Mysteries of Paris Volume III Part 75

"Let your highness feel no uneasiness on that point; Fraulein Harneim has begged me to take her place to-day; to-morrow she will have the honor of resuming her service of your highness, who will, perhaps excuse the change."

"Certainly, for I shall lose nothing by it; after having had the pleasure of seeing you two days in succession, my dear countess, I shall have for two other days Fraulien Harneim with me."

"You highness honors us," replied the maid of honor, bending again; "this extreme kindness encourages me to ask a favor."

"Speak, speak; you know my eagerness to be of a.s.sistance to you."

"It is true that for a long time your highness has accustomed me to your goodness; but this regards a subject so painful, that I should not have the courage to enter upon it, if it did not concern a very deserving object; for this reason I dare to depend upon the extreme indulgence of your highness."

"Your have no need of any indulgence, my dear countess; I am always very grateful for every occasion that is given me for doing a little good."

"This concerns a poor creature who, unfortunately, had quitted Gerolstein before your highness had established that inst.i.tution, which is so charitable, and so useful for young orphan or forsaken girls, whom nothing protects from evil pa.s.sions."

"And what has happened to her? what do you beg for her?"

"Her father, a very adventurous man, went to seek his fortune in America, leaving his wife and daughter to a precarious mode of existence. The mother died; the daughter, hardly sixteen years old when left to herself, quitted the country to follow to Vienna a seducer, who soon forsook her. Then, as always happens, the first step in the path of vice led this wretched girl to an abyss of infamy; in a short time she became, like so many other miserable creatures, the opprobrium of her s.e.x."

Fleur-de-Marie cast down her eyes, blushed, and could not conceal a slight shudder, which did not escape the maid of honor. Fearing to have wounded the chaste susceptibility of the princess by conversing with her upon such a creature, she continued, with embarra.s.sment:

"I asks a thousand pardons of your royal highness; I have undoubtedly offended you by drawing your attention to so polluted a being; but the miserable one shows so sincere a repentance, that I thought I could solicit for her a little pity."

"And you were right. Go on, I pray you," said Fleur-de-Marie, conquering her sad emotion; "indeed, all errors are worthy of pity when repentance follows them."

"And that is the case here, as I have remarked to your highness. After two years of this abominable life, grace touched this abandoned one. A prey to a late remorse, she has returned here. Chance so favored her, that, on her arrival here, she was lodged at a house belonging to a worthy widow, whose gentleness and piety are well known. Encouraged by the pious goodness of the widow, the poor creature has confessed to her her faults, adding that she felt a just horror for her past life, and that she would purchase, at the price of the most severe penance, the happiness of entering a religious house, where she might expiate her errors and deserve their redemption. The worthy widow to whom she has intrusted this confidence, knowing that I had the honor to serve your highness, has written to me to recommend to me this unfortunate one, who, by means of the all-powerful agency of your highness with the Princess Juliana, lady superior of the abbey, might hope to enter St. Hermangilda Abbey as lay sister; she asks as a favor to be employed in the most painful hours that her penance may be more meritorious. I have several times desired to converse with this woman before allowing myself to implore for her the pity of your highness, and I am firmly convinced that her repentance will be lasting. It is neither want nor age that has brought her to the true good; she is scarcely eighteen years old; she is yet very beautiful, and possesses a small sum of money, that she wishes to devote to a charitable object if she obtains the favor that she solicits."

"I will take charge of her," said Fleur-de-Marie, restraining with difficulty her emotion, so much resemblance did her past life offer to that of the unfortunate one in whose favor she was solicited: she added, "the repentance of this miserable one is too praiseworthy to be left without encouragement."

"I know not how to express my grat.i.tude to your highness. I hardly dared hope your highness would deign to be so charitably interested in such a creature."

"She has been guilty--she repents," said Fleur-de-Marie, with an accent of commiseration and inexpressible sadness; "it is right to nourish pity for her. The more sincere her remorse, the more painful must it be, my dear countess."

"I hear my lord, I believe," said the maid of honor, suddenly, without remarking the deep and increasing emotion of Fleur-de-Marie.

