Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Take courage, my lord,” said he at last, drying his eyes, which, spite of all his accustomed coolness, he had not been able to prevent from overflowing, “take courage; yours is indeed an infliction, one that mocks at all vain attempts at consolation; it is deep, lasting, and incurable!”

  “You are right; what I felt yesterday seems as nothing to my sense of misery to-day.”

  “Yesterday, my lord, you were stunned by the blow that fell on you, but as your mind dwells more calmly on it, so does the future seem more dark and dispiriting. I can but say, rouse yourself, my lord, to bear it with courage, for it is beyond all attempts at consolation.”

  “Yesterday the contempt and horror I felt for that woman, — whom may the Great Being pardon, before whose tribunal she now stands, — mingled with surprise, disgust, and terror, occasioned by her hideous conduct, repressed those bursts of despairing tenderness I can no longer restrain in your sympathising presence, my faithful friend. I fear not to indulge the natural emotions of my heart, and my hitherto pent-up tears may now freely vent themselves. Forgive my weakness, and excuse my thus cowardly shrinking from the trial I am called upon to endure, but it seems to have riven my very heart-strings, and to have left me feeble as an infant! Oh, my child! My loved, my lost child! Long must these scalding tears flow ere I can forget you!”

  “Ah, my lord, weep on, for your loss is indeed irreparable!”

  “What joy to have atoned to her for all the wretchedness with which her young days have been clouded! What bliss to have unfolded to her the happy destiny that was to recompense her for all her past sorrows! And, then, I should have used so much care and precaution in opening her eyes to the brilliant lot that was to succeed her miserable youth, for the tale, if told too abruptly, might have been too much for her delicate nerves to sustain; but, no, I would by degrees have revealed to her the history of her birth, and prepared her to receive me as her father!”

  Then, again bursting into an agony of despair, Rodolph continued: “But what avails all that I would have done, when I am tortured by the cruel reflection that, when I had my child all to myself during the ill-fated day I conducted her to the farm, when she so innocently displayed the rich treasures of her pure and heavenly nature, no secret voice whispered to me that in her I beheld my cherished and lamented daughter? I might have prevented this dreadful calamity by keeping her with me instead of sending her to Madame Georges. Oh, if I had, I should have been spared my present sufferings, and needed only to have opened my arms and folded her to my heart as my newly found treasure, — more really great and noble by the beauty of her heart and mind, and perhaps more worthy to fill the station to which I should raise her, than if she had always been reared in opulence and with a knowledge of her rank! I alone am to blame for her death; but mine is an accursed existence. I seem fated to trample on every duty, — a bad son and a bad father!”

  Murphy felt that grief such as Rodolph’s admitted of no ordinary consolation. He did not therefore attempt to interrupt its violence by any hackneyed phrases or promises of comfort he well knew could never be realised.

  After a long silence, Rodolph resumed, in an agitated voice:

  “I cannot stay here after what has happened. Paris is hateful to me; I will quit it to-morrow.”

  “You are quite right in so doing, my lord.”

  “We will go by a circuitous route, and I will stop at Bouqueval as I pass, that I may spend some few hours alone with my sad thoughts, in the chamber where my poor child enjoyed the only peaceful days she was ever permitted to taste. All that was hers shall be carefully collected together, — the books from which she studied, her writings, clothes, even the very articles of furniture and hangings of the chamber; I will make a careful sketch of the whole, and when I return to Gerolstein I will construct a small building containing the fac-simile of my poor child’s apartment, with all that it contained, to be erected in the private ground in which stands the monument built by me in memory of my outraged parent; there I will go and bewail my daughter. These two funeral mementos will for ever remind me of my crime towards my father, and the punishment inflicted on me through my own child.”

  After a fresh silence, Rodolph said, “Let all be got ready for my departure to-morrow.”

