Mysteries of Paris - Volume 6 — Ch. 2 Rodolph & Sarah - Part 1

RODOLPH AND SARAH.

A salutary crisis had occurred, which relieved the Countess Macgregor from the delirium and suffering under which, for several days, her life had been despaired of.

The day had begun to break when Sarah, seated in a large easy chair, and supported by her brother, Thomas Seyton, was looking at herself in a mirror which one of her woman on her knees held up before her.

This was in the apartment where La Chouette had made the attempt to murder.

The countess was as pale as marble, and her pallor made her dark eyes, hair, and eyebrows even more striking; and she was attired in a dressing-gown of white muslin.

"Give me my bandeau of coral," she said to one of her women, in a voice which, although weak, was imperious and abrupt.

"Betty will fasten it on for you," said Seyton; "you will exhaust yourself; you are already very imprudent."

"The bandeau,--the bandeau!"

repeated Sarah, impatiently, who took this jewel and arranged it on her brow.

"Now fasten it, and leave me!"

she said to the women.

The instant they were retiring, she said, "Let M. Ferrand be shown into the little blue salon."

Then she added, with ill-dissembled pride, "As soon as his royal highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein comes, let him be introduced instantly to this apartment."

[Illustration: "_Was Looking at Herself in a Mirror_" Original Etching by Adrian Marcel] "At length," said Sarah, as soon as she was alone with her brother, "at length I trust this crown--the dream of my life: the prediction is on the eve of fulfilment!"

"Sarah, calm your excitement!"

said her brother to her; "yesterday your life was despaired of, and to be again disappointed would deal you a mortal blow!"

"You are right, Thomas; the fall would be fearful, for my hopes were never nearer realisation!

Of this I feel assured, for it was my constant thought of profiting by the overwhelming revelation which this woman made me at the moment of her assassination that prevented me from sinking under my sufferings."

"Again, Sarah, let me counsel you to beware of such insensate dreams,--the awaking would be terrible!"

"Insensate dreams!

What, when Rodolph learns that this young girl, who is now locked up in St. Lazare, and formerly confided to the notary, who has passed her off for dead, is our child!

Do you suppose that--" Seyton interrupted his sister.

"I believe," he said, bitterly, "that princes place reasons of state, political conveniences, before natural duties."

"Do you then rely so little on my address?"

"The prince is no longer the ingenuous and impassioned youth whom you attracted and swayed in other days; that time is long ago, both for him and for you, sister."

Sarah shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Do you know why I was desirous of placing this bandeau of coral in my hair,--why I put on this white dress?

It is because the first time Rodolph saw me at the court of Gerolstein I was dressed in white, and wore this very bandeau of coral in my hair."

"What!"

said Seyton, "you would awake those remembrances?

Do you not rather fear their influence?"

"I know Rodolph better than you do.

No doubt my features, changed by time and sufferings, are no longer those of the young girl of sixteen, whom he so madly loved,--only loved, for I was his first love; and that love, unique in the life of man, always leaves ineffaceable traces in the heart.

Thus, then, brother, trust me that the sight of this ornament will awaken in Rodolph not only the recollection of his love, but those of his youth also; and for men these souvenirs are always sweet and precious."

"But these sweet and precious souvenirs will be united with others so terrible: the sinister _denouement_ of your love, the detestable behaviour of the prince's father to you, your obstinate silence to Rodolph.

After your marriage with the Count Macgregor, he demanded his daughter, then an infant,--your child,--of whose death, ten years since, you informed him so coldly in your letter.

Do you forget that from that period the prince has felt nothing but contempt and hatred for you?"

"Pity has replaced his hatred.

Since he has learned that I am dying, he has sent the Baron de Grauen every day to inquire after me; and just now he has promised to come here; and that is an immense concession, brother."

"He believes you dying,--that you desire a last adieu,--and so he comes.

You were wrong not to write to him of the discovery you are about to disclose to him."

"I know why I do so.

This discovery will fill him with surprise, joy, and I shall be present to profit by his first burst of softened feeling.

To-day or never he will say to me, 'A marriage must legitimise the birth of our child!'

If he says so, his word is sacred, and then will the hope of my life be realised!"

"Yes, if he makes you the promise."

"And that he may do so, nothing must be neglected under these decisive circumstances.

I know Rodolph; and once having found his daughter, he will overcome his aversion for me, and will not retreat from any sacrifice to assure her the most enviable lot, to make her as entirely happy as she has been until now wretched."

"However brilliant the destiny he may assure to your daughter, there is, between the reparation to her and the resolution to marry you in order to legitimise the birth of this child, a very wide abyss."

"Her father will pass over this abyss."

