The Mysteries Of Paris Volume Vi Part 38

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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociations 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 ingrat.i.tude 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 Archd.u.c.h.ess Sophia; his resemblance to the portrait too well a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sion 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.sociating 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s for opulent persons of middle rank. And my reason for attaching this proviso to my consent is because I feel a.s.sured 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 pa.s.s 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 ill.u.s.trious 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!_"