The Mysteries Of Paris Volume Vi Part 39

CHAPTER III.

THE VOWS.

_Rodolph to Clemence._

GEROLSTEIN, 12th January, 1842.

Your a.s.surance that your father is better induces me to hope you will be enabled to return here with him shortly. I dreaded that at Rosenfeld, situated in the midst of the woods, he would be exposed to the piercing cold of our rigorous winters, but, unfortunately, his fondness for hunting rendered all our advice useless.

I entreat you, Clemence, as soon as your father can bear the motion of the carriage, quit that country and this habitation, only fit for those Germans of an iron frame whose race has now disappeared.

The ceremony of our poor child's taking the vows is fixed for to-morrow, the thirteenth of January, the fatal day on which I drew my sword on my father! Alas! I thought too soon I was forgiven! The hope of pa.s.sing my life with you and my child made me forget that it was she who had been punished up to the present time, and that my punishment was to come. And it is come, when, six months ago, she disclosed the double torture she suffered,--her incurable shame for the past, and her hopeless pa.s.sion for Henry.

These two sentiments became, by a fatal logic, the cause of her fixed resolve to take the veil. You know that we could not conceal from her that, had we been in her place, we should have pursued the same n.o.ble and courageous course she has adopted.

How could we answer those humble words, "I love Prince Henry too much to give him a hand that has been touched by the bandits of the Cite!"

I have seen her this morning, and though she seemed less pale than usual, though she said she did not suffer, yet her health gives me the most mortal alarm.

Alas! This morning, when I saw beneath the veil those n.o.ble features, I could not refrain from thinking how beautiful she looked the day of our marriage; it seemed that our happiness was reflected on her face.

As I told you, I saw her this morning. She does not know that to-morrow the Princess Juliana resigns her abbatical dignity, and that she has been unanimously chosen to succeed her.

Since the beginning of her novitiate there has been but one opinion of her piety, her charity, and the exact.i.tude with which she fulfils all the rules of the order; she even exaggerates their austerity. She exercises in the convent that authority she exercised everywhere, but of which she herself is ignorant. She confessed to me this morning that she is not so absorbed by her religious duties as to forget the past.

"I accuse myself, dear father," said she, "because I cannot help reflecting that, had Heaven pleased to spare me the degradation that has stained my life, I might have lived happily with you and my husband. Spite of myself, I reflect on this, and on what pa.s.sed in the Cite. In vain I beseech Heaven to deliver me from these temptations,--to fill my heart with himself; but he does not hear my prayers, doubtless because my life has rendered me unworthy of communion with him."

"But," cried I, clinging to this faint glimmer of hope, "it is not yet too late; your novitiate is only over to-day; you are yet free. Renounce this austere life, dwell again with us, and our tenderness shall soften your grief."

Shaking her head sorrowfully, she replied:

"The cloister is, indeed, solitary for me, accustomed as I have been to your tender care; doubtless cruel recollections come over me, but I am consoled by the knowledge that I am performing my duty. I know that everywhere else I should be liable to be placed in that position in which I have already suffered so much. Your daughter shall do what she ought to do, suffer what she ought to suffer."

Without founding any great hopes on this interview, I yet said to myself, "She can renounce the cloister. But as she is determined, I can but repeat her words, 'G.o.d alone can offer me a refuge worthy of himself.'" Adieu, dear Clemence! It consoles me to see you grieve with me, for I can say 'our' child without egotism in my sufferings. Often this thought lightens my sorrow, for you are left to me, and what is left to Fleur-de-Marie?

Adieu again; return soon.

R.

ABBEY OF STE. HERMANGELD.

Four o'clock in the morning.

Rea.s.sure yourself, Clemence! Thank G.o.d, the danger is over, but the crisis was terrible!

Last evening, agitated by my thoughts, I recollected the paleness and languor of my poor child, and that she was obliged to pa.s.s almost all the night in the church in prayer.