"But this unfortunate child has, perhaps, been so vitiated by the misery in which she has lived that the prince, instead of feeling attracted towards her--" "What are you saying?"

cried Sarah, interrupting her brother.

"Is she not as handsome, as a young girl, as she was a lovely infant?

Rodolph, without knowing her, was so deeply interested in her as to take charge of her future destiny, and sent her to his farm at Bouqueval, whence we carried her off."

"Yes, thanks to your obstinacy in desiring to break all the ties of the prince's affection, in the foolish hope of one day leading him back to yourself!"

"And yet, but for this foolish hope, I should not have discovered, at the price of my life, the secret of my daughter's existence.

Is it not through this woman, who had carried her off from the farm, that I have learned the infamous deceit of the notary, Ferrand?"

"It would have been better to have awaited the young creature's coming out of prison, before you sent to request the Grand Duke to come here."

"Awaited!

And do I know that the salutary crisis in which I now am will last until to-morrow?

Perhaps I am but momentarily sustained by my ambition only."

"What proofs have you for the prince, and will he believe you?"

"He will believe me when he reads the commencement of, the disclosure which I wrote from the dictation of that woman who stabbed me,--a disclosure of which I have, fortunately, forgotten no circumstance.

He will believe me when he reads your correspondence with Madame Seraphin and Jacques Ferrand, as to the supposed death of the child; he will believe me when he hears the confession of the notary, who, alarmed at my threats, will come here immediately; he will believe me when he sees the portrait of my daughter at six years of age, a portrait which the woman told me was still a striking resemblance.

So many proofs will suffice to convince the prince that I speak the truth, and to decide him as to his first impulse, which will make me almost a queen.

Oh, if it were but for a day, I could die content!"

At this moment a carriage was heard to enter the courtyard.

"It is he!

It is Rodolph!"

exclaimed Sarah.

Thomas Seyton drew a curtain hastily aside, and replied, "Yes, it is the prince; he is just alighting from the carriage."

"Leave me!

This is the decisive moment!"

said Sarah, with unshaken coolness; for a monstrous ambition, a pitiless selfishness, had always been and still was the only moving spring of this woman.

Even in the almost miraculous reappearance of her daughter, she only saw a means of at last arriving at the one end and aim of her whole existence.

Seyton said to her, "I will tell the prince how your daughter, believed dead, was saved.

This conversation would be too dangerous for you,--a too violent emotion would kill you; and after so long a separation, the sight of the prince, the recollection of bygone times--" "Your hand, brother!"

replied Sarah.

Then, placing on her impassive heart Tom Seyton's hand, she added, with an icy smile, "Am I excited?"

"No, no; not even a hurried pulsation," said Seyton, amazed.

"I know not what control you have over yourself; but at such a moment, when it is for a crown or a coffin you play, your calmness amazes me!"

"And wherefore, brother?

Till now, you know, nothing has made my heart beat hastily; and it will only throb when I feel the sovereign crown upon my brow.

I hear Rodolph--leave me!"

When Rodolph entered the apartment, his look expressed pity; but, seeing Sarah seated in her armchair, and, as it were, full dressed, he recoiled in surprise, and his features became gloomy and mistrustful.

The countess, guessing his thoughts, said to him, in a low and faint voice, "You thought to find me dying!

You came to receive my last adieu!"

"I have always considered the last wishes of the dead as sacred, but it appears now as if there were some sacrilegious deceit--" "Be assured," said Sarah, interrupting Rodolph, "be assured that I have not deceived you!

I believe that I have but very few hours to live.

Pardon me a last display of coquetry!

I wished to spare you the gloomy symptoms that usually attend the dying hour, and to die attired as I was the first time I saw you.

Alas, after ten years of separation, I see you once again!

Thanks, oh, thanks!

But in your turn give thanks to God for having inspired you with the thought of hearing my last prayer!

If you had refused me, I should have carried my secret with me to the grave, which will now cause the joy, the happiness of your life,--joy, mingled with some sadness, happiness, mingled with some tears, like all human felicity; but this felicity you would yet purchase at the price of half the remainder of your existence!"

"What do you mean?"

asked the prince, with great amazement.

"Yes, Rodolph, if you had not come, this secret would have followed me to the tomb!

That would have been my sole vengeance.

And yet, no, no!

I

shall not have the courage.

Although you have made me suffer deeply, I yet must have shared with you that supreme happiness which you, more blessed than myself, will, I hope, long enjoy!"

"Madame, what does this mean?"

"When you know, you will be able to comprehend my slowness in informing you, for you will view it as a miracle from heaven; but, strange to say, I, who with a word can cause you pleasure greater than you have ever experienced, I experience, although the minutes of my life are counted, I experience an indefinable satisfaction at prolonging your expectation.