  Anxious, if possible, to create if but a momentary change of ideas in the prince’s mind, Murphy said, “All shall be prepared, my lord, according to your desire; only you appear to have forgotten that to-morrow is fixed for the celebration of the marriage of Rigolette with the son of Madame Georges, and that the ceremony was to take place at Bouqueval. Not contented with providing for Germain as long as he lives, and liberally endowing his bride, you also promised to be present to bestow the hand of your young protégée on her lover.”

  “True, true, — I did engage to do so; but I confess I have not sufficient courage to venture in a scene of gaiety. I cannot, therefore, visit the farm to-morrow, for to join in the wedding festivities is impossible.”

  “Perhaps the scene might serve to calm your wounded feelings, with the thought that, if miserable yourself, you have made others happy.”

  “No, my friend, no! Grief is ever selfish, and loves to indulge itself in solitude. You shall supply my place to-morrow; and beg of Madame Georges to collect together all my poor child’s possessions; then when the room is fitly arranged, you will have an exact copy taken of it, and cause it to be sent to me in Germany.”

  “And will you not even see Madame d’Harville, my lord, ere you set out on your journey?”

  At the recollection of Clémence, Rodolph started; his affection for her burned as steadfastly and sincerely as ever, but, for the moment, it seemed buried beneath the overwhelming grief which oppressed him. The tender sympathy of Madame d’Harville appeared to him the only source of consolation; but, the next instant, he rejected the idea of seeking consolation in the love of another as unworthy his paternal sorrow.

  “No, my kind friend, I shall not see Madame d’Harville previously to quitting Paris. I wrote to her a few days since, telling her of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, and the pain it had caused me. When she learns that the ill-fated girl was my long-lost daughter, she will readily understand that there are some griefs, or rather fatal punishments, it is requisite to endure alone.”

  A gentle knock was heard at the door at this minute. Rodolph, with displeasure at the interruption, signed for Murphy to ascertain who it was. The faithful squire immediately rose, and, partly opening the door, perceived one of the prince’s aides-de-camp, who said a few words in a low tone, to which Murphy replied by a motion of the head, and, returning to Rodolph, said, “Have the goodness, my lord, to excuse me for an instant! A person wishes to see me directly on business that concerns your royal highness.”

  “Go!” replied the prince.

  Scarcely had the door closed on Murphy, than Rodolph, covering his face with his hands, uttered a heavy groan.

  “What horrible feelings possess me!” cried he. “My mind seems one vast ocean of gall and bitterness; the presence of my best and most faithful friend is painful to me; and the recollection of a love pure and elevated as mine distresses and embarrasses me. Last night, too, I was cowardly enough to learn the death of Sarah with savage joy. I felicitated myself on being free from an unnatural being like her, who had caused the destruction of my child; I promised myself the horrible satisfaction of witnessing the mortal agonies of the wretch who deprived my child of life. But I was baffled of my dear revenge. Another cruel punishment!” exclaimed he, starting with rage from his chair. “Yet although I knew yesterday as well as to-day that my child was dead, I did not experience such a whirlwind of despairing, self-accusing agony as now rends my soul; because I did not then recall to mind the one torturing fact that will for ever step in between me and consolation. I did not then recall the circumstance of my having seen and known my beloved child, and, moreover, discovered in her untold treasures of goodness and nobleness of character. Yet how little did I profit by her being
at the farm! Merely saw her three times — yes, three times — no more! when I might have beheld her each day — nay, have kept her ever beside me. Oh, that will be my unceasing punishment, my never-ending reproach and torture, — to think I had my daughter near me, and actually sent her from me! Nor, though I felt how deserving she was of every fond care, did I even admit her into my presence but three poor distant times.”

  While the unhappy prince thus continued to torment himself with these and similar reflections, the door of the apartment suddenly opened and Murphy entered, looking so pale and agitated that even Rodolph could not help remarking it; and rising hastily, he exclaimed:

  “For heaven’s sake, Murphy, what has happened to you?”

