Mysteries of Paris - Volume 6 — Epilogue Ch. 2 The Princess Amelie - Part 2

"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 Clemence.

"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 elite 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 Clemence 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 Cite, 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?"

"Whilst the praises of the abbess of Ste.

Hermangeld refer only to my present conduct, I accept it without scruple; but when she cites my example to the noble young ladies who have taken vows in the abbey, I feel as if I were the accomplice of an infamous falsehood."

After a long silence Rodolph resumed, with deep melancholy: "I see it is unavailing to persuade you!

Reasoning is impotent against a conviction the more steadfast as it is derived from a noble and generous feeling.

The contrast of your past and present position must be a perpetual punishment; forgive me for saying so, my beloved one!"

"Forgive you!

And for what, my dear father?"

"For not having foreseen your excessive susceptibility, which, from the delicacy of your heart, I should have anticipated.

And yet what could I have done?

It was my duty solemnly to recognise you as my daughter; yet I was wrong--wrong to be too proud of you!

I should have concealed my treasure, and lived in retirement with Clemence and you, instead of raising you high, so high that the past would disappear as I hoped from your eyes."

Several knocks were heard at this moment, which interrupted the conversation.

Rodolph opened the door, and saw Murphy, who said: "I beg your your royal highness's pardon for thus disturbing you, but a courier from the Prince of Herkauesen-Oldenzaal has just arrived with this letter, which he says is very important, and must be delivered immediately to your royal highness."

"Thanks, good Murphy.

Do not go away," said Rodolph, with a sigh, "I shall want you presently."

And the prince, closing the door, remained a moment in the ante-room to read the letter which Murphy had brought him, and which was as follows: "_My Lord_:--Trusting that the bonds of relationship existing between us, as well as the friendship with which you have ever honoured me, will excuse the boldness of the step I am about to take, I will at once enter upon the purport of my letter, dictated as it is by a conscientious desire to act as becomes the man your highness deigns to style his friend.

"Fifteen months have now elapsed since you returned from France, bringing with you your long-lost daughter, whom you so happily discovered living with that mother from whom she had never been parted, and whom you espoused when _in extremis_, in order to legitimise the Princess Amelie.

"Thus ennobled, of matchless beauty, and, as I learn from my sister, the abbess of Ste.

Hermangeld, endowed with a character pure and elevated as the princely race from which she springs, who would not envy your happiness in possessing such a treasure?

"I will now candidly state the purport of my letter, although I should certainly have been the bearer of the request it contains, were it not that a severe indisposition detains me at Oldenzaal.

"During the time my son passed at Gerolstein he had frequent opportunities of seeing the Princess Amelie, whom he loves with a passionate but carefully concealed affection.

This fact I have considered it right to acquaint you with, the more especially as, after having received and entertained my son as affectionately as though he had been your own, you added to your kindness by inviting him to return, as quickly as his duties would allow, to enjoy that sweet companionship so precious to his heart; and it is probable that my apprising you of this circumstance may induce you to withdraw your intended hospitality to one who has presumed to aspire to the affections of your peerless child.

"I am perfectly well aware that the daughter of whom you are so justly proud might aspire to the first alliance in Europe, but I also know that so tender and devoted a parent as yourself would not hesitate to bestow the hand of the Princess Amelie on my son, if you believed by so doing her happiness would be secured.

"It is not for me to dwell upon Henry's merits,--you have been graciously pleased to bestow your approval on his conduct thus far, and I venture to hope he will never give you cause to change the favourable opinion you have deigned to express concerning him.

"Of this be assured, that whatever may be your determination, we shall bow in respectful and implicit submission to it, and that I shall never be otherwise than your royal highness's most humble and obedient servant, "GUSTAVE PAUL, "_Prince of Herkauesen-Oldenzaal_."

After the perusal of this letter Rodolph remained for some time sad and pensive; then a gleam of hope darting across his mind, he returned to his daughter, whom Clemence was most tenderly consoling.

"My dear child," said he, as he entered, "you yourself observed that this day seemed destined to be one of important discoveries and solemn explanations, but I did not then think your words would be so strikingly verified as they seem likely to be."