I sent Murphy and David to demand the Princess Juliana's permission to remain until the morrow in the mansion that Henry occupied usually; thus my child would have prompt a.s.sistance, and I prompt intelligence, in case that her strength failed under this rigorous, I will not say cruel, obligation to pa.s.s the whole of a cold winter's night in the church.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "In the Church in Prayer"

Original Etching by Mercier]

I wrote to Fleur-de-Marie that, whilst I respected her religious exercises, I besought her to watch in her cell and not in the church. This was her reply:

"_My dear Father_:--I thank you for this fresh proof of your tenderness, but be not alarmed, I am sufficiently strong to perform my duty. Your daughter must be guilty of no weakness. The rule orders it, I must submit. Should it cause me some physical sufferings, how joyfully shall I offer them to G.o.d! Adieu, dear father! I cannot say I pray for you, because whenever I pray to Heaven I cannot help remembering you in my prayers. You have been to me on earth what G.o.d will be, if I merit it, in heaven.

Bless your child, who will be to-morrow the spouse of Heaven.

"SISTER AMELIE."

This letter, in some measure, rea.s.sured me; however I had, also, a vigil to keep. At nightfall I went to a pavilion I had built, near my father's monument, in expiation of this fatal night.

About one o'clock I heard Murphy's voice. He came from the convent in order to inform me that, as I had feared, my unhappy child, spite of her resolution, had not had sufficient strength to accomplish this barbarous custom.

At eight o'clock in the evening Fleur-de-Marie knelt and prayed until midnight, but, overpowered by her emotion and the intense cold, she fainted; two nuns instantly raised her, and bore her to her cell. David was instantly summoned, and Murphy came to me. I hastened to the convent, where the abbess a.s.sured me that my daughter's swoon, from which she had recovered, had been caused only by her weakness, but that David feared that my presence might seriously affect her. I feared they were preparing me for something more dreadful, but the superior said:

"I a.s.sure you, monseigneur, the princess is in no danger; the restorative the doctor has given her has greatly recruited her strength."

David soon returned. She was better, but had insisted upon continuing her vigil, consenting only to kneel upon a cushion.

"She is in the church, then?" cried I.

"Yes, monseigneur, but she will quit it in a quarter of an hour."

I entered the church, and, by the faint light of a lamp, I saw her kneeling and praying fervently. Three o'clock struck; two sisters, seated in the stalls, advanced and spoke to her; she crossed herself, rose, and traversed the choir with a firm step, and yet as she pa.s.sed the lamp she seemed to me deathly pale. I remain at the abbey until the ceremony be over. I think now it is useless to send this letter incomplete. I will forward it to-morrow, with all the details of this sad day. Adieu, dearest!--I am heart-broken--pity!

R.

THE LAST CHAPTER.

THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY.

_Rodolph to Clemence._

The thirteenth of January! Now a doubly sinister anniversary!

Dearest, we have lost her for ever! All is over,--ended all. It is true, then, that there is a horrid pleasure in relating a terrible grief.

Yesterday I was complaining of the necessity that kept you from me; to-day, Clemence, I congratulate myself that you are not here,--you would have suffered too much. This morning I was in a light slumber, and was awakened by the sound of bells. I started in affright; it seemed to me a funereal sound,--a knell! In fact, our daughter is dead,--dead to us! And from to-day, Clemence, you must begin to wear her mourning in your heart, a heart always so maternally disposed towards her. Whether our child be buried beneath the marble of the tomb or the vault of the cloister, what is the difference to us? Hardly eighteen years of age, yet dead to the world!

At noon the profession took place, with solemn pomp, and I was present, concealed behind the curtains of our pew. I felt, but even with greater intensity, all the poignant emotion we underwent at her novitiate. How strange! She is adored! And they believe, universally, that she was attracted to a religious life by an irresistible vocation; and yet whilst they believed it was a happy event for her, an overwhelming sadness weighed down the spectators. There appeared in the very air, as it were, a doleful foreboding, and it was founded, if only half realised.

The profession terminated, they led our child into the chapter-room, where the nomination of the new abbess was to take place, and, thanks to my sovereign privilege, I went into this room to await Fleur-de-Marie's return to the choir. She soon entered; her emotion and weakness were so excessive that two of the sisters supported her. I was alarmed, less at her paleness and the great change in her features, than at the peculiar expression of her smile, which seemed to me imprinted with a kind of secret satisfaction.

Clemence, I say to you, perhaps we may very soon require all our courage,--I feel within myself that our child is mortally smitten. May Heaven grant that I am deceived, and may my presentiments arise only from the despairing sadness which this melancholy spectacle has inspired!

Fleur-de-Marie entered the chapter-room, all the stalls were filled by the nuns. She went modestly to place herself last on the left-hand side, still leaning on the arm of one of the sisters, for she yet appeared very weak.