The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 6 of 6

"I can scarcely believe it," replied she. "My father treats you like a son; every one loves you. It would be ingratitude if you were unhappy."

"Alas!" said I, unable to restrain my emotion, "it is grief I am a prey to!"

"Why, what has happened?"

"Just now, cousin, you have told me your father treated me like a son, and that every one loved me; and yet, ere long, I must quit Gerolstein. It is this that grieves me."

"And are the recollections of those you have left as nothing?"

"Doubtless; but time brings so many changes."

"There are affections, at least, that are unchangeable; such as that of my father for you, such as that I feel for you. When you are once brother and sister you never forget each other," added she, looking up, her large blue eyes full of tears.

I was on the point of betraying myself; however, I controlled my feelings in time.

"Do you think then, cousin," said I, "that when I return in a few years this affection will continue?"

"Why should it not?"

"Because you will be probably married; you will have other duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother."

This was all that passed; I know not if she was offended at these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young Countess d'Oppenheim, one of her maids of honour.

The same evening I received a second letter from my father, urging me to return. The next morning I took leave of the grand duke. He told me my cousin was unwell, but that he would make my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of assistance, and added that, whenever I had leave of absence, nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at Gerolstein.

Happily, on my arrival, I found my father better; still confined to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. Now that you know all, Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?

Just as I finished this letter, my door opened, and, to my great surprise, my father, whom I believed to be in bed, entered; he saw the letter on the table.

"To whom are you writing so long a letter?" said he, smiling.

"To Maximilian, father."

"Oh," said he, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "he has all your confidence! He is very happy!"

He pronounced these last words in so sorrowful a tone that I held out the letter to him, almost without reflection, saying:

"Read it, father."

My friend, he has read all! After having remained musing some time he said to me:

"Henry, I shall write and inform the grand duke of all that passed during your stay at Gerolstein."

"Father, I entreat you not!"

"Is what you have written to Maximilian scrupulously true?"

"Yes."

"Do you love your cousin?"

"I adore her; but – "

My father interrupted me.

"Then, in that case, I shall write to the grand duke and demand her hand for you."

"But, father, such a demand will be madness on my part!"

"It is true; but still, in making this demand, I shall acquaint the prince with my reasons for making it. He has received you with the greatest kindness, and it would be unworthy of me to deceive him. He will be touched at the frankness of my demand, and, though he refuse it, as he certainly will, he will yet know that, should you ever again visit Gerolstein, you cannot be on the same familiar terms with the princess."

You know that, although so tenderly attached to me, my father is inflexible in whatever concerns his duty; judge, then, of my fears, of my anxiety.

I hastily terminate this long letter, but I will soon write again. Sympathise with me, for I fear I shall go mad if the fever that preys on me does not soon abate. Adieu, adieu! Ever yours,

    Henry d'H. – O.

We will now conduct the reader to the palace of Gerolstein, inhabited by Fleur-de-Marie since her return from France.

CHAPTER II

THE PRINCESS AMELIE

The apartment of Fleur-de-Marie (we only call her the Princess Amelie officially) had been by Rodolph's orders splendidly furnished. From the balcony of the oratory the two towers of the Convent of Ste. Hermangeld were visible, which, embosomed in the woods, were in their turn overtopped by a high hill, at the foot of which the abbey was built.

One fine summer's morning Fleur-de-Marie gazed listlessly at this splendid landscape; her hair was plainly braided, and she wore a high, white dress with blue stripes; a large muslin collar was fastened around her throat by a small blue silk handkerchief, of the same hue as her sash.

Seated in a large armchair of carved ebony, she leant her head on her small and delicately white hand. Fleur-de-Marie's attitude and the expression of her face showed that she was a prey to the deepest melancholy.

At this instant a female of a grave and distinguished appearance entered the room, and coughed gently to attract Fleur-de-Marie's attention. She started from her reverie, and, gracefully acknowledging the salutation of the newcomer, said:

"What is it, my dear countess?"

"I come to inform your royal highness that the grand duke will be here in a few minutes, and, also, to ask a favour of you."

"Ask it, you know how happy I am to oblige you."

"It concerns an unhappy creature who had unfortunately quitted Gerolstein before your royal highness had founded the asylum for orphans and children abandoned by their parents."

"What do you wish I should do for her?"

"The father went to seek his fortune in America, leaving his wife and daughter to gain a precarious subsistence. The mother died, and this poor girl, then only sixteen, was seduced and abandoned. She fell lower and lower, until at length she became, like so many others, the opprobrium of her sex."

Fleur-de-Marie turned red and shuddered. The countess, fearing she had wounded the delicacy of the princess by the mention of this girl's condition, replied:

"I pray your royal highness to pardon me; I have, doubtless, shocked you by speaking of this wretched creature, but her repentance seemed so sincere that I ventured to plead for her."

"You were quite right. Pray continue," said Fleur-de-Marie, subduing her emotion. "Every fault is worthy of pity when followed by repentance."