The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 6 of 6

"But you – you?"

"Ah, I may now confess with joy and pride that my love for you will be, as it were, a shield of defence from all snares and temptations, – a guardian angel that will preserve me from all that could assail me in body or mind. Then I shall write to you daily. Pardon me this weakness, 'tis the only one I shall allow myself; you, my lord, will also write to me occasionally, if but to give me intelligence of her whom once, at least, I called my daughter," said Clémence, melting into tears at the thoughts of all she was giving up, "and who will ever be fondly cherished in my heart as such; and when advancing years shall permit me fearlessly and openly to avow the regard which binds us to each other, then, my lord, I vow by your daughter that, if you desire it, I will establish myself in Germany, in the same city you yourself inhabit, never again to quit you, but so to end a life which might have been passed more agreeably, as far as our earthly feelings were concerned, but which shall, at least, have been spent in the practice of every noble and virtuous feeling."

"My lord," exclaimed Murphy, entering with eagerness, "she whom Heaven has restored to you has regained her senses. Her first word upon recovering consciousness was to call for you. 'My father! – my beloved father!' she cried, 'oh, do not take me from him!' Come to her, my lord, she is all impatience again to behold you!"

A few minutes after this Madame d'Harville quitted the prince's hôtel, while the latter repaired in all haste to the house of the Countess Macgregor, accompanied by Murphy, Baron de Graün, and an aide-de-camp.

CHAPTER VII

THE MARRIAGE

From the moment in which she had learnt from Rodolph the violent death of Fleur-de-Marie, Sarah had felt crushed and borne down by a disclosure so fatal to all her ambitious hopes. Tortured equally by a too late repentance, she had fallen into a fearful nervous attack, attended even by delirium; her partially healed wound opened afresh, and a long continuation of fainting fits gave rise to the supposition of her death. Yet still the natural strength of her constitution sustained her even amid this severe shock, and life seemed to struggle vigorously against death.

Seated in an easy chair, the better to relieve herself from the sense of suffocation which oppressed her, Sarah had remained for some time plunged in bitter reflections, almost amounting to regrets, that she had been permitted to escape from almost certain death.

Suddenly the door of the invalid's chamber opened, and Thomas Seyton entered, evidently struggling to restrain some powerful emotion. Hastily waving his hand for the countess's attendants to retire, he approached his sister, who seemed scarcely to perceive her brother's presence.

"How are you now?" inquired he.

"Much the same; I feel very weak, and have at times a most painful sensation of being suffocated. Why was I not permitted to quit this world during my late attack?"

"Sarah," replied Thomas Seyton, after a momentary silence, "you are hovering between life and death, – any violent emotion might destroy you or recall your feeble powers and restore you to health."

"There can be no further trial for me, brother!"

"You know not that – "

"I could now even hear that Rodolph were dead without a shock. The pale spectre of my murdered child – murdered through my instrumentality, is ever before me. It creates not mere emotion, but a bitter and ceaseless remorse. Oh, brother, I have known the feelings of a mother only since I have become childless."

"I own I liked better to find in you that cold, calculating ambition, that made you regard your daughter but as a means of realising the dream of your whole existence."

"That ambition fell to the ground, crushed for ever beneath the overwhelming force of the prince's reproaches. And the picture drawn by him of the horrors to which my child had been exposed awakened in my breast all a mother's tenderness."

"And how," said Seyton, hesitatingly and laying deep emphasis on each word he uttered, "if by a miracle, a chance, an almost impossibility, your daughter were still living, tell me how you would support such a discovery."

"I should expire of shame and despair!"

"No such thing! You would be but too delighted at the triumph such a circumstance would afford to your ambition; for had your daughter survived, the prince would, beyond a doubt, have married you."

"And admitting the miracle you speak of could happen, I should have no right to live; but so soon as the prince had bestowed on me the title of his consort, my duty would have been to deliver him from an unworthy spouse, and my daughter from an unnatural mother."

The perplexity of Thomas Seyton momentarily increased. Commissioned by Rodolph, who was waiting in an adjoining room, to acquaint Sarah that Fleur-de-Marie still lived, he knew not how to proceed. So feeble was the state of the countess's health, that an instant might extinguish the faint spark that still animated her frame; and he saw that any delay in performing the nuptial rite between herself and the prince might be fatal to every hope. Determined to legitimise the birth of Fleur-de-Marie by giving every necessary formality to the ceremony, the prince had brought with him a clergyman to perform the sacred service, and two witnesses in the persons of Murphy and Baron de Graün. The Duc de Lucenay and Lord Douglas, hastily summoned by Seyton, had arrived to act as attesting witnesses on the part of the countess.

Each moment became important, but the remorse of Sarah, mingled as it was with a maternal tenderness that had entirely replaced the fiery ambition that once held sway in her breast, rendered the task of Seyton still more difficult. He could but hope that his sister deceived either herself or him, and that her pride and vanity would rekindle in all their former brightness at the prospect of the crown so long and ardently coveted.

"Sister," resumed Seyton, in a grave and solemn voice, "I am placed in a situation of cruel perplexity. I could utter one word of such deep importance that it might save your life or stretch you a corpse at my feet."

"I have already told you nothing in this world can move me more."

"Yes, one – one event, my sister."

"And what is that?"

"Your daughter's welfare."

"I have no longer a child, – she is dead!"

"But if she were not?"

"Cease, brother, such useless suppositions, – we exhausted that subject some minutes since. Leave me to unavailing regrets!"

"Nay, but I cannot so easily persuade myself that if, by some almost incredible chance, some unhoped-for aid, your daughter had been snatched from death, and still lived – "

"I beseech you talk not thus to me, – you know not what I suffer."

"Then listen to me, sister, while I declare that, as the Almighty shall judge you and pardon me, your daughter lives!"

"Lives! said you? My child lives?"

"I did, and truly so; the prince, with a clergyman and the necessary witnesses, awaits in the adjoining chamber; I have summoned two of our friends to act as our witnesses. The desire of your life is at length accomplished, the prediction fulfilled, and you are wedded to royalty!"

As Thomas Seyton slowly uttered the concluding part of his speech, he observed, with indescribable uneasiness, the want of all expression in his sister's countenance, the marble features remained calm and imperturbable, and her only sign of attending to her brother's words was a sudden pressure of both hands to her heart, as if to still its throbbing, or as though under the influence of some acute pain, while a stifled cry escaped her trembling lips as she fell back in her chair. But the feeling, whatever it was, soon passed away, and Sarah became fixed, rigid, and tranquil, as before.

"Sister!" cried Seyton, "what ails you? Shall I call for assistance?"

"'Tis nothing! Merely the result of surprise and joy at the unhoped-for tidings you have communicated to me. At last, then, the dearest wish of my heart is accomplished!"

"I was not mistaken," thought Seyton, "ambition still reigns paramount in her heart, and will carry her in safety through this trial. Well, sister," said he, aloud, "what did I tell you?"

"You were right," replied she, with a bitter smile, as she penetrated the workings of her brother's thoughts, "ambition has again stifled the voice of maternal tenderness within me!"

"You will live long and happily to cherish and delight in your daughter."

"Doubtless I shall, brother. See how calm I am!"

"Ah, but is your tranquillity real or assumed?"

"Feeble and exhausted, can you imagine it possible for me to feign?"

"You can now understand the difficulty I felt in breaking this news to you?"

"Nay, I marvel at it, knowing as you did the extent of my ambition. Where is the prince?"

"He is here."

"I would fain see and speak with him before the ceremony." Then, with affected indifference, she added, "And my daughter is also here, as a matter of course?"

"She is not here at present; you will see her by and by."