And then, I know your heart; and in spite of the fierceness of your character, I fear, without preparation, to reveal to you so incredible a discovery.

The emotions of overwhelming joy have also their dangers."

"Your paleness increases, you can scarcely repress your violent agitation," said Rodolph; "all this indicates something grave and solemn."

"Grave and solemn!"

replied Sarah, in an agitated voice; for, in spite of her habitual impassiveness, when she reflected on the immense effect of the disclosure she was about to make to Rodolph, she was more troubled than she believed possible; and, unable any longer to restrain herself, she exclaimed, "Rodolph, our daughter lives!"

"Our daughter!"

"Lives, I say!"

These words, the accents of truth in which they were pronounced, shook the prince to his very heart.

"Our child!"

he repeated, going hurriedly to the chair in which Sarah was, "our child--my daughter!"

"Is not dead, I have irresistible proof; I know where she is; to-morrow you shall see her."

"My daughter!

My daughter!"

repeated Rodolph, with amazement.

"Can it be that she lives?"

Then, suddenly reflecting on the improbability of such an event, and fearing to be the dupe of some fresh treachery on Sarah's part, he cried, "No, no, it is a dream!

Impossible!

I know your ambition--of what you are capable--and I see through the drift of this proposed treachery!"

"Yes, you say truly; I am capable of all--everything!

Yes, I desired to abuse you; some days before the mortal blow was struck, I sought to find out some young girl that I might present to you as our daughter.

After this confession, you will perhaps believe me, or, rather, you will be compelled to credit irresistible evidence.

Yes, Rodolph, I repeat I desired to substitute a young and obscure girl for her whom we both deplore; but God willed that at the moment when I was arranging this sacrilegious bargain, I should be almost fatally stabbed!"

"You--at this moment!"

"God so willed it that they should propose to me to play the part of falsehood--imagine whom?

Our daughter!"

"Are you delirious, in heaven's name?"

"Oh, no, I am not delirious!

In this casket, containing some papers and a portrait, which will prove to you the truth of what I say, you will find a paper stained with my blood!"

"Your blood!"

"The woman who told me that our daughter was still living declared to me this disclosure when she stabbed me with her dagger."

"And who was she?

How did she know?"

"It was she to whom the child was confided when very young, after she had been declared dead."

"But this woman?

Can she be believed?

How did you know her?"

"I tell you, Rodolph, that this is all fated--providential!

Some months ago you snatched a young girl from misery, to send her to the country.

Jealousy and hatred possessed me.

I had her carried off by the woman of whom I have been speaking."

"And they took the poor girl to St. Lazare?"

"Where she is still."

"She is there no longer.

Ah, you do not know, madame, the fearful evil you have occasioned me by snatching the unfortunate girl away from the retreat in which I had placed her; but--" "The young girl is no longer at St. Lazare!"

cried Sarah, with dismay;

"ah, what fearful news is this!"

"A monster of avarice had an interest in her destruction.

They have drowned her, madame!

But answer!

You say that--" "My daughter!"

exclaimed Sarah, interrupting Rodolph, and standing erect, as straight and motionless as a statue of marble.

"What does she say?

Good heaven!"

cried Rodolph.

"My daughter!"

repeated Sarah, whose features became livid and frightful in their despair.

"They have murdered my daughter!"

"The Goualeuse your daughter!"

uttered Rodolph, retreating with horror.

"The Goualeuse!

Yes, that was the name which the woman they call the Chouette used.

Dead--dead!"

repeated Sarah, still motionless, with her eyes fixed.

"They have killed her!"

"Sarah!"

said Rodolph, as pale and as fearful to look upon as the countess; "be calm,--recover yourself,--answer me!

The Goualeuse,--the young girl whom you had carried off by the Chouette from Bouqueval,--was she our daughter?"

"Yes.

And they have killed her!"

"Oh, no, no; you are mad!

It cannot be!

You do not know!

No, no; you cannot tell how fearful this would be!

Sarah, be firm,--speak to me calmly,--sit down,--compose yourself!

There are often resemblances, appearances which deceive if we are inclined to believe what we desire.

I do not reproach you; but explain yourself to me, tell me all the reasons which induced you to think this; for it cannot be,--no, no, it cannot be,--it is not so!"

After a moment's pause, the countess collected her thoughts, and said to Rodolph, in a faltering voice, "Learning your marriage, and thinking of marrying myself, I could not keep our child with me; she was then four years of age."

"But at that time I begged her of you with prayers, entreaties," cried Rodolph, in a heartrending tone, "and my letters were unanswered; the only one you wrote to me announced her death!"

