Mysteries of Paris Volume III Part 43

"I have always regarded as sacred the last wishes of the dying, but it appears I have been deceived."

"Rea.s.sure yourself," said Sarah, interrupting Rudolph. "I have not deceived you; there remain for me but a few hours to live. Pardon me a last act of coquetry; I wished to spare you the usual attendants of a death-bed. I wished to die dressed as I was the first time I saw you. Alas! after ten years of separation, I see you again! Thanks--oh, thanks! But in your turn, render thanks to heaven for having moved you to come to listen to my last prayer. If you had refused me, I had carried with me to the tomb a secret which is going to make the joy, the happiness of your life. Joy mixed with some tears, like all other human felicity; but this felicity!

you would buy it at the price of half the remaining days of your life!"

"What do you mean to say?" demanded the prince, with surprise.

"Yes, Rudolph, if you had not come, this secret would have followed me to the tomb--it had been my sole vengeance; and yet--no, no, I should not have had this terrible courage. Although you would have caused me much suffering, I should have divided with you this supreme happiness, which, more fortunate than I, you will a long time enjoy."

"But, once more, madame, what means all this?"

"When you know it, you will comprehend my delay in informing you, for you will regard this revelation as a miracle from heaven. But, strange thought--I, who with one word can cause you the greatest happiness that you have ever experienced--I feel, although now the minutes of my life are counted--I feel an indescribable satisfaction in prolonging your suspense; and, besides, I know your heart, and, in spite of the firmness of your character, I should fear to announce to you, without preparation, a discovery so incredible. The emotions of sudden joy have also their dangers."

"Your pallor increases--you with difficulty restrain a violent agitation,"

said Rudolph; "all this proves that something grave and important----"

"Grave and important!" repeated Sarah, in a faltering voice, for, notwithstanding her habitual immobility, in reflecting upon the immense importance of the revelation she was about to make to Rudolph, she felt herself more agitated than she could have thought possible. After a moment's silence, Sarah, no longer able to restrain herself, cried, "Rudolph, our child is not dead."

"Our child!"

"I tell you she lives!" These words, the accent of truth with which they were p.r.o.nounced, moved the prince to the very bottom of his heart.

"Our child!" he repeated, advancing hastily toward Sarah; "our child! my daughter!"

"She is not dead; I have certain proofs; I know where she is--to-morrow you shall see her."

"My daughter! my child!" repeated Rudolph, as if in a dream; "can it be possible? is she alive?"

Then, suddenly reflecting on the great improbability of this relation, and fearing to be the dupe of Sarah, he cried, "No, no; it is a dream! it is impossible, you deceive me; it is some unworthy deceit!"

"Rudolph, listen to me!"

"No, I know your ambition--I know of what you are capable; I can fathom the object of this fabrication!"

"Well! you speak the truth. I am capable of everything. Yes, I did wish to deceive you. Yes, some days before I received my mortal wound I did wish to find a young girl, whom I would have presented to you in the place of our child whom you regret so bitterly."

"Enough--oh! enough, madame."

"After this confession you will believe me, perhaps; or, rather, you will be forced to give credence to the proofs."

"To the proofs?"

"Yes, Rudolph; I repeat it, I have wished to deceive you, to subst.i.tute an obscure girl in the place of her we mourn; but Heaven willed that, at the moment when I was about to carry the project into execution, I should be stricken down."

"You! at this moment!"

"Heaven has also willed that they should propose to me to play this part--do you know whom? our daughter."

"Are you delirious? In the name of heaven---"

"I am not delirious, Rudolph. In this casket, among some papers and a portrait, which will prove to you the truth of what I say, you will find a paper stained with my blood."

"With your blood?"

"The woman who informed me that our child was still living dictated to me this revelation--then I was stabbed by a poniard."

"And who was she? how did she know?"

"It was to her our child was delivered--quite an infant--after having falsely reported her death."

"But this woman--her name? can she be believed? where did you become acquainted with her?"

"I tell you, Rudolph, that all this is fate--providential. Some months since, you rescued a poor girl from poverty, to send her to the country--is it not so?"

"Yes, to Bouqueval."

"Jealousy and hatred drove me wild. I caused this young girl to be carried off by the woman of whom I have spoken."

"And she took the unhappy child to Saint Lazare?"

"Where she yet is."

"She is there no longer. Ah! you do not know, madame, the frightful evil you have caused by tearing this poor child from the retreat where I had placed her; but--"

"The girl no longer at Saint Lazare?" cried the lady in alarm; "and you speak of a frightful evil!"

"A monster of cupidity had an interest in her death. They have drowned her, madame; but answer, you say--"

"My daughter!" cried Sarah, interrupting Rudolph, and rising on her feet, immovable as a marble statue.

"What does she say? good heavens!" cried Rudolph.

"My child!" repeated Sarah, whose face became livid and frightful from despair; "they have killed my child!"

"The Goualeuse your child!" repeated Rudolph, recoiling with horror.

"The Goualeuse! yes! that is the name the woman mentioned--this woman called La Chouette. Dead--dead!" cried Sarah, still motionless, her eyes fixed and glaring; "they have killed her!"

"Sarah!" replied Rudolph, as pale and alarmed as she, "calm yourself-- answer me--La Goualeuse--this girl whom you caused to be carried off by La Chouette from Bouqueval, was--"

"Our child!"

"She!"

"And they have killed her."

"Oh!--no, no--you rave--this cannot be. You know not, no, you know not how frightful this is. Sarah! compose yourself; speak to me tranquilly. Seat yourself--calm yourself. Often there are appearances--resemblances which deceive; one is inclined to believe what one desires. It is not a reproach I make you; but explain to me well--tell me all the reasons you have to credit this, for it cannot be--no, no; it must not be!--it is not so!"

After a moment's pause, the countess collected her thoughts, and said to Rudolph in an expiring voice, "Hearing of your marriage, thinking to be married myself, I could not keep our daughter with me; she was then four years old."