The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 6 of 6

"After two years passed in this wretched mode of existence she repented sincerely, and came back to Gerolstein. She chanced to lodge in the house of a good and pious widow; encouraged by her kindness, the poor creature told her all her sad story, adding that she bitterly regretted the faults of her early life, and that all she desired was to enter some religious house, where by prayer and penitence she might atone for her sins. She is only eighteen, very beautiful, and possesses a considerable sum of money, which she wishes to bestow on the convent she enters."

"I undertake to provide for her," said Fleur-de-Marie; "since she repents, she is worthy of compassion; her remorse must be more bitter in proportion as it is sincere."

"I hear the grand duke," said the lady in waiting, without remarking Fleur-de-Marie's agitation; and, as she spoke, Rodolph entered, holding a large bouquet of roses in his hand.

At the sight of the prince the countess retired, and scarcely had she left the apartment than Fleur-de-Marie threw herself into her father's arms, and leant her head on his shoulder.

"Good morning, love," said Rodolph, pressing her to his heart. "See what beautiful roses; I never saw finer ones." And the prince made a slight motion as if to disengage himself from her and look at her, when, seeing her weeping, he threw down the bouquet, and, taking her hands, cried:

"You are weeping! What is the matter?"

"Nothing, dear father," said Fleur-de-Marie, striving to smile.

"My child," replied Rodolph, "you are concealing something from me; tell me, I entreat you, what thus distresses you. Never mind the bouquet."

"Oh, you know how fond I am of roses; I always was! Do you recollect," added she, "my poor little rose-tree? I have preserved the pieces of it so carefully!"

At this terrible allusion, Rodolph cried:

"Unhappy child! Is it possible that, in the midst of all the splendour that surrounds you, you think of the past? Alas! I hoped my tenderness had made you forget it."

"Forgive me, dear father; I did not mean what I said. I grieve you."

"I grieve, my child, because I know how painful it is for you thus to ponder over the past."

"Dear father, it is the first time since I have been here."

"The first time you have mentioned it, but not the first time you have thought of it; I have for a long time noticed your sadness, and was unable to account for it. My position was so delicate, though I never told you anything, I thought of you constantly. When I contracted my marriage, I thought it would increase your happiness. I did not venture to hope you would quite forget the past; but I hoped that, cherished and supported by the amiable woman whom I had chosen for my wife, you would look upon the past as amply atoned for by your sufferings. No matter what faults you had committed, they have been a thousand times expiated by the good you have done since you have been here."

"Father!"

"Oh, let me tell you all, since a providential chance has brought about this conversation I at once desired and dreaded! I would, to secure your happiness, have sacrificed my affection for Madame d'Harville and my friendship for Murphy, had I thought they recalled the past to you."

"Oh, their presence, when they know what I was, and yet love me so tenderly, seems a proof of pardon and oblivion to me! I should have been miserable if for my sake you had renounced Madame d'Harville's hand."

"Oh, you know not what sacrifice Clémence herself would have made, for she was aware of the full extent of my duties to you!"

"Duties to me! What have I done to deserve so much goodness?"

"Until the moment that Heaven restored you to me, your life had been one of sorrow and misery, and I reproach myself with your sufferings as if I had caused them, and when I see you happy, it seems to me I am forgiven. My only wish, my sole aim, is to render you as happy as you were before unhappy, to exalt you as you have been abased, for the last trace of your humiliation must disappear when you see the noblest in the land vie with each other who shall show you most respect."

"Respect to me! Oh, no! It is to my rank and not to myself they show respect."

"It is to you, dear child, – it is to you!"

"You love me so much, dear father, that every one thinks to please you by showing me respect."

"Oh, naughty child!" cried Rodolph, tenderly kissing his daughter; "she will not cede anything to my paternal pride."

"Is not your pride satisfied at my attributing the kindness I receive to you only?"

"No, that is not the same thing; I cannot be proud of myself, but of you. You are ignorant of your own merits; in fifteen months your education has been so perfected that the most enthusiastic mother would be proud of you."

At this moment the door of the salon opened, and Clémence, grand duchess of Gerolstein, entered, holding a letter in her hand.