"Dear father, what has happened?"

"Fresh sources of uneasiness have arisen."

"On whose account?"

"On yours, my child.

I fear you have only revealed to us a portion of your griefs."

"Be kind enough to explain yourself," said Fleur-de-Marie, blushing.

"Then hearken to me, my beloved child.

You have, perhaps, good cause to fancy yourself unhappy.

When, at the commencement of our conversation, you spoke of the hopes you still entertained, I understood your meaning, and my heart seemed broken by the blow with which I was menaced, for I read but too clearly that you desired to quit me for ever, and to bury yourself in the eternal seclusion of a cloister.

My child, say, have I not divined your intentions?"

"If you would consent," murmured forth Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint, gasping voice.

"Would you, then, quit us?"

exclaimed Clemence.

"The abbey of Ste.

Hermangeld is in the immediate neighbourhood of Gerolstein, and I should frequently see yourself and my father."

"Remember, my child, that vows such as you would take are not to be recalled.

You are scarcely eighteen years of age, and one day you may--possibly--" "Oh, think not I should ever regret my choice!

There is no rest or peace for me save in the solitude of a cloister.

There I may be happy, if you and my second mother will but continue to me your affection."

"The duties and consolations of a religious life," said Rodolph, "might, certainly, if not cure, at least alleviate the anguish of your lacerated and desponding mind, and although your resolution will cost me dear, I cannot but approve of it."

"Rodolph!"

cried the astonished Clemence, "do I hear aright?

Is it possible you--" "Allow me more fully to explain myself," replied Rodolph.

Then addressing his daughter, he said, "But before an irrevocable decision is pronounced, it would be well to ascertain if nothing more suitable, both to your inclinations and our own, could be found for you than the life of a nun."

Fleur-de-Marie and Clemence started at Rodolph's words and manner, while, fixing an earnest gaze on his daughter, the prince said, abruptly: "What think you, my child, of your cousin, Prince Henry?"

The brightest blush spread over the fair face of Fleur-de-Marie, who, after a momentary hesitation, threw herself weeping in her father's arms.

"Then you love him, do you not, my darling child?"

cried Rodolph, tenderly pressing her hands.

"Fear not to confide the truth to your best friends."

"Alas!"

replied Fleur-de-Marie, "you know not what it has cost me to conceal from you the state of my heart!

Had you questioned me on the subject, I would gladly have told you all, but shame closed my lips, and would still have done so, but for your inquiry into the nature of my feelings."

"And have you any suspicion that Henry is aware of your love?"

"Gracious heavens, dearest father!"

exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, shrinking back in terror, "I trust not!"

"Do you believe he returns your affection?"

"Oh, no, no!

I trust he does not!

He would suffer too deeply."

"And what gave rise to the love you entertained for your cousin?"

"Alas, I know not!

It grew upon me almost unconsciously.

Do you remember a portrait of a youth dressed as a page, in the apartments of the Abbess de Ste.

Hermangeld?"

"I know; it was the portrait of Henry."

"Believing the picture to be of distant date, I one day in your presence remarked upon the extreme beauty of the countenance, when you jestingly replied that it was the likeness of an ancestor who, in his youth, had displayed an extraordinary share of sense, courage, and every estimable quality; this strengthened my first impression, and frequently after that day I used to delight in recalling to my mind the fine countenance and noble features of one I believed to have been long numbered with the dead.

By degrees these reveries began to form one of my greatest pleasures, and many an hour have I passed gazing, amid smiles and tears, on one I fondly hoped I might be permitted to know and to love in another world.

For in this," continued poor Fleur-de-Marie, with a most touching expression, "I well know I am unworthy to aspire to the love of any one but you, my kind, indulgent parents."

"I can now understand the nature of the reproof you once gave me for having misled you on the subject of the portrait."

"Conceive, dearest father, what was my confusion when I learnt from the superior that the portrait was a living subject,--that of her nephew!

My trouble was extreme, and earnestly did I endeavour to erase from my heart all the fond associations connected with that picture.

