The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 6 of 6

"With the money you gave him, Morel has now become a jewel broker, and earns enough to bring up his family very respectably. Poor Louise, who is a very good girl, is going, I believe, to be married to a very worthy young man, who loves and respects her as he ought to do, for she has been unfortunate, but not guilty, and Louise's husband that is to be is perfectly sensible of this."

Rodolph laid great stress on these last words, looked at his daughter for a moment, and then continued:

"I must add, monseigneur, that Jeanne Duport, through the generosity of the marquise, has been separated from her husband, that bad man who beat her and took everything from her; she has now her eldest daughter with her: they keep a small trimming shop, and are doing very well. Germain writes to you regularly, monseigneur, every month, on the subject of the Bank for Mechanics out of Work and Gratuitous Loans; there are scarcely any sums in arrear, and we find already the good effects of it in this quarter. Nine, at least, poor families can support themselves in the dead season of work without sending their clothes and bedding to the pawnbroker's. And when work comes in, it does one's heart good to see the haste with which they return the money lent, and they bless you for the loans so serviceably advanced.

"Yes, monseigneur, they bless you; for, although you say you did nothing in this but appoint Germain, and that an unknown did this great benefit, we must always, suppose it was you who founded it, as it appears to us the most natural idea. There is, besides, a most famous trumpet to repeat that it is you who are the real benefactor. This trumpet is Madame Pipelet, who repeats to every one that it could be no one but her king of lodgers (excuse her, M. Rodolph, but she always calls you so) who established such a charitable institution, and her old darling Alfred is of the same opinion; he is so proud and contented with his post as porter to the bank that he says all the tricks of M. Cabrion would not have the slightest effect on him now.

"Germain has read in the newspapers that Martial, a colonist of Algeria, has been mentioned with great praise for the courage he had shown in repulsing, at the head of the settlers, an attack of plundering Arabs, and that his wife, as intrepid as himself, had been slightly wounded by his side, where she handled her musket like a real grenadier; since this time, says the newspaper, she has been called Madame Carabine.

"Excuse this long letter, monseigneur, but I think you will not be displeased to hear from us news of all those whose benefactor you have been. I write to you from the farm at Bouqueval, where we have been since the spring with our good mother. Germain leaves us in the morning for his business, and returns in the evening. In the autumn we shall return to Paris.

"It is so strange, M. Rodolph, that I, who could never endure the country, am now so fond of it; I suppose it is because Germain likes it so very much.

"As to the farm, M. Rodolph, you who know, no doubt, where the good little Goualeuse is, will perhaps tell her that we very often think of her as one of the dearest and gentlest creatures in the world; and that, for myself, I never think of my own happy condition without saying to myself, since M. Rodolph was also the M. Rodolph of dear Fleur-de-Marie, that, no doubt, she is by his kindness as happy as we are, and that makes one feel still more happy. Ah, how I chatter! What will you say to all this? But you are so good, and then, you know, it is your fault if I go on as long and as merrily as Papa Crétu and Ramonette, who no longer have a chance with me in singing. You will not refuse our request, will you, monseigneur? If you will give a name to our dear little child, it will seem to us that it will bring her good fortune, like a lucky star.

"If I conclude by saying to you, M. Rodolph, that we try to give every assistance in our power to the poor, it is not to boast, but that you may know that we do not keep to ourselves all the happiness you have given to us; besides, we always say to those we succour: 'It is not us whom you should thank and bless; it is M. Rodolph, the best, most generous person in the world.'

"Adieu, monseigneur! And pray believe that when our dear little child begins to lisp, the first word she shall utter will be your name, M. Rodolph, and the next those you wrote on the basket which contained your generous wedding presents to me, 'Labour and discretion, honour and happiness.' Thanks to these four words, our love and our care, we hope, monseigneur, that our child will be always worthy to pronounce the name of him who has been our benefactor, and that of all the unfortunates he ever knew – Forgive me, monseigneur, but I cannot finish without the big tears in my eyes, but they are tears of happiness. Excuse all errors, if you please; it is not my fault, but I cannot see very clearly, and I scribble.

"I have the honour to be, monseigneur, your respectful and most grateful servant,

    "Rigolette Germain.

"P.S. Ah, monseigneur, in reading my letter over again, I see I have often written M. Rodolph, but you will excuse me, for you know, monseigneur, that under any and every name we respect and bless you alike."

"Dear little Rigolette!" said Clémence, affected by the letter; "how full of good and right feeling is her letter!"

"It is, indeed!" replied Rodolph. "She has an admirable disposition, her heart is all that is good; and our dear daughter appreciates her as we do," he added, addressing Fleur-de-Marie, when, struck by her pale countenance, he exclaimed, "But what ails you, dearest?"

"Alas! what a painful contrast between my position and that of Rigolette. 'Labour and discretion, honour and happiness,' these four words declare all that my life has been, all that it ought to have been, – a young, industrious, and discreet girl, a beloved wife, a happy mother, an honoured woman, such is her destiny; whilst I – "

"What do you say?"

"Forgive me, my dear father; do not accuse me of ingratitude. But in spite of your unspeakable tenderness and that of my second mother, in spite of the splendour with which I am surrounded, in spite of your sovereign power, my shame is incurable. Nothing can destroy the past. Forgive me, dear father. Until now I have concealed this from you; but the recollection of my original degradation drives me to despair – kills me – "

"Clémence, do you hear?" cried Rodolph, in extreme distress. "Oh, fatality – fatality! Now I curse my fears, my silence. This sad idea, so long and deeply rooted in her mind, has, unknown to us, made fearful ravages; and it is too late to contend against this sad error. Oh, I am indeed wretched!"