"Here, love, is a letter from France," said she to Rodolph; "I brought it myself, because I wished to bid good-morrow to my dear child, whom I have not yet seen to-day."

"This letter arrives most opportunely," said Rodolph. "We were speaking of the Past; that monster we must destroy, since he threatens the repose of our child."

"Is it possible that these fits of melancholy we have so often remarked – "

"Were occasioned by unhappy recollections; but now that we know the enemy we shall destroy him."

"From whom is this letter?" asked Clémence.

"From Rigolette, Germain's wife."

"Rigolette?" cried Fleur-de-Marie. "Oh, I am so glad!"

"Do you not fear that this letter may serve to awaken fresh recollections?" said Clémence, in a low tone to Rodolph.

"On the contrary, I wish to destroy these recollections, and I shall, doubtless, find arms in this letter, for Rigolette is a worthy creature, who appreciated and adored our child."

Rodolph then read the following letter aloud:

    "Bouqueval Farm, August 15, 1841.

"Monseigneur: – I take the liberty of writing to you to communicate a great happiness which has occurred to us, and to ask of you another favour, – of you, to whom we already owe so much, or rather to whom we owe the real paradise in which we live, myself, my dear Germain, and his good mother. It is this, monseigneur: For the last ten days I have been crazy with joy, for ten days ago I was confined with such a love of a little girl, which I say is the image of Germain, he says it is exactly like me, and our dear mother says it is like us both; the fact is, it has beautiful blue eyes like Germain, and black curly hair like mine."

"Good, worthy people, they deserve to be happy!" said Rodolph. "If ever there was a couple well matched it is they."

"But really, monseigneur, I must ask your pardon for this chatter. Your ears must often tingle, monseigneur, for the day never passes that we do not talk of you, when we say to each other how happy we are, how happy we were, for then your name naturally occurs. Excuse this blot, monseigneur; but, without thinking of it, I had written Monsieur Rodolph, as I used to say formerly, and then I scratched it out. I hope you will find my writing improved as well as my spelling, for Germain gives me lessons, and I do not make those long ugly scrawls I used to do when you mended my pens."

"I must confess," said Rodolph, with a smile, "that my little protégée makes a mistake, and I am sure Germain is more frequently employed in kissing the hand of his scholar than in directing it."

"My dear duke, you are unjust," said Clémence, looking at the letter; "it is rather a very large hand, but very legible."

"Why, yes, she has really improved," observed Rodolph; "it would in former days have taken eight pages to contain what she now writes in two." And he continued:

"It is quite true, you know, monseigneur, that you used to mend my pens, and when we think of it, we two Germains, we feel quite ashamed when we recollect how free from pride you were. Ah, I am again chattering instead of saying what we wish to ask of you, monseigneur; for my husband unites with me, and it is very important, for we attach a great deal to it, as you will see. We entreat of you, monseigneur, to have the goodness to choose for us and give us a name for our dear little daughter; this has been the wish of the godfather and godmother, – and who do you think they are, monseigneur? Two persons whom you and the Marquise d'Harville have taken from misery and made very happy, as happy as we are. They are Morel, the lapidary, and Jeanne Duport, a worthy creature whom I met in prison when I went there to visit my dear Germain, and whom the marquise afterwards took out of the hospital.

"And now, monseigneur, you must know why we have chosen M. Morel for godfather, and Jeanne Duport for godmother. We said it would be one way of again thanking M. Rodolph for all his kindness, to have, as godfather and godmother for our little one, worthy persons who owe everything to him and the marchioness; whilst, at the same time, Morel and Jeanne Duport are the worthiest people breathing, they are of our own class in life, and besides, as we say with Germain, they are our kinsfolk in happiness, for, like us, they are of the family of your protégés."

"Really, my dear father, this idea is most delightful and excellent!" said Fleur-de-Marie; "to take for godfather and godmother persons who owe everything to you and my dear second mother!"

"Yes, indeed, dearest," said Clémence; "and I am deeply touched at their remembrance."

"And I am very happy to find that my favours have been so well bestowed," said Rodolph, continuing his letter.