In vain!

the pertinacity with which I strove to forget but riveted the impression I had received; and, unfortunately, dear father, you rendered the task of forgetting more difficult, by continually eulogising the heart, disposition, and principles of Prince Henry."

"You loved him, then, my child, from merely seeing his likeness and hearing his praises?"

"Without positively loving him, I felt myself attracted towards him by an irresistible impulse, for which I bitterly reproached myself; my only consolation was the thought that no person knew my fatal secret.

For how could I presume to love?

How excuse my ingratitude in not contenting myself with the tenderness bestowed on me by you, my father, and you, also, dearest mother?

In the midst of all these conflicting feelings I met my cousin, for the first time, at a ball given by you to the Archduchess Sophia; his resemblance to the portrait too well assured me it was he; and your introducing Prince Henry to me as a near relative afforded me ample opportunities of discovering that his manners were as captivating as his mind was cultivated."

"It is easy to conceive, then, that a mutual passion sprung up between you!

Indeed, he won upon my regard ere I was aware of the ground he had gained; he spoke of you so admiringly, yet so respectfully."

"You had yourself praised him so highly."

"Not more than he deserved.

It is impossible to possess a more noble nature, or a more generous and elevated character."

"I beseech you, dearest father, to spare me the fresh trial of hearing him thus praised by you.

Alas!

I am already wretched enough."

"Go on, my child.

I have a reason in thus extolling your cousin--I will explain hereafter.

Proceed."

"Though aware of the danger of thus daily associating with my cousin, I felt unable to withdraw myself from the pleasure his society afforded me; nor, spite of my implicit reliance on your indulgence, dear father, durst I disclose my fears to you.

I could then only redouble my efforts to conceal my unfortunate attachment, and--shall I confess?

--there were moments when, forgetting the past, I gave myself up to all the dear delights of a friendship hitherto unknown to me.

But the departure of Prince Henry from your court tore the veil from my eyes, and showed me how truly and ardently I loved him, though not with a sister's love, as I had made myself believe.

I had resolved to open my heart entirely to you on this subject," continued Fleur-de-Marie, whose strength seemed utterly exhausted by her long confession, "and then to ask you what remained for one so every way unfortunate but to seek the repose of a cloister."

"Then, dearest daughter, let me answer the question ere you have put it, by saying there is a prospect as bright and smiling awaits your acceptance, as that you propose is cheerless and gloomy."

"What mean you?"

"Now, then, listen to me.

It was impossible for an affection as great as mine to be blinded to the mutual affection subsisting between yourself and your cousin; my penetration also quickly discovered that his passion for you amounted to idolatry; that he had but one hope, one desire on earth,--that of being loved by you.

At the time I played off that little joke respecting the portrait, I had not the least expectation of Henry's visiting Gerolstein.

When, however, he did come, I saw no reason for changing the manner in which I had always treated him, and I therefore invited him to visit us on the same terms of friendly relationship he had hitherto done.

A very little time had elapsed ere Clemence and myself saw plainly enough the cause of his frequent visits, or the mutual delight you felt in each other's society.

Then mine became a difficult task.

"On the one hand, I rejoiced as a father that one so every way worthy of you should have won your affection; then on the other hand, my poor dear child, your past misfortunes forbade me to encourage the idea of uniting you to your cousin, to whom I several times spoke in a manner very different to the tone I should have adopted, had I contemplated bestowing on him your hand.

"Thus placed in a position so delicate, I endeavoured to preserve a strict neutrality, discouraging Prince Henry's attentions by every means in my power, and yet manifesting towards himself the same paternal kindness with which I had always treated him; and besides, my poor girl, after a life of so much unhappiness as yours, I could not bring myself suddenly to tear away the innocent pleasure you appeared to feel in the company of your cousin.

It was something to see you even temporarily happy and cheerful, and even now your acquaintance with Prince Henry may be the means of securing your future tranquillity."

"Dear father, I understand you not."

"Prince Paul, Henry's father, has just sent me this letter.

While considering such an alliance as an honour too great to aspire to, he solicits your hand for his son, who, he states, is inspired with a passion for you."