In fact, Rudolph was entering a saloon which opened into the oratory, holding in his hand an enormous bunch of roses. At the sight of the prince the countess discreetly retired. Hardly had she disappeared, when Fleur-de-Marie threw herself upon her father's neck, resting her forehead upon his shoulder, and remained thus some seconds without speaking.

"Good-morning, good-morning, my dear child," said Rudolph, pressing his daughter to his breast with feeling, without yet observing her sadness.

"See this ma.s.s of roses; what a fine harvest I gathered for you this morning; it was this that prevented me from coming sooner; I hope that I have never brought you a more magnificent bouquet. Take it."

And the prince, still holding his bouquet in his hand, moved backward gently, to disengage his daughter from his arms and look at her; but seeing her burst into tears, he threw the bouquet upon the table, took Fleur-de-Marie's hands in his, and exclaimed, "You weep! Oh, what is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing, my dear father," said Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears and endeavoring to smile upon Rudolph.

"Tell me, I beg you, what is the matter? What can have made you sad?"

"I a.s.sure you, father, it is nothing to distress you. The countess has just solicited my interest for a poor woman, so interesting, so unhappy, that in spite of myself I am moved by her recital."

"Truly? Is it only this?"

"It is only this," answered Fleur-de-Marie, taking from a table the flowers that Rudolph had thrown there; "but how you spoil me!" added she, "what a magnificent bouquet, and when I think that each day you bring me such, gathered by yourself."

"My child," said Rudolph, gazing upon his daughter with anxiety, "you conceal something from me; your smile is sad--constrained. Tell me, I beg you, what distresses you: do not occupy yourself with this bouquet."

"Ah, you know this bouquet is my joy every morning; and then I love roses so much--I have always loved them so much. You remember," added she, with an affecting smile, "you remember my poor little rose-bush. I have always kept its remains."

At this painful allusion to the past, Rudolph exclaimed, "Unhappy child!

Are my suspicions founded? In the midst of the splendor that surrounds you, would you yet sometimes think of that horrible time? Alas, I had thought to have made you forget it by tenderness."

"Pardon, pardon, father! these words escaped me. I make you sad."

"I am myself sad, poor angel," said Rudolph sorrowfully, "because these returns to the past must be fearful to you--because they would poison your life if you were weak enough to abandon yourself to them."

"Father, this was by chance. Since our arrival here, this is the first time--"

"This is the first time you have spoken of it--yes; but, perhaps, this is not the first time that these thoughts have troubled you. I have perceived your moments of melancholy, and sometimes I have accused the past as causing your sadness. But, as I was uncertain, I dared not even attempt to combat the sad influence of these remembrances--to show you the uselessness, the injustice of them--for if your grief had arisen from another cause, if the past had been to you what it ought to be, a vain, bad dream, I should risk awakening in you painful ideas that I should wish to destroy."

"How good you are! how these fears show me your ineffable tenderness."

"What do you mean? My position was so difficult, so delicate. On another occasion I said nothing, but I was ever thinking of what concerned you. By contracting this marriage, which crowned all my desires, I also hoped to give another guarantee to your repose. I knew too well the excessive delicacy of your heart to hope that you could ever--ever cease to think of the past; but I said to myself, that if, by chance, your thoughts ever lingered there, you ought, feeling yourself cherished as a daughter by the n.o.ble woman who knew and loved you in the depth of your misfortunes--you ought, I say, to regard the past as sufficiently expiated for by your heavy miseries, and be indulgent, or rather just, toward yourself: for, indeed, my wife is ent.i.tled by her high qualities to the respect of all--is it not so? Ah, well, since you are to her a daughter, a cherished sister, ought you not to be encouraged? Is not her tender attachment an entire redemption? Does it not tell you that she knows, as I do, that you have been a victim--that you are not guilty--that others can, indeed, reproach you only with misfortune, that has overwhelmed you from your birth? Had you even committed great faults, would they not be a thousand times expiated, redeemed, by all the good you have done, by all that is excellent and adorable that has been developed in you?"

