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Mysteries of Paris, V3

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"Oh, the wicked child!" exclaimed Rudolph, interrupting his daughter, and
embracing her tenderly; "what a wicked child, who will not grant a single
satisfaction to my fatherly pride!"

"Is not this pride sufficiently satisfied by attributing to you the good
feeling that is shown me, my good father?"

"No, indeed, miss," said the prince, smiling, to his daughter, to chase
away the sadness with which he still saw her affected; "no, miss, it is not
the same thing; for it is not allowable for me to be proud of myself, and I
can and ought to be proud of you--yes, proud. And, again, you know not how
divinely you are endowed; in fifteen months your education has become so
marvelously complete that the most difficult mother would be satisfied with
you, and this education has increased still more the almost irresistible
influence that you spread around you without being yourself aware of it."

"My father, your praises confuse me."

"I speak the truth, nothing but the truth. Do you wish for instances? Let
us speak boldly of the past; it is an enemy that I wish to fight hand to
hand; we must look it in the face. Do you not, then, remember La Louve,
that courageous woman who saved you? Recall that prison scene which you
have related to me; a crowd of prisoners, more hardened indeed than wicked,
were bent upon tormenting one of their companions, feeble, infirm, and yet
their drudge; you appear, you speak, and, behold, immediately these furies,
blushing for their base cruelty toward their victim, show themselves as
charitable as they were wicked. Is this, then, nothing? Again, is it--yes
or no--owing to you that La Louve, that ungovernable woman, has felt
repentance, and desired an honest and laborious life? Ah, believe me, my
dear child, that which conquered La Louve, and her turbulent companions,
merely by the ascendancy of goodness, combined with a rare elevation of
mind; this, although in other circumstances and in an utterly different
sphere, must by the same charm (do not smile at such a parallel, miss)
fascinate the stately Archduchess Sophia and all the circle of my court;
for the good and wicked, great and small, submit almost always to the
influence of higher, nobler spirits. I do not wish to say that you were
born princess in the aristocratic sense of the word; that would be a poor
flattery to make you, my child; but you are of that small number of
privileged beings who are born both to speak to a queen so as to charm her,
and to earn her love, and also to speak to a poor, debased, and abandoned
creature, so as to make her better, to console her, and thus gain her
adoration."

"But, my dear father, I beg--"

"Oh, it is so much the worse for you, darling, that it is so long since my
heart has poured forth. Think, then, how, with my fear of awakening in you
the remembrances of the past which I wish to annihilate, and that I will
forever annihilate in your mind, I dared not converse to you of these
comparisons, these parallels, which render you so admirable in my eyes. How
many times have Clémence and I been enraptured with you. How many times
moved so that the tears rose in her eyes, has she said to me, 'Is it not
wonderful that this child should be what she is, after misfortune has so
pursued her? or, rather,' would Clémence continue, 'is it not wonderful
that, far from impairing that noble and rare nature, misfortune has, on the
contrary, given a higher range to what there was excellent in her?'"

At this moment the door opened, and Clémence, Grand Duchess of Gerolstein,
entered, holding a letter in her hand.

"Here, my friend," said she to Rudolph, "is a letter from France. I wish to
bring it to you, that I might say good-morning to my indolent child, whom I
have not seen this morning," added Clémence, embracing Fleur-de-Marie
tenderly.

"This letter comes just at the right moment," said Rudolph, gayly, after
having read it through. "We were talking just now of the past; of that
monster we must incessantly combat, my dear Clémence, for it threatens the
repose and happiness of our dear child."

"Is this true, my friend? those attacks of melancholy which we have
observed--"

"Have no other cause than wicked remembrances; but, fortunately, we now
know our enemy, and we will triumph over it."

"But from whom, then, is this letter, my friend?" asked Clémence.

"From Rigolette, the wife of Germain."

"Rigolette!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie; "what happiness to hear from her!"

"My friend," said Clémence, aside to Rudolph, at the same time glancing at
Fleur-de-Marie, "do you not fear that this letter may recall to her painful
recollections?"

"These are those very remembrances I wish to put an end to, my dear
Clémence: we must approach them boldly, and I am sure that I shall find in
Rigolette's letter excellent arms against them, for this excellent little
creature adored our child, and appreciated her as she should be."

And Rudolph read aloud the following letter:--


"Bouqueval Farm, August 15th, 1841.

"YOUR HIGHNESS, I take the liberty of writing to you again, to make you a
sharer of a great happiness which has befallen us, and to ask a new favor
of you, to whom we already owe so many, or, rather, to whom we owe the
perfect paradise in which we live, I, my Germain, and his good mother.

"This is the cause, my lord; for ten days I have been mad with joy, for it
is ten days since I have possessed the love of a little girl: I fancy that
she is the very picture of Germain; be, that she is of me; our dear Mamma
George says that she resembles both; the fact is she has charming blue eyes
like Germain, and black hair, curly, like mine. Just now, contrary to his
custom, my husband is unjust; he wishes to have our little one always upon
his knees, while it is my right, is it not, my lord?"

"Fine, worthy young persons! they ought to be happy," said Rudolph. "If
ever couple were well matched, it is they."

"And Rigolette deserves her happiness," said Fleur-de Marie.

"I have always blessed the good fortune that caused me to meet them," said
Rudolph, and he continued, "But, indeed, my lord, pardon my burdening you
with these little family quarrels that end always with a kiss. Certainly
your ears must tingle well, my lord, for there does not pass a day that we
do not say, looking at each other, we too, Germain and I, 'How happy we
are! O, God, how happy we are!' and, naturally, your name follows directly
after these words. Excuse the scrawl there is just here, my lord, and the
blot; I had written without thinking, M. Rudolph, as I used to say, and I
have scratched it out. I hope, by the way, that you will find my writing
has improved much, as well as my orthography, for Germain always shows me
how, and I no longer make great blots stretching all across, as when you
made my pens."

"I must confess," said Rudolph, laughing, "that my friend is under a slight
illusion, and I am sure that Germain is occupied rather with kissing the
hand of his pupil than directing it."

"Come, come, my dear, you are right," said Clémence, looking at the letter,
"the writing is rather large, but very legible."

"In truth, there is some progress," said Rudolph; "formerly it would have
taken eight pages to contain what she writes now in two."

And he continued: "It is, however, true, that you have made pens for me, my
lord; when we think of it, Germain and I, we are quite ashamed, in
recalling how far from proud you were. Oh, here again do I find myself
speaking to you of something besides what we wish to ask you, my lord; for
my husband unites with me, and it is very important; we have formed a plan.
You shall see. We supplicate you