  “Nothing, my lord.”

  “Yet you are pale!”

  “’Tis with astonishment.”

  “Astonishment at what?”

  “Madame d’Harville.”

  “Madame d’Harville! Gracious heaven! Some fresh misfortune?”

  “No, no, my lord — indeed, nothing unfortunate has occurred. Pray compose yourself! She is — in the drawing-room—”

  “Here — in my house? Madame d’Harville here? Impossible!”

  “My lord, I told you the surprise had quite overpowered me!”

  “Tell me what has induced her to take such a step! Speak, I conjure you! In heaven’s name, explain the reason for her acting so contrary to her usually rigid notions!”

  “Indeed, my lord, I know nothing. But I cannot even account to myself for the strange feelings that come over me.”

  “You are concealing something from me!”

  “No, indeed, my lord; on the honour of a man, I know only what the marquise said to me.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “‘Sir Walter,’ said she, with an unsteady voice, though her countenance shone with joy, ‘no doubt you are surprised at my presence here; but there are some circumstances so imperative as to leave no time to consider the strict rules of etiquette. Beg of his royal highness to grant me an immediate interview of a few minutes only in your presence, for I know well that the prince has not a better friend than yourself. I might certainly have requested him to call on me, but that would have caused at least an hour’s delay; and when the prince has learned the occasion of my coming, I am sure he will feel grateful to me for not delaying the interview I seek for a single instant.’ And as she uttered these words, her countenance wore an expression that made me tremble all over.”

  “But,” returned Rodolph, in an agitated tone, and, spite of all his attempts at retaining his composure, being even paler than Murphy himself, “I cannot guess what caused your emotion; there must be something beyond those words of Madame d’Harville’s to occasion it.”

  “I pledge you my honour if there be I am wholly ignorant of it; but I confess those few words from Madame la Marquise seemed quite to bewilder me. But even you, my lord, are paler than you were.”

  “Am I?” said Rodolph, supporting himself on the back of his chair, for he felt his knees tremble under him.

  “Nay, but, my lord, you are quite as much overcome as I was. What ails you?”

  “Though I die in making the effort,” exclaimed the prince, “it shall be done. Beg of Madame d’Harville to do me the honour to walk in.”

  By a singular and sympathetic feeling this extraordinary and wholly unexpected visit of Madame d’Harville had awakened in the breasts of Murphy and Rodolph the same vague and groundless hope, but so senseless did it seem that neither was willing to confess it to the other.

  Madame d’Harville, conducted by Murphy, entered the apartment in which was the prince.

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

  IGNORANT OF FLEUR-DE-MARIE’S being the prince’s daughter, Madame d’Harville, in the fullness of her delight at restoring to him his protégée, had not reckoned upon its being necessary to observe any particular precaution in presenting her young companion, whom she merely left in the carriage until she had ascertained whether Rodolph chose to make known his real name and rank to the object of his bounty, and to receive her at his own house; but perceiving the deep alteration in his features, and struck with the visible gloom which overspread them, as well as the marks of recent tears so evident in his sunken eye, Clémence became alarmed with the idea that some fresh misfortune, greater than the loss of La Goualeuse would be considered, had suddenly occurred. Wholly losing sight, therefore, of the original cause of her visit, she anxiously exclaimed:

  “For heaven’s sake, my lord, what has happened?”

  “Do you not know, madame? Then all hope is at an end! Alas! your earnest manner, the interview so unexpectedly sought by you, all made me believe—”

  “Let me entreat of you not to think for a moment of the cause of my visit; but, in the name of that parent whose life you have preserved, I adjure you to explain to me the cause of the deep affliction in which I find you plunged. Your paleness, your dejection, terrify me. Oh, be generous, my lord, and relieve the cruel anxiety I suffer.”

  “Wherefore should I burden your kind heart with the relation of woes that admit of no relief?”