"Dearest father!"

cried Fleur-de-Marie, concealing her face with her hands, "do you forget?"

"I forget nothing,--not even that to-morrow you enter a convent, where, besides, being for ever lost to me, you will pass the remainder of your days in tears and austerity.

If I must part with you, let it be to give you to a husband who will love you almost as tenderly as your father."

"Married!

--and to him, father!

You cannot mean it!"

"Indeed I do; but on one condition: that directly after your marriage has been celebrated here, without pomp or parade, you shall depart with your husband for some tranquil retreat in Italy or Switzerland, where you may live unknown, and merely pass for opulent persons of middle rank.

And my reason for attaching this proviso to my consent is because I feel assured that, in the bosom of simple and unostentatious happiness, you would by degrees forget the hateful past, which is now only more painfully contrasted with the pomp and ceremony by which you are surrounded."

"Rodolph is right," said Clemence.

"With Henry for your companion, and happy in each other's affection, past sorrows will soon be forgotten."

"And as I could not wholly part with you, Clemence and I would pay you a visit each year.

Then when time shall have healed your wounded spirit, my poor child, and present felicity shall have effaced all recollections of the past, you will return to dwell among us, never more to part."

"Forget the past in present happiness!"

murmured Fleur-de-Marie.

"Even so, my child," replied Rodolph, scarcely able to restrain his emotion at seeing his daughter's scruples thus shaken.

"Can it be possible," cried Fleur-de-Marie, "that such unspeakable felicity is reserved for me?

The wife of Henry.

And one day to pass my life between him--yourself--and my second mother!"

continued she, more subdued by the ineffable delight such a picture created in her mind.

"All--all that happiness shall be yours, my precious child!"

exclaimed Rodolph, fondly embracing Fleur-de-Marie.

"I will reply at once to Henry's father that I consent to the marriage.

Comfort yourself with the certainty that our separation will be but short; the fresh duties you will take upon yourself in a wedded life will serve to drive away all past retrospections and painful reminiscences; and should you yourself be a mother, you will know and feel how readily a parent sacrifices her own regrets and griefs to promote the happiness of her child."

"A mother!

I a mother!"

exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, with bitter despair, awakening at that word from the sweet illusion in which her memory seemed temporarily lulled.

"Oh, no!

I am unworthy to bear that sacred name!

I should expire of shame in the presence of my own child, if indeed I could survive the horrible disclosures I must necessarily make to its father of my past life!

Oh, never--never!"

"My child, for pity's sake, listen to me!"

Pale and beautiful amidst her deep distress, Fleur-de-Marie arose with all the majesty of incurable sorrow, and, looking earnestly at Rodolph, she said, "We forget that, ere Prince Henry made me his wife, he should be acquainted with the past!"

"No, no, my daughter," replied Rodolph, "I had by no means forgotten what he both ought to know and shall learn of the melancholy tale."

"Think you not that I should die, were I thus degraded in his eyes?"

"And he will also admit and feel," added Clemence, "that if I style you my daughter, he may, without fear or shame, safely call you his wife."

"Nay, dearest mother, I love Prince Henry too truly to bestow on him a hand that has been polluted by the touch of the ruffians of the Cite."

* * * * * A short time after this painful scene, the following announcement appeared in the Official Gazette of Gerolstein: "The taking of the veil by the most high and mighty Princess Amelie of Gerolstein took place yesterday in the Abbey of Ste.

Hermangeld, in the presence of the reigning grand duke and all his court.

The vows of the novice were received by the right reverend and illustrious Lord Charles Maximus, Archbishop of Oppenheim; Monseigneur Annibal Andre, one of the princes of Delphes and Bishop of Ceuta, _in partibus infidelium_, and apostolic nuncio, bestowed the salutation and papal benediction.

The sermon was preached by the most reverend Seigneur Pierre d'Asfeld, canon of the Chapter of Cologne, and count of the Holy Roman Empire.

_Veni Creator Optime!

_" CHAPTER III. THE VOWS.

_Rodolph to Clemence.

_