"Courage, my dearest!" said Clémence to Rodolph. "You said but now that it is best to know the enemy that threatens us. We know now the cause of our child's sorrow, and will triumph over it, because we shall have with us reason, justice, and our excessive love for her."

"And then she will see, too, that her affliction, if it be, indeed, incurable, will render ours incurable," said Rodolph.

After a protracted silence, during which Fleur-de-Marie appeared to recover herself, she took Rodolph's and Clémence's hands in her own, and said in a voice deeply affected, "Hear me, beloved father, and you my best of mothers. God has willed it, and I thank him for it, that I should no longer conceal from you all that I feel. I must have done so shortly, and told you what I will now avow, for I could not longer have kept it concealed."

"Ah, now I comprehend!" ejaculated Rodolph, "and there is no longer any hope for her."

"I hope in the future, my dear father, and this hope gives me strength to speak thus to you."

"And what can you hope for the future, poor child, since your present fate only causes you grief and torment?"

"I will tell you; but before I do so let me recall to you the past, and confess before God, who hears me, what I have felt to this time."

"Speak – speak – we listen!" was Rodolph's reply.

"As long as I was in Paris with you, my dearest father, I was so happy that such days of bliss cannot be paid for too dearly by years of suffering. You see I have at least known happiness."

"For some days, perhaps."

"Yes, but what pure and unmingled happiness! The future dazzled me, – a father to adore, a second mother to cherish doubly, for she replaced mine, whom I never knew. Then – for I will confess all – my pride was roused in spite of myself. So greatly did I rejoice in belonging to you. If then I sometimes thought vaguely of the past, it was to say to myself, 'I, formerly so debased, am the beloved daughter of a sovereign prince, whom everybody blesses and reveres; I, formerly so wretched, now enjoy all the splendours of luxury, and an existence almost royal.' Alas! my father, my good fortune was so unlooked for, your power surrounded me with so much brilliancy, that I was, perhaps, excusable in allowing myself to be thus blinded."

"Excusable! Nothing could be more natural, my angelic girl. What was there wrong in being proud of a rank which was your own, in enjoying the advantages of a position to which I had restored you? I remember at this time you were so delightfully gay, and said to me in accents I never can again hope to hear, 'Dearest father, this is too, too much happiness!' Unfortunately it was these recollections that begat in me this deceitful security."

"Do you remember, my father," said Fleur-de-Marie, unable to overcome a shudder of horror, "do you remember the terrible scene that preceded our departure from Paris when your carriage was stopped?"

"Yes," answered Rodolph; in a tone of melancholy. "Brave Chourineur! after having once more saved my life – he died – there, before our eyes."

"Well, my father, at the moment when that unhappy man expired, do you know whom I saw looking steadfastly at me? Ah, that look – that look! it has haunted me ever since!" added Fleur-de-Marie, with a shudder.

"What look? Of whom do you speak?" cried Rodolph.

"Of the ogress of the tapis-franc!" answered Fleur-de-Marie.

"That monster! You saw her! – and where?"

"Did you not see her in the tavern where the Chourineur died? She was amongst the women who surrounded us."

"Ah, now," said Rodolph, in a tone of despair, "I understand. Struck with horror as you were at the murder of the Chourineur, you must have imagined that you saw something prophetic in the sinister rencontre!"

"Yes, indeed, father, it was so. At the sight of the ogress I felt a death-like shiver, and it seemed that under her scowl my heart, which, until then, had been light, joyous, bounding, was instantly chilled to ice. Yes, to meet that woman at the very instant when the Chourineur died, saying, 'Heaven is just!' it seemed to me as a rebuke from Providence for my proud forgetfulness of the past, which I was hereafter to expiate by humility and repentance."

"But the past was forced on you, and you are not responsible for that in the sight of God!"

"You were driven to it – overcome – my poor child!"

"Once precipitated into the abyss in spite of yourself, and unable to quit it in spite of your remorse and despair, through the atrocious recklessness of the society of which you were a victim, you saw yourself for ever chained to this den, and it required that chance should throw you in my way to rescue you from such thraldom."

"Then, too, my child, your father says you were the victim and not the accomplice of this infamy," said Clémence.

"But yet, my mother, I have known this infamy!" replied Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone of deepest grief. "Nothing can destroy these fearful recollections, – they pursue me incessantly, not as formerly, in the midst of the peaceful inhabitants of the farm, or the fallen women who were my companions in St. Lazare, but they pursue me even in this palace, filled with the élite of Germany; they pursue me even to my father's arms, even to the steps of his throne!" And Fleur-de-Marie burst into an agony of tears.

Rodolph and Clémence remained silent in presence of this fearful expression of unextinguishable remorse; they wept, too, for they perceived that their consolations were vain.

"Since then," continued Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears, "I say to myself every moment in the day, with bitter shame, 'I am honoured, revered, and the most eminent and venerated persons surround me with respect and attention. In the eyes of a whole court the sister of an emperor has deigned to fasten my bandeau on my forehead, and I have lived in the mire of the Cité, familiar with thieves and murderers.' Forgive me, dearest father, but the more elevated my position, the more deeply sensitive have I been to the deep degradation into which I had fallen; and at every homage paid me I feel myself guilty of profanation, and think it sacrilege to receive such attentions, knowing what I have been; and then I say to myself, 'If God should please that the past were all known, with what deserved scorn would she be treated whom now they elevate so high! What a just and fearful punishment!'"

"But, poor girl, my wife and I know the past; we are worthy of our rank, and yet we cherish you."

"Because you feel for me the tenderness of a father and mother."

"But remember all the good you have done since your residence here, and the excellent and holy institution you have founded for orphans and poor forsaken girls! Then, too, the affection which the worthy abbess of Ste. Hermangeld evinces towards you, ought not that to be attributed to your unfeigned piety?"