Mysteries of Paris Volume II Part 48

"I am ignorant, madame."

"You are ignorant?"

"He has only made himself known to me by his inexhaustible goodness.

Thanks to heaven! I found myself in his way."

"Where did you meet him?"

"One night, in the city, madame," said La Goualeuse, casting down her eyes, "a man wanted to strike me; this unknown benefactor courageously defended me. Such was my first encounter with him."

"He was, then, a man of the common order?"

"The first time I saw him he had their dress and language, but afterward--"

"Afterward?"

"The manner in which he spoke to me, the profound respect shown him by the people to whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had disguised himself as one of the men who frequent the city."

"But for what purpose?"

"I do not know."

"And the name of this mysterious protector, do you know it?"

"Oh, yes, madame, thank heaven!" said Goualeuse, with warmth; "for I can bless and adore without ceasing this name. My deliverer is known as Rudolph, madame."

Clemence blushed deeply.

"And has he no other name?" asked she, quickly, of Fleur-de-Marie.

"I do not know, madame. At the farm where he sent me, he was only known by the name of Rudolph."

"And his age?"

"He is still young, madame."

"And handsome?"

"Oh, yes! handsome, n.o.ble--as his heart."

The grateful, feeling manner with which Fleur-de-Marie p.r.o.nounced these words, caused a disagreeable sensation to Madame d'Harville. An invincible, an inexplicable presentiment told her that this Rudolph was the prince.

"The observations of the inspectress were well founded," thought Clemence. "The Goualeuse loves Rudolph; it was his name she p.r.o.nounced in her sleep. Under what strange circ.u.mstances had the prince and this poor girl met? Why did Rudolph go disguised into the city?" She could not resolve these questions; only she remembered that Sarah had formerly, wickedly and falsely, related to her some pretended eccentricities of Rudolph, and of his strange amours. Was it not, indeed, strange that he had taken from a life of misery this creature, of ravishing beauty and of no common mind?

Clemence had n.o.ble qualities, but she was a woman, and she loved Rudolph profoundly, although she had determined to bury this secret in the very depths of her heart. Without reflecting that this, no doubt, was one of those generous actions which the prince was accustomed to do secretly; without reflecting that, perhaps, she confounded with love a sentiment of warm grat.i.tude; without reflecting, finally, that of this sentiment, even if it were more tender, Rudolph might be ignorant, the lady, in the first feeling of bitterness and injustice, could not prevent herself considering the Goualeuse as a rival. Her pride revolted in feeling that she blushed; that she suffered, in spite of herself, at a rivalry so abject. She resumed, then, in a cold manner, which cruelly contrasted with the affectionate benevolence of her first words, "And how is it, girl, that your protector leaves you in prison? How did you get here?"

"Madame," said Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, struck with this change of language: "have I displeased you in any way?"

"How could you have displeased me?" demanded Madame d'Harville, with haughtiness.

"It seems to me that just now you spoke to me with more kindness, madame."

"Truly, girl, must I weigh each of my words, since I consent to interest myself in you? I have the right, I think, to address you questions?"

Hardly were these words p.r.o.nounced than Clemence, for many reasons, regretted their severity. In the first place, by a praiseworthy return of generosity; then because she thought, by offending her rival, she could learn nothing more of what she wished to know.

In effect, the countenance of La Goualeuse, one moment open and confiding, became instantly reserved.

Like the sensitive plant, which at the first touch closes its delicate leaves, and folds them within its bosom, the heart of Fleur-de-Marie contracted painfully.

Clemence resumed gently, not to awaken the suspicions of her _protegee_ by too sudden a change. "In truth, I repeat to you, I cannot comprehend that, having so much to praise in your benefactor, you should be a prisoner here; how, after having sincerely returned to the paths of rect.i.tude, could you cause yourself to be arrested in a place to you interdicted? All this seems to me extraordinary. You speak of an oath which so far has imposed silence upon you; but this oath even is so strange!"

"I have told the truth, madame."

"I am sure of it; one has only to see and hear you to believe you incapable of a falsehood. But, what is incomprehensible in your situation, augments, irritates my impatient curiosity; it is only to that that you must attribute the sharpness of my words just now. Come, I avow I was wrong; for, although I had no other right to your confidence than my earnest wish to be useful to you, you have offered to tell me that which you have told to no one, and I am very sensible, believe me, my poor child, of this proof of your faith in the interest I have for you. Hence, I promise you, in guarding scrupulously your secret, if you confide it to me, I will do all in my power to meet your wishes."

Thanks to this palliating speech, Madame d'Harville regained the confidence of La Goualeuse, for a moment impaired. Fleur-de-Marie, in her innocence, reproached herself for having misinterpreted the words which had wounded her.

"Pardon me, madame," said she; "I was doubtless wrong not to tell you at once what you wished to know; but you asked me the name of my rescuer; in spite of myself, I cannot resist the pleasure of speaking of him."

"Nothing is better; it proves how grateful you are toward him. But why have you left the good people with whom he had placed you? Does your oath have reference to this?"

"Yes, madame; but thanks to you, I believe now, still keeping my word, I shall be able to satisfy my benefactors as to my disappearance."

"Come, my poor child, I listen." "It is about three months since M.

Rudolph placed me at a farm situated four or five leagues hence." "He conducted you there himself?" "Yes, madame; he confided me to the care of a lady as good as she was venerable, whom I soon loved as a mother. She and the cure of the village, at the request of M. Rudolph, took charge of my education." "And M. Rudolph often came to the farm?" "No, madame; he came there only three times while I was there." Clemence could not conceal a thrill of joy. "And when he came to see you, it made you very happy, did it not?" "Oh, yes, madame! it was for me more than happiness: It was a sentiment mixed with grat.i.tude, respect, admiration, and even a little fear." "Fear!"

"From him to me--from him to others--the distance is so great!" "But what is his rank?" "I am ignorant if he has any rank, madame." "Yet you speak of the distance which exists between him and others." "Oh, madame! that which places him above the rest of the world is the elevation of his character--his inexhaustible generosity for those who suffer; it is the enthusiasm with which he inspires everybody. The wicked even cannot hear his name without trembling; they respect him as much as they fear him. But pardon me, madame, for having again spoken of him--I ought to be silent; for I should give you but an imperfect idea of him whom I ought to content myself with adoring to myself. As well attempt to express by words the grandeur of Heaven!

This comparison is perhaps sacrilegious, madame. But will it offend to compare to Goodness itself the man who has given me a consciousness of good and evil--who has dragged me from the abyss--to whom I owe a new existence?" "I do not blame you, my child; I comprehend your feelings. But how have you abandoned this farm, where you were so happy?"

"Alas, it was not voluntary, madame!"

"Who forced you, then?"

"One night, a short time since," said Fleur-de-Marie, trembling at the recital, "I went to the parsonage of the village, when a wicked woman, who had treated me cruelly in my childhood, and a man, her accomplice, who was concealed with her in a ravine, threw themselves upon me, wrapped me up, and carried me off in a carriage."

"For what purpose?"

"I do not know, madame. My waylayers were acting, I think, under the orders of some powerful persons."

"What then ensued?"

"Hardly had the vehicle moved, than the bad woman, whose name was La Chouette (Screech-Owl), cried, 'I have got some vitriol; I am going to wash the face of La Goualeuse, to disfigure her.'"

"How horrid! Unfortunate child! What saved you from that danger?"

"The accomplice of this woman, a blind man, called the Schoolmaster."

"He defended you?"