by Eugène Sue
“Brave and devoted as ever!” said the prince, in an accent of despair. “Again you have saved my life!”
“I was going to the barrier of — Charenton — to try and see you go by — see you for the last time. Fortunately — I was unable to get in for the crowd — besides — it was — to happen — I told Martial so — I had a presentiment.”
“A presentiment?”
“Yes, M. Rodolph — the dream — of the sergeant — last night.”
“Oh, try and forget such ideas! Let us hope the wound is not mortal.”
“Oh, yes, the Skeleton struck home! Never mind — I told Martial that a worm of the earth like me — might sometimes be useful — to a great lord — like you.”
“But my life — I owe my life again to you!”
“We are quits, M. Rodolph. You told me — that I had — heart and honour. That word, you see — oh, I am choking! Sir, without — my asking — do me the honour — to give me your hand — I feel I am sinking.”
“No, no! Impossible!” exclaimed the prince, bending towards the Chourineur, and clasping in his hands the icy hand of the dying man, “no — you will live — you will live!”
“M. Rodolph, there is something, you see, above — I killed — with a blow of a knife — I die from the blow of a knife!” said the Chourineur, who was sinking fast.
At this moment his eyes turned towards Fleur-de-Marie, whom he had not before perceived. Amazement was depicted on his dying features; he made a movement, and said:
“Ah! — the Goualeuse!”
“Yes, my daughter, who blesses you for having preserved her father!”
“She — your daughter — here? That reminds me of how our acquaintance began — M. Rodolph — and the blows — with the fist; but this blow with a knife will be the last — last blow. I slashed — and in my turn am slashed — stabbed. It is just.” He heaved a deep sigh — his head fell back — he was dead.
The sound of horses without was heard; Rodolph’s carriage had met that of Murphy and David, who, in their desire to rejoin the prince, had anticipated the hour fixed for their departure.
“David,” said Rodolph, wiping his eyes, and pointing to the Chourineur, “is there no hope?”
“None, monseigneur,” replied the doctor, after a moment’s examination.
During this moment there passed a mute and terrible scene between Fleur-de-Marie and the ogress, whom Rodolph had not observed. When the Chourineur had uttered the name of La Goualeuse, the ogress had raised her head and looked at Fleur-de-Marie. The horrid hag had already recognised Rodolph; he was called monseigneur — he called La Goualeuse his daughter. Such a metamorphosis astounded the ogress, who obstinately fixed her stupid, wondering eyes on her former victim.
Fleur-de-Marie, pale and overcome, seemed fascinated by her gaze. The death of the Chourineur, the unexpected appearance of the ogress, which came to awaken more painfully than ever the remembrance of her former degradation, appeared to her a sinister presage. From this moment, Fleur-de-Marie was struck with one of those presentiments which, in dispositions like hers, have most frequently an irresistible influence.
A few days after these events and Rodolph and his daughter quitted Paris for ever.
EPILOGUE.
CHAPTER I.
GEROLSTEIN.
PRINCE HENRY OF Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal to the Count Maximilian Kaminetz.
Oldenzaal, 25th August, 1840.
I am just arrived from Gerolstein, where I have passed three months with the grand duke and his family. I expected to find a letter announcing your arrival at Oldenzaal, my dear Maximilian. Judge of my surprise — of my regret, on hearing that you will be detained in Hungary for several weeks.
For more than four months I have been unable to write to you, not knowing where to direct my letters, thanks to your original and adventurous manner of travelling. You had, however, formally promised me at Vienna that you would be at Oldenzaal the first of August; I must then give up the pleasure of seeing you, and yet I have never had greater need of pouring forth my sorrows to you, Maximilian, my oldest friend, for although we are both of us still very young, our friendship is of long standing, as it dates from our childhood.
What shall I say to you? During the last three months a complete revolution has taken place in me. I am at one of those moments that decide the existence of a man. Judge, then, how necessary your presence and your advice are to me. But you will not long be wanting, whatever motives you have for remaining in Hungary. Come! Come! I entreat of you, Maximilian, for I stand in need of you to console me, and I cannot go to seek you. My father, whose health is daily declining, has summoned me from Gerolstein. Each day makes so great an alteration in him that it is impossible for me to leave him.
I have so much to say that I shall become tedious, but I must relate to you the most important — the most romantic incident of my life. Why were you not there, my friend? Why were you not there? For three months my heart has been a prey to emotions equally sweet and sorrowful, and I was alone — I was alone. Sympathise with me, you who know the sensibility of my heart, you who have seen my eyes filled with tears at the simple recital of a noble or generous action, at the simple sight of a splendid sunset — of the sky studded with bright stars.
Do you recollect last year, on our excursion to the ruins of Oppenfeld, on the shore of the vast lake, our reveries during that evening, so full of calm, of poesy, and of peace? Strange contrast! It was three days before that bloody duel, in which I would not accept you for my second, for I should have suffered too much for you had I been wounded before your eyes, — the duel in which, for a dispute at play, my second unhappily killed the young Frenchman, the Comte de Saint-Remy.
Apropos, do you know what has become of the dangerous siren whom M. de Saint-Remy brought with him to Oppenfeld, and whose name was, I think, Cecily David?