  “Your words, your hesitation, but increase my apprehensions. Oh, my lord, I beseech you tell me all! Sir Walter, will you not take pity on my fears? For the love of heaven explain the meaning of all this! What has befallen the prince?”

  “Nay,” interrupted Rodolph, in a voice that vainly struggled for firmness, “since you desire it, madame, learn that since I acquainted you with the death of Fleur-de-Marie I have learned she was my own daughter.”

  “Your daughter!” exclaimed Clémence, in a tone impossible to describe. “Fleur-de-Marie your daughter!”

  “And when just now you desired to see me, to communicate tidings that would fill me with joy, — pardon and pity the weakness of a parent half distracted at the loss of his newly-found treasure! — I ventured to hope — But no, — no, — I see too plainly I was mistaken! Forgive me, my brain seems wandering, and I scarce know what I say or do.”

  And then sinking under the failure of this last fond imagination of his heart, and unable longer to struggle with his black despair, Rodolph threw himself back in his chair and covered his face with his hands, while Madame d’Harville, astonished at what she had just heard, remained motionless and silent, scarcely able to breathe amid the conflicting emotions which took possession of her mind; at one instant glowing with delight at the thoughts of the joy she had it in her power to impart, then trembling for the consequences her explanation might produce on the overexcited mind of the prince.

  Both these reflections were, however, swallowed up in the enthusiastic gratitude which she felt in the consideration that to her had been deputed the happiness not only of announcing to the grief-stricken father that his child still lived, but that the unspeakable rapture of placing that daughter in her parent’s arms was likewise vouchsafed to her.

  Carried away by a burst of pious thankfulness, and wholly forgetting the presence of Rodolph and Murphy, Madame d’Harville threw herself on her knees, and, clasping her hands, exclaimed, in a tone of fervent piety and ineffable gratitude:

  “Thanks, thanks, my God, for this exceeding goodness! Ever blessed be thy gracious name for having permitted me to be the happy bearer of such joyful tidings, — to wipe away a father’s tears by telling him his child lives to reward his tenderness!”

  Although these words, pronounced with the sincerest fervour and holy ecstasy, were uttered almost in a whisper, yet they reached the listening ears of Rodolph and his faithful squire; and as Clémence rose from her knees, the prince gazed on her lovely countenance, irradiated as it was with celestial happiness and beaming with more than earthly beauty, with an expression almost amounting to adoration.

  Supporting herself with one hand, while with the other she sought to still the rapid beating of her heart, Madame d’Harville replied by a sweet smile and an affirmative inclination of the head to the eager, soul-searc
hing look of Rodolph, a look wholly beyond our poor powers to describe.

  “And where is she?” exclaimed the prince, trembling like a leaf.

  “In my carriage.”

  But for the intervention of Murphy, who threw himself before Rodolph with the quickness of lightning, the latter would have rushed to the vehicle.

  “Would you kill her, my lord?” exclaimed the squire, forcibly retaining the prince.

  “She was merely pronounced convalescent yesterday,” added Clémence; “therefore, as you value her safety, do not venture to try the poor girl’s strength too far.”

  “You are right,” said Rodolph, scarcely able to restrain himself sufficiently to follow this prudent advice, “you are quite right. Yes, I will be calm, — I will not see her at present; I will wait until her first emotions have subsided. Oh, ’tis too much to endure in so short a space of time!” Then addressing Madame d’Harville, he said, in an agitated tone, while he extended to her his hand, “I feel that I am pardoned, and that you are the angel of forgiveness who brings me the glad tidings of my remission.”

  “Nay, my lord, we do but mutually requite our several obligations. You preserved to me my father, and Heaven permits me to restore your daughter at a time you bewailed her as lost. But I, too, must beg to be excused for the weakness which resists all my endeavours to control it; the sudden and unexpected news you have communicated to me has quite overcome me, and I confess I should not have sufficient command over myself to go in quest of Fleur-de-Marie, — my emotion would terrify her.”