestly at
Rodolph, she said, “We forget that, ere Prince Henry made me his wife, he should be acquainted with the past!”
“No, no, my daughter,” replied Rodolph, “I had by no means forgotten what he both ought to know and shall learn of the melancholy tale.”
“Think you not that I should die, were I thus degraded in his eyes?”
“And he will also admit and feel,” added Clémence, “that if I style you my daughter, he may, without fear or shame, safely call you his wife.”
“Nay, dearest mother, I love Prince Henry too truly to bestow on him a hand that has been polluted by the touch of the ruffians of the Cité.”
A short time after this painful scene, the following announcement appeared in the Official Gazette of Gerolstein:
“The taking of the veil by the most high and mighty Princess Amelie of Gerolstein took place yesterday in the Abbey of Ste. Hermangeld, in the presence of the reigning grand duke and all his court. The vows of the novice were received by the right reverend and illustrious Lord Charles Maximus, Archbishop of Oppenheim; Monseigneur Annibal André, one of the princes of Delphes and Bishop of Ceuta, in partibus infidelium, and apostolic nuncio, bestowed the salutation and papal benediction. The sermon was preached by the most reverend Seigneur Pierre d’Asfeld, canon of the Chapter of Cologne, and count of the Holy Roman Empire. Veni Creator Optime!”
CHAPTER III.
THE VOWS.
RODOLPH TO CLÉMENCE.
Gerolstein, 12th January, 1842.
Your assurance that your father is better induces me to hope you will be enabled to return here with him shortly. I dreaded that at Rosenfeld, situated in the midst of the woods, he would be exposed to the piercing cold of our rigorous winters, but, unfortunately, his fondness for hunting rendered all our advice useless.
I entreat you, Clémence, as soon as your father can bear the motion of the carriage, quit that country and this habitation, only fit for those Germans of an iron frame whose race has now disappeared.
The ceremony of our poor child’s taking the vows is fixed for to-morrow, the thirteenth of January, the fatal day on which I drew my sword on my father! Alas! I thought too soon I was forgiven! The hope of passing my life with you and my child made me forget that it was she who had been punished up to the present time, and that my punishment was to come. And it is come, when, six months ago, she disclosed the double torture she suffered, — her incurable shame for the past, and her hopeless passion for Henry.
These two sentiments became, by a fatal logic, the cause of her fixed resolve to take the veil. You know that we could not conceal from her that, had we been in her place, we should have pursued the same noble and courageous course she has adopted. How could we answer those humble words, “I love Prince Henry too much to give him a hand that has been touched by the bandits of the Cité!”
I have seen her this morning, and though she seemed less pale than usual, though she said she did not suffer, yet her health gives me the most mortal alarm.
Alas! This morning, when I saw beneath the veil those noble features, I could not refrain from thinking how beautiful she looked the day of our marriage; it seemed that our happiness was reflected on her face.
As I told you, I saw her this morning. She does not know that to-morrow the Princess Juliana resigns her abbatical dignity, and that she has been unanimously chosen to succeed her.
Since the beginning of her novitiate there has been but one opinion of her piety, her charity, and the exactitude with which she fulfils all the rules of the order; she even exaggerates their austerity. She exercises in the convent that authority she exercised everywhere, but of which she herself is ignorant. She confessed to me this morning that she is not so absorbed by her religious duties as to forget the past.
“I accuse myself, dear father,” said she, “because I cannot help reflecting that, had Heaven pleased to spare me the degradation that has stained my life, I might have lived happily with you and my husband. Spite of myself, I reflect on this, and on what passed in the Cité. In vain I beseech Heaven to deliver me from these temptations, — to fill my heart with himself; but he does not hear my prayers, doubtless because my life has rendered me unworthy of communion with him.”
“But,” cried I, clinging to this faint glimmer of hope, “it is not yet too late; your novitiate is only over to-day; you are yet free. Renounce this austere life, dwell again with us, and our tenderness shall soften your grief.”
Shaking her head sorrowfully, she replied:
“The cloister is, indeed, solitary for me, accustomed as I have been to your tender care; doubtless cruel recollections come over me, but I am consoled by the knowledge that I am performing my duty. I know that everywhere else I should be liable to be placed in that position in which I have already suffered so much. Your daughter shall do what she ought to do, suffer what she ought to suffer.”