You will doubtless, my friend, smile with pity at seeing me thus losing myself amongst idle recollections of the past, instead of coming at once to the grave disclosures that I have announced my intention of making; but, in spite of myself, I delay the time from moment to moment. I know how severe you are, and I am fearful of being blamed. Yes, blamed; because, instead of acting with reflection and prudence (prudence of one and twenty, alas!), I have acted foolishly, or, rather, I have not acted at all as — I have suffered myself to be carried away by the stream that urged me on, and it is only since my return from Gerolstein that I have been awakened from the enchanting vision that has lulled me to sleep for the last three months, and this awaking has been a sorrowful one.
Now, my friend, my dear Maximilian, I take courage. Hear me indulgently; I begin with fear and trembling — I dare not look at you, for when you read these lines, how grave and stern will your face become, stoic that you are!
After having obtained leave of absence for six months, I left Vienna, and remained some time with my father. His health was then good, and he advised me to visit my aunt, the Princess Juliana, superior of the abbey of Gerolstein. I think I have already told you that my grandfather was cousin-german to the present duke’s grandfather, and the Duke Gustavus Rodolph, thanks to this relationship, had always treated my father and myself as his cousins.
You also know, I think, that during a long stay the prince made recently in France my father was left at the head of the affairs of the duchy. It is not any feeling of ostentatious pride, as you well know, Maximilian, that makes me recapitulate all these circumstances, but to explain to you the causes of the extreme intimacy that existed between the grand duke and myself during my stay at Gerolstein.
Do you recollect that last year, after our voyage on the banks of the Rhine, we heard that the prince had found and married, in extremis, the Countess Macgregor, in order to legitimise the daughter he had had by her by a previous and secret marriage, afterwards annulled, because it had been contracted against the consent of the late grand duke?
This young girl, thus formally recognised, this charming Princess Ame
lie, of whom Lord Dudley, who had seen her at Gerolstein about a year ago, spoke to us with an enthusiasm that we suspected of exaggeration, strange chance! who would have said then —
But although you have doubtless penetrated my secret, let me pursue the progress of events.
The convent of Ste. Hermangeld, of which my aunt is abbess, is scarcely a quarter of a league from Gerolstein, for the gardens of the abbey touch the outskirts of the town. A charming house, perfectly isolated from the cloisters, had been placed at my disposal by my aunt, who has, as you know, the affection of a mother for me. The day of my arrival she informed me a grand drawing-room would be held the next day, as the grand duke was going formally to announce his intended marriage with La Marquise d’Harville, who had just arrived at Gerolstein with her father, the Comte d’Orbigny.
The duke was blamed by some for not having sought an alliance with some royal house, but others, and amongst them my aunt, congratulated him on having chosen, instead of a marriage of ambition, a young and lovely woman to whom he was deeply attached, and who belonged to one of the first families in France. You know, too, that my aunt has always had the greatest regard for the grand duke, and has always appreciated his fine qualities.
“My dear child,” said she to me, speaking of the drawing-room, to which I was going the next day,— “my dear child, the most astonishing sight you will see to-morrow will be the pearl of Gerolstein.”
“Of whom are you talking, my dear aunt?”
“Of the Princess Amelie.”
“The grand duke’s daughter? Lord Dudley spoke of her at Vienna with warmth we suspected of exaggeration.”
“At my age and in my position,” replied my aunt, “people do not exaggerate, so you can trust to my judgment, and I assure you I never knew any one more enchanting than the Princess Amelie. I would speak of her beauty were it not for an indefinable charm she possesses, superior even to her beauty. From the first day that the grand duke presented me to her, I felt myself irresistibly drawn towards her; and I am not the only person. The Archduchess Sophia is at Gerolstein, and is the most proud and haughty princess I know.”
“Very true, aunt; her irony is terrible, very few persons escape from her sarcasms; at Vienna every one dreaded her. Can the Princess Amelie have found favour in her eyes?”
“The other day she came here after visiting the asylum placed under the princess’s direction. ‘Do you know,’ said this redoubtable archduchess to me, ‘that if I resided long with the grand duke’s daughter I should become quite harmless, so contagious is her goodness!’”
“Why, my cousin must be an enchantress!” said I, laughing, to my aunt.
“Her most powerful charm, at least in my eyes,” replied my aunt, “is the mixture of sweetness, modesty, and dignity that I have told you of, and which gives a most touching expression to her face.”
“Indeed, aunt, modesty is a rare quality in a princess so young, so beautiful, and so happy.”
“Reflect that the princess is still more deserving of praise for her modesty, as her elevation is so very recent.”
“In her interview with you, aunt, did the princess make any reference to her early life?”
“No; but when, notwithstanding my advanced age, I addressed her with the respect due to her rank, since her royal highness is the grand duke’s daughter, her ingenuous confusion, mingled with gratitude and veneration for me, quite overpowered me; for her reserve, full of dignity and affability, proved to me that her present elevation did not make her forget her past life, and that she accorded to my age what I accorded to her rank.”
“It must require,” said I, “the most perfect tact to observe those nice differences.”