"I was desirous of avenging myself of your contempt by refusing your child.

It was shameful; but hear me!

I feel my life ebbs from me; this last blow has overcome me!"

"No, no, I do not believe you; I will not believe you!

The Goualeuse my daughter!

Oh, _mon Dieu_!

You would not have this so!"

"Listen to me!

When she was four years old, my brother charged Madame Seraphin, the widow of an old servant, to bring the child up until she was old enough to go to school.

The sum destined to support our child was deposited by my brother with a notary, celebrated for his honesty.

The letters of this man and Madame Seraphin, addressed at the time to me and my brother, are there, in the casket.

At the end of a year they wrote me word that my daughter's health was failing,--eight months afterwards that she was dead, and they sent the register of her decease.

At this time Madame Seraphin had entered the service of Jacques Ferrand, after having given our daughter over to the Chouette, through the medium of a wretch who is now at the galleys at Rochefort.

I was writing down all this when the Chouette stabbed me.

This paper is there also, with a portrait of our daughter when four years of age.

Examine all,--letters, declaration, portrait,--and you who have seen her, the unhappy child, will judge--" These words exhausted Sarah, and she fell fainting into her armchair.

Rodolph was thunderstruck at this disclosure.

There are misfortunes so unforeseen, so horrible, that we try not to believe them until the overwhelming evidence compels us.

Rodolph, persuaded of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, had but one hope,--that of convincing himself that she was not his daughter.

With a frightful calmness that alarmed Sarah, he approached the table, opened the casket, and began to read the letters, examining with scrupulous attention the papers which accompanied them.

These letters, bearing the postmark, and dated, written to Sarah and her brother by the notary and Madame Seraphin, related to the infancy of Fleur-de-Marie, and the investment of the money destined for her.

Rodolph could not doubt the authenticity of this correspondence.

The Chouette's declaration was confirmed by the particulars collected at Rodolph's desire, in which a felon named Pierre Tournemine, then at Rochefort, was described as the individual who had received Fleur-de-Marie from the hands of Madame Seraphin, for the purpose of giving her up to the Chouette,--the relentless tormentor of her early years,--and whom she afterwards so unexpectedly recognised when in company with Rodolph at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress.

The attestation of the child's death was duly drawn up and attested, but Ferrand himself had confessed to Cecily that it had merely been employed to obtain possession of a considerable sum of money due to the unfortunate infant, whose decease it so falsely recorded, and who had subsequently been drowned by his order while crossing to the Isle du Ravageur.

It was, therefore, with appalling conviction Rodolph learnt at once the double facts of the Goualeuse being his long-lost daughter, and of her having perished by a violent death.

Unfortunately, everything seemed to give greater certitude to his belief, and to render further doubt impossible.

Ere the prince could bring himself to place implicit credence in the self-condemnation of Jacques Ferrand, as conveyed in the notes furnished by him to Cecily, he had made the closest inquiries at Asnieres, and had ascertained that two females, one old, the other young, dressed in the garb of countrywomen, had been drowned while crossing the river to the Isle du Ravageur, and that Martial was openly accused of having committed this fresh crime.

Let us add, in conclusion, that, despite the utmost care and attention on the part of Doctor Griffon, Count de Saint-Remy, and La Louve, Fleur-de-Marie was long ere she could be pronounced out of danger, and then so extreme was her exhaustion, both of body and mind, that she had been unfit for the least conversation, and wholly unequal to making any effort to apprise Madame Georges of her situation.

This coincidence of circumstances left the prince without the smallest shadow of hope; but had such even remained, it was doomed to disappear before a last and fatal proof of the reality of his misfortune.

He, for the first time, ventured to cast his eyes towards the miniature he had received.

The blow fell with stunning conviction on his heart; for in the exquisitely beautiful features it revealed, rich in all the infantine loveliness ascribed to cherubic innocence, he recognised the striking portrait of Fleur-de-Marie,--her finely chiselled nose, the lofty forehead, with the small, delicately formed mouth, even then wearing an expression of sorrowing tenderness.

Alas!

Had not Madame Seraphin well accounted for this somewhat uncommon peculiarity in an infant's face by saying, in a letter written by her to Sarah, which Rodolph had just perused, "The child is continually inquiring for its mother, and seems to grieve very much at not seeing her."

There were also those large, soft, blue eyes, "the colour of a blue-bell," as the Chouette observed to Sarah, upon recognising in this miniature the features of the unfortunate creature she had so ruthlessly tormented as Pegriotte, and as a young girl under the appellation of La Goualeuse.

At the sight of this picture the violent and tumultuous emotions of the prince were lost amid a flood of mingled tears and sighs.