Without founding any great hopes on this interview, I yet said to myself, “She can renounce the cloister. But as she is determined, I can but repeat her words, ‘God alone can offer me a refuge worthy of himself.’” Adieu, dear Clémence! It consoles me to see you grieve with me, for I can say ‘our’ child without egotism in my sufferings. Often this thought lightens my sorrow, for you are left to me, and what is left to Fleur-de-Marie? Adieu again; return soon.
R.
Abbey of Ste. Hermangeld.
Four o’clock in the morning.
Reassure yourself, Clémence! Thank God, the danger is over, but the crisis was terrible!
Last evening, agitated by my thoughts, I recollected the paleness and languor of my poor child, and that she was obliged to pass almost all the night in the church in prayer.
I sent Murphy and David to demand the Princess Juliana’s permission to remain until the morrow in the mansion that Henry occupied usually; thus my child would have prompt assistance, and I prompt intelligence, in case that her strength failed under this rigorous, I will not say cruel, obligation to pass the whole of a cold winter’s night in the church.
“In the Church in Prayer”
Original Etching by Mercier
I wrote to Fleur-de-Marie that, whilst I respected her religious exercises, I besought her to watch in her cell and not in the church. This was her reply:
“My dear Father: — I thank you for this fresh proof of your tenderness, but be not alarmed, I am sufficiently strong to perform my duty. Your daughter must be guilty of no weakness. The rule orders it, I must submit. Should it cause me some physical sufferings, how joyfully shall I offer them to God! Adieu, dear father! I cannot say I pray for you, because whenever I pray to Heaven I cannot help remembering you in my prayers. You have been to me on earth what God will be, if I merit it, in heaven. Bless your child, who will be to-morrow the spouse of Heaven.
“Sister Amelie.”
This letter, in some measure, reassured me; however I had, also, a vigil to keep. At nightfall I went to a pavilion I had built, near my father’s monument, in expiation of this fatal night.
About one o’clock I heard Murphy’s voice. He came from the convent in order to inform me that, as I had feared, my unhappy child, spite of her resolution, had not had sufficient strength to accomplish this barbarous custom.
At eight o’clock in the evening Fleur-de-Marie knelt and prayed until midnight, but, overpowered by her emotion and the intense cold, she fainted; two nuns instantly raised her, and bore her to her cell. David was instantly summoned, and Murphy came to me. I hastened to the convent, where the abbess assured me that my daughter’s swoon, from which she had recovered, had been caused only by her weakness, but that David feared that my presence might seriously affect her. I feared they were preparing me for something more dreadful, but the superior said:
“I assure you, monseigneur, the princess is in no danger; the restorative the doctor has given her has greatly recruited her strength.”
David soon returned. She was better, but had insisted upon continuing her vigil, consenting only to kneel upon a cush
ion.
“She is in the church, then?” cried I.
“Yes, monseigneur, but she will quit it in a quarter of an hour.”
I entered the church, and, by the faint light of a lamp, I saw her kneeling and praying fervently. Three o’clock struck; two sisters, seated in the stalls, advanced and spoke to her; she crossed herself, rose, and traversed the choir with a firm step, and yet as she passed the lamp she seemed to me deathly pale. I remain at the abbey until the ceremony be over. I think now it is useless to send this letter incomplete. I will forward it to-morrow, with all the details of this sad day. Adieu, dearest! — I am heart-broken — pity!
R.
THE LAST CHAPTER.
THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY.
RODOLPH TO CLÉMENCE.
The thirteenth of January! Now a doubly sinister anniversary! Dearest, we have lost her for ever! All is over, — ended all. It is true, then, that there is a horrid pleasure in relating a terrible grief.
Yesterday I was complaining of the necessity that kept you from me; to-day, Clémence, I congratulate myself that you are not here, — you would have suffered too much. This morning I was in a light slumber, and was awakened by the sound of bells. I started in affright; it seemed to me a funereal sound, — a knell! In fact, our daughter is dead, — dead to us! And from to-day, Clémence, you must begin to wear her mourning in your heart, a heart always so maternally disposed towards her. Whether our child be buried beneath the marble of the tomb or the vault of the cloister, what is the difference to us? Hardly eighteen years of age, yet dead to the world!
At noon the profession took place, with solemn pomp, and I was present, concealed behind the curtains of our pew. I felt, but even with greater intensity, all the poignant emotion we underwent at her novitiate. How strange! She is adored! And they believe, universally, that she was attracted to a religious life by an irresistible vocation; and yet whilst they believed it was a happy event for her, an overwhelming sadness weighed down the spectators. There appeared in the very air, as it were, a doleful foreboding, and it was founded, if only half realised.