“My dear boy, the more I see of the princess, the more I congratulate myself on my first impression. Since she has been here the number of charitable acts she has done is incredible, and that with a reflection and a judgment that in a person of her age quite surprises me. Judge yourself. At her request the grand duke has founded at Gerolstein an establishment for orphans of five or six years, and for young girls (who are either orphans or abandoned by their parents) of the age of sixteen, that age so fatal to those who are not protected against the temptations of vice or the pressure of want.
“The good sisters of my convent teach and direct the children of this asylum. During my visits there I have had ample opportunities of judging of the adoration that these poor, unfortunate creatures have for the princess. Every day she spends several hours at this place, which is placed under her protection, and I repeat that it is not merely gratitude and respect that the children and nuns feel towards the princess, it almost amounts to fanaticism.”
“The princess must be an angel,” said I to my aunt.
“An angel, indeed!” replied she, “for you cannot conceive with what touching kindness she treats her young protégées. I have never seen the susceptibility of misfortune meet with more delicate sympathy. You would think some irresistible attraction drew the princess towards this class of unfortunates. Will you believe it? she, the daughter of a sovereign, only addresses these poor children as ‘my sisters!’”
At these last words of my aunt I confess I felt my eyes fill with tears. Do you not also admire the admirable and pious conduct of this young princess?
“Since the princess,” said I, “is so marvellously gifted, I shall be greatly embarrassed when I am presented to her to-morrow. You know how timid I am; you know, also, that elevation of character imposes upon me more than high birth, so that I am certain to appear both stupid and embarrassed to-morrow; so I make up my mind to that beforehand.”
“Come, come!” said my aunt, smiling, “she will take pity upon you, the more readily as you are not quite a stranger to her.”
“I am not a stranger to her, aunt?”
“Certainly not.”
“How so?”
“You recollect that when at the age of sixteen you left Oldenzaal, to travel with your father through Russia and England, I had your portrait painted in the costume you wore at the first bal costumé the late duchess gave?”
“Yes, aunt, the costume of a German page of the sixteenth century.”
“Our famous painter, Fritz Mocker, whilst he painted a faithful likeness of you, not only produced a page of that century, but even the style of the pictures of that time.
“Some days after her arrival at Gerolstein, the Princess Amelie, who had come with her father to visit me, remarked your portrait, and asked what was that charming picture of olden times. Her father smiled, and said, ‘This is the portrait of a cousin of ours, who would be, were he now alive (as you see by his dress), some three hundred years old, but who, although very young, made himself remarkable for his courage and goodness of heart; has he not bravery in his eyes and goodness in his smile?’”
Do not, I entreat you, Maximilian, shrug your shoulders with disdain at seeing me write these puerile details of myself, which are, alas, necessary to my story.
“The Princess Amelie,” continued my aunt, “deceived by this innocent pleasantry, after a long examination of your portrait, joined with her father in praising the amiable and determined expression of your face. Some time after, when I went to Gerolstein, she questioned me playfully about ‘her cousin of the olden time.’
“I then explained the trick to her, and told her that the handsome page of the sixteenth century was really the Prince Henry d’Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal, a young man of one and twenty, captain in the guards of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, and in every other respect than the costume very like his picture. At these words the princess,” continued my aunt, “blushed and became serious, and has never since spoken of the picture. However, you see that you are not quite a stranger to your cousin; so take courage, and maintain the reputation of your portrait.”
This conversation took place, as I have already told you, the evening previous to the day on which I was to be presented to the princess my cousin. I left my aunt, and returned to my own apartments.
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You have often told me, my dear Maximilian, that I was totally free from vanity; I must therefore trust to that to prevent my appearing vain during this recital.
As soon as I was alone I reflected with a secret satisfaction that the Princess Amelie, after seeing my portrait, painted five or six years ago, had inquired after “her cousin of the olden time.”
Nothing could be more absurd than to build the slightest hope on so trivial a circumstance, I acknowledge; but I always treat you with the most perfect confidence, and I acknowledge that this trifling circumstance delighted me.
No doubt the praise I had just heard bestowed on the princess by so grave and austere a person as my aunt, by raising her in my estimation, rendered this circumstance more agreeable.
Why should I tell you? The hopes I conceived from this trifling event were so mad that, now that I look back more calmly on the past, I ask myself how I could have indulged in ideas that must have ended in my destruction.
Although related to the grand duke, and always treated by him with the greatest kindness, yet it was impossible to entertain the slightest hope of a marriage with the princess; even had she returned my affection it would still have been impossible. Our family holds an honourable position, but it is poor when compared with the grand duke, the richest prince of the German confederation; and besides, I was only one and twenty, a simple captain in the guards, without any reputation or any position. Never could the grand duke think of me as a suitor for his daughter.
All these reflections ought to have saved me from a passion I did not as yet feel, but of which I had a strange presentiment.
Alas! I rather gave way to fresh puerilities; I wore on my finger a ring that Thecla (the countess of whom I have so often spoken) had given me, although this souvenir of a boyish love could not have much embarrassed me. I sacrificed it to my new flame, and, opening the window, I cast the ring into the waves of the river that flowed beneath.