"My father--"

"Ah, let me--let me tell you all my thoughts, since an accident, for which indeed we ought to be grateful, has caused this conversation. For a long time I have desired, and at the same time dreaded it. G.o.d will that it may have a salutary result! It was mine to make you forget so many dreadful sorrows. I have a mission to fulfill towards you so august, so sacred, that I should have had the courage to sacrifice, for your repose, my love for Madame d'Harville--my friends.h.i.+p for Murphy, if I had thought their presence would have recalled to you too bitterly the past."

"On, my good father, could you think so? Their presence, the presence of those who know _what I was_, and who yet love me tenderly, does not it, on the contrary, personify forgetfulness and pardon? Indeed, my father, would not my whole life have been made desolate, had you renounced for me your marriage with Madame d'Harville?"

"Ah! I should not have been the only one to desire this sacrifice, if it would secure your happiness. You know not what self-denial Clemence has already voluntarily imposed upon herself, for she also comprehends all the extent of my duty to you."

"Your duty to me, my G.o.d! And what have I done to merit so much?"

"What have you done, poor dear angel! Until the moment you were restored to me, your life was only bitterness, misery, desolation; and for your past sufferings I reproach myself, as if I had caused them. And when I see you smiling, pleased, I believe myself pardoned; my only aim, my only wish, is to render you as entirely happy as you have been unfortunate; to raise you as much as you have been lowered, for it seems to me the last traces of the past are effaced when the most eminent, the most honorable persons pay you the respect which is due to you."

"Respect to me? no, no, my father; but to my rank, or, rather, to that you have given me."

"Ah! it is not your rank that is loved, that is revered--it is you, understand; indeed, my dear child, it is yourself, yourself alone. There is homage imposed by rank, but it is another imposed by powers of attraction and fascination! You know not how to distinguish between these, because you know not yourself; because you know not that, by a wonderful intelligence and tact, which renders me as proud as idolatrous of you, carry into all ceremonious intercourse, so new to you, a union of dignity, modesty, and grace, which is irresistible to the most stately characters."

"You love me so much, father, and all love you so much, that every one is sure of pleasing you by showing me deference."

"Oh, the wicked child!" exclaimed Rudolph, interrupting his daughter, and embracing her tenderly; "what a wicked child, who will not grant a single satisfaction to my fatherly pride!"

"Is not this pride sufficiently satisfied by attributing to you the good feeling that is shown me, my good father?"

"No, indeed, miss," said the prince, smiling, to his daughter, to chase away the sadness with which he still saw her affected; "no, miss, it is not the same thing; for it is not allowable for me to be proud of myself, and I can and ought to be proud of you--yes, proud. And, again, you know not how divinely you are endowed; in fifteen months your education has become so marvelously complete that the most difficult mother would be satisfied with you, and this education has increased still more the almost irresistible influence that you spread around you without being yourself aware of it."

"My father, your praises confuse me."

"I speak the truth, nothing but the truth. Do you wish for instances? Let us speak boldly of the past; it is an enemy that I wish to fight hand to hand; we must look it in the face. Do you not, then, remember La Louve, that courageous woman who saved you? Recall that prison scene which you have related to me; a crowd of prisoners, more hardened indeed than wicked, were bent upon tormenting one of their companions, feeble, infirm, and yet their drudge; you appear, you speak, and, behold, immediately these furies, blus.h.i.+ng for their base cruelty toward their victim, show themselves as charitable as they were wicked. Is this, then, nothing? Again, is it--yes or no--owing to you that La Louve, that ungovernable woman, has felt repentance, and desired an honest and laborious life? Ah, believe me, my dear child, that which conquered La Louve, and her turbulent companions, merely by the ascendancy of goodness, combined with a rare elevation of mind; this, although in other circ.u.mstances and in an utterly different sphere, must by the same charm (do not smile at such a parallel, miss) fascinate the stately Archd.u.c.h.ess Sophia and all the circle of my court; for the good and wicked, great and small, submit almost always to the influence of higher, n.o.bler spirits. I do not wish to say that you were born princess in the aristocratic sense of the word; that would be a poor flattery to make you, my child; but you are of that small number of privileged beings who are born both to speak to a queen so as to charm her, and to earn her love, and also to speak to a poor, debased, and abandoned creature, so as to make her better, to console her, and thus gain her adoration."

"But, my dear father, I beg--"