by Eugène Sue
The profession terminated, they led our child into the chapter-room, where the nomination of the new abbess was to take place, and, thanks to my sovereign privilege, I went into this room to await Fleur-de-Marie’s return to the choir. She soon entered; her emotion and weakness were so excessive that two of the sisters supported her. I was alarmed, less at her paleness and the great change in her features, than at the peculiar expression of her smile, which seemed to me imprinted with a kind of secret satisfaction.
Clémence, I say to you, perhaps we may very soon require all our courage, — I feel within myself that our child is mortally smitten. May Heaven grant that I am deceived, and may my presentiments arise only from the despairing sadness which this melancholy spectacle has inspired!
Fleur-de-Marie entered the chapter-room, all the stalls were filled by the nuns. She went modestly to place herself last on the left-hand side, still leaning on the arm of one of the sisters, for she yet appeared very weak.
The Princess Juliana was seated at the end of the apartment, with the grand prioress on one side and another dignitary on the other, holding in her hand the golden crozier, the symbol of abbatial authority. There was profound silence; and then the lady abbess rose, took the crozier in her hand, and said, in a voice of great emotion:
“My dear daughters, my great age compels me to confide to younger hands this emblem of my spiritual power,” and she pointed to the crozier. “I am authorised by a bull of our holy father; I will, therefore, present to the benediction of monseigneur the Archbishop of Oppenheim, and to the approbation of his royal highness the grand duke our sovereign, whosoever of my dear daughters shall be pointed out by you to succeed me. Our grand prioress will inform you of the result of the election, and she who has been chosen will receive my crozier and ring.”
I did not take my eyes off my daughter. Standing up in her stall, her two hands folded over her bosom, her eyes cast down, and half covered by her white veil and the long folds of her black gown, she was pensive and motionless, not supposing for a moment that she would herself be elected, as this fact had been communicated by the abbess to no one but myself.
The grand prioress took a book and read:
“Each of our dear sisters having been, according to the rule, requested a week since to place her vote in the hands of our holy mother, and keep her choice secret until this moment, in the name of our holy mother I declare to you, my dear, dear sisters, that one of you has, by her exemplary piety, merited the unanimous suffrages of the community, and that she is our sister Amelie, the most noble and puissant Princess of Gerolstein.”
At these words a murmur of pleased surprise and satisfaction went around the apartment; the eyes of all the nuns were fixed on my daughter with an expression of tender sympathy, and, in spite of my painful forebodings, I was myself deeply touched at this nomination, which, done isolatedly and secretly, had yet presented such an affecting unanimity.
The abbess continued, in a serious and loud voice:
“My dear daughters, if it be, indeed, Sister Amelie whom you think the most worthy and most deserving of you all, — if it be she whom you recognise as your spiritual superior, let each of you reply to me in turn, my dear daughters.”
And each nun replied in a clear voice:
“Freely and voluntarily I have chosen, and I do choose, Sister Amelie for my holy mother and superior.”
Overcome by inexpressible emotion, my poor child fell on her knees, clasped her hands, and remained so until each vote was declared. Then the abbess, placing the crozier and the ring in the hands of the grand prioress, advanced towards my daughter to take her hand and conduct her to the abbatial seat.
“Rise, my dear daughter,” said the abbess; “come and assume the place that belongs to you. Your virtues, and not your rank, have obtained for you the position you have gained.”
Fleur-de-Marie, trembling, advanced a few steps, and said:
“Pardon me, holy mother, but I would speak to my sisters.”
“Then first place yourself, my dear child, in your abbatial seat,” said the princess; “it is from thence your voice shall be heard.”
“That place, holy mother, never can be mine!” replied Fleur-de-Marie, in a low and tremulous voice.
“What mean you, my dear daughter?”
“So high a dignity was not made for me, holy mother.”
“But the wishes of all your sisters call you to it.”
“Permit me, holy mother, to make here, on my knees, a solemn confession; and my sisters will see, and you, also, holy mother, that the humblest condition is not humble enough for me.”
“This arises from your modesty, my dear child,” said the superior, with kindness, believing that the unhappy girl was giving way to a feeling of overdelicacy.
But I divined the confession Fleur-de-Marie was about to make, and, greatly alarmed, I exclaimed, in a voice of entreaty:
“My child, I conjure thee—”
It is impossible, my dearest Clémence, to describe the look which Fleur-de-Marie gave me. In an instant she understood all, and saw how deeply I should share in the shame of this horrible revelation. She comprehended that after such a confession they might accuse me of falsehood, for I had always made it out that Fleur-de-Marie had never left her mother. At this reflection the poor dear child thought she would be guilty of the blackest ingratitude towards me; she had not power to continue, but bowed down her head, overcome — overwhelmed.
“Again I assure you, my dear child,” said the abbess, “your modesty deceives you. The unanimity of the choice of your sisters proves how worthy you are to replace me. It is not the princess — it is Sister Amelie who is elected. For us your life began on the day when you first put foot in this house of the Lord, and it is this exemplary and holy life that we recompense. I will say more, my dear daughter; if before you entered this retreat your life had been as wrong as it has been, on the contrary, pure and praiseworthy, the heavenly virtues of which you have given me an example since your abode here would expiate and ransom, in the eyes of the Lord, any past life, however culpable. And now, my dear daughter, judge if your modesty ought not to be reassured.”
These words of the abbess were, as you may think, my Clémence, the more precious for Fleur-de-Marie, as she believed the past ineffaceable. Unfortunately, this scene had deeply moved her, and, although she affected calmness and serenity, I saw that her features altered in a most distressing manner.
“I believe I have convinced you, my dear daughter,” said the Princess Juliana; “and you will not cause so great a grief to your sisters as to refuse this mark of their confidence and affection?”
“No, holy mother,” she said, with an expression which struck me, and in a voice more and more feeble, “I think now I may accept; but as I feel myself fatigued and in pain, if you will permit it, holy mother, the ceremony of the consecration shall not take place for a few days.”
“As you wish, my dear daughter; but in the meanwhile, until your dignity is blessed and consecrated, take this ring, come to your place, and our dear sisters will do you homage according to our rules.”
And the superior, putting the pastoral ring on Fleur-de-Marie’s finger, led her to the abbatial seat. It was a simple and touching sight. Supported on one side by the grand prioress, bearing the golden crozier, and on the other by the Princess Juliana, each of the sisters, as she passed by, made obeisance to our child, and respectfully kissed her hand. But judge of my affright when she swooned before the procession of the sisters was terminated. David had not quitted the convent, and he hastened to the abbess’s apartment, whither we had conveyed her, and then attended to her.
The superior having returned to close the sitting of the chapter, I remained alone with my daughter. After looking at me for some time, she said:
“My dear father, can you forget my ingratitude? Can you forget that at the moment when I was about to make my painful confession — when you implored me—”
“Silence! I beseech yo
u!”
“And I did not reflect,” she continued, with bitterness, “that, in telling in the face of all the world from what an abyss of depravity you had rescued me, I revealed a secret which you had preserved out of tenderness to me! It would have been to accuse you publicly — you, my father — of a dissimulation, which you only resigned yourself to to assure me a brilliant and honoured existence! Can you ever forgive me?”
Instead of replying, I pressed my lips on her forehead; she felt my tears flow. Having kissed my hands many times, she said:
“Now I feel better, and, as now I am dead to the world, I should like to make a few bequests in favour of several persons; but as all I have comes from you, do you authorise me, dearest father?”
“Say, dearest, and I will do all you desire.”
“I should wish my beloved mother to keep always in the little boudoir in which she usually sits my embroidery-frame, with the work I began.”
“It shall be so, love; your apartment is as when you left it. Clémence will be deeply touched by your thought of her.”
“As for you, dear father, take, I pray, my large ebony armchair, in which I have thought of — reflected upon so much.”
“I will put it beside my own, in my own private closet, and will imagine I see you in it every day, where you have so often sat,” I said, unable to repress my tears.
“And now I would leave some souvenirs to those who took so much interest in me when I was unhappy. To Madame Georges I would give the writing-desk I have lately used; she taught me to write originally, so the gift will be very appropriate,” she said, with her sweet smile. “As to the venerable curé of Bouqueval, who instructed me in religion, I intend for him the beautiful crucifix in my oratory.”
“Very well, my dearest child.”
“I should like to send my bandeau of pearls to my good little Rigolette; it is a simple ornament which she may wear in her beautiful black hair. And as you know where Martial and La Louve are in Algeria, I should like to send to the brave woman who saved my life my gold enamelled cross. These different keepsakes, dearest father, I would have sent to them ‘from Fleur-de-Marie.’”
“I will do all you wish, — I will not forget one.”
“I am sure you will not, dearest father.”
“Is there no other person present to your memory?”
The dear child understood me, and pressed my hand, whilst a slight blush tinged her pale cheeks as I said, “He is better — out of danger.”
“And his father?”
“Better as his son is better. And what will you give to Henry? A souvenir from you will be a consolation so dear and precious!”
“My father, offer him my prie-Dieu. Alas! I have often watered it with my tears when begging from Heaven for strength to forget Henry, as I was unworthy of his love.”
“How happy it will make him to see that you have had one thought of him!”
“As to the asylum for the orphans and young girls abandoned by their parents, I should wish, my dear father, that—”
Here Rodolph’s letter was broken off by these words, almost illegible:
“Clémence, Murphy will conclude this letter! I am lost, — bereft of sense! Ah, the thirteenth of January!”
At the end of this letter Murphy had written as follows:
Madame: — By the order of his royal highness I complete this sorrowful recital. The two letters of monseigneur will have prepared your royal highness for the overwhelming news I have to communicate. Three hours since, whilst monseigneur was writing to your royal highness, I was waiting in the antechamber for a letter to be despatched by a courier, when suddenly I saw the Princess Juliana enter in the greatest consternation.
“Where is his royal highness?” she said to me, in an agitated voice.
“Writing to the grand duchess,” I replied.
“Sir Walter,” she said, “you must inform monseigneur of a terrible event. You are his friend, — you should tell him; from you the blow may be less terrible!”
I understood all, and thought it most prudent to charge myself with the distressing intelligence. The superior having added that the Princess Amelie was sinking gradually, and that monseigneur must hasten to receive his daughter’s last sigh, I went into the duke’s room, who saw how pale I was.
“You have some bad news for me?”
“Terrible, monseigneur! But courage! Courage!”
“Ah, my forebodings!” he exclaimed; and, without adding a word, he ran to the cloisters. I followed him.
From the apartment of the superior, the Princess Amelie had been conveyed to her cell, after her last interview with monseigneur. One of the sisters watched over her, and at the end of an hour she perceived that the Princess Amelie’s voice, who spoke to her at intervals, was weaker, and more and more oppressed. The sister hastened to inform the superior, who sent for Doctor David, who administered a cordial; but it was useless, the pulse was scarcely perceptible. He saw with despair that the reiterated emotions having probably exhausted the little strength of the Princess Amelie, there was not a hope of saving her left. Monseigneur arrived at this moment. The Princess Amelie had just received the last sacrament; a slight degree of consciousness remained. In one hand, crossed over her chest, she held the remains of her little rose-tree.
Monseigneur fell on his knees at the foot of the bed, and sobbed, “My child! My beloved child!” in a voice of piercing agony. The Princess Amelie heard him, turned her head a little towards him, opened her eyes, tried to smile, and said, in a faint voice, “My dearest father, pardon! — Henry, too! — and my beloved mother! — pardon!”
These were her last words. After a slight struggle of one hour, she rendered her soul to God.
When his daughter had breathed her last sigh, monseigneur did not say a word; his calmness and silence were frightful. He closed the eyelids of the princess, kissed her forehead several times, took piously from her hands the relics of the little rose-tree, and left the cell. I followed him, and he returned to the house outside the cloister, when, showing me the letter he had commenced writing to your royal highness, and to which he in vain endeavoured to add a few words, for his hand trembled too convulsively, he said to me, “I cannot write! I am crushed! My senses are gone! Write to the grand duchess that I have no longer a daughter!”
I have executed the orders of monseigneur. May I be allowed, as his old servant, to entreat your royal highness to hasten your return as soon as the health of M. d’Orbigny will permit? Nothing but the presence of your royal highness can calm monseigneur’s despair. He will watch his daughter’s remains every night until the day when she is to be buried in the grand-ducal chapel.
I have accomplished my sad task, madame. Deign, to excuse the incoherence of this letter, and to receive the expression of respectful devotion with which I have the honour to be
Your royal highness’s most obedient servant,
Walter Murphy.
On the evening before the funeral of the Princess Amelie, Clémence arrived at Gerolstein with her father. Rodolph was not alone on the day of Fleur-de-Marie’s interment.
THE END
The Mysteries of the People
‘The Naval Battle of Navarino’ by Ambroise Louis Garneray, 1829 — following in his father’s footsteps, Sue acted as surgeon both in the 1823 French campaign in Spain and at the Battle of Navarino in 1828.
The Gold Sickle
OR, HENA, THE VIRGIN OF THE ISLE OF SEN. A TALE OF DRUID GAUL
Translated by Daniel de Leon
First appearing in 1843, the vast family saga of novels The Mysteries of the People is structured as a series of nineteen more or less interlinked stories, regarded by some as Sue’s greatest work. There were various translations from the original French in the years following publication, not always citing the translator and never a complete set. Chapman and Hall of London published the story in 1845-6 and in 1904, the New York Labour News Company published all of the stories, as translated by Daniel Deleon, who
was the leader of the Socialist Labor Party of America. The ambitious project was to tell the story of a working class family down the ages, whilst at the same time mirroring the struggles of ‘everyman’ that his contemporary readers would have experienced.
For a nineteenth century fictionalised account of history, this saga is well done. The Iron Age stories, for instance, are pleasing in their depictions of everyday life and warfare as understood at the time and provide a good backdrop, so long as one is not too pedantic about archaeological detail. The characters are necessarily romanticised on the Gallic side and rather like pantomime villains, when it comes to the oppressors, but as that is the agenda of the author, it cannot be argued with. In the story of the Nazarene, the reader will encounter many familiar Bible stories and characters, but told through the eyes of the characters themselves and so given a pleasing immediacy that makes them fresh and interesting. In all the stories, members of the ruling elite are depicted as over-indulged and cruel, whilst the oppressed classes are valiant and honourable, if sometimes hot headed. There are peculiarities – in the Iron Pincers, much of the dialogue is laid out by Sue as if it is a play script, to no discernible benefit to the reader. Those familiar with The Wandering Jew will recognise elements of that story in The Sword of Honor.
In The Gold Sickle; the first story of the saga, we are introduced to the Gallic chief Joel. He and his tribal ‘family’ live on the edge of the forest of Karnack, in Breton Gaul; their descendants will go on to represent the oppressed throughout this series of stories. Joel and his son invite a traveller to share their supper – Joel has a passion for stories told by travellers and strangers and wishes to hear the tales the fair-haired stranger may have to impart. On meeting the man, they realise he has the manner and strength of a chief and are even more keen to have the kudos of entertaining such an illustrious person, but the stranger is in a hurry and demands they let him pass on his way. He declares he can look after himself: “I have travelled a deal since my beard began to grow, have seen many countries, many peoples and many strange customs.’ Hearing this, Joel is determined to hear of the man’s experiences and forcibly detains him and the exchange of stories around the hearth turns into a debate about freedom and what freedom is worth. It also transpires that the two leaders have something in common — an interest in the island of Sen, where Joel’s daughter, a druid priestess, resides and it is to the neighbouring island of Kellor that the stranger is travelling. Joel is to be granted his wish when the stranger goes voluntarily to his typically Iron Age homestead and after appropriate ceremony, the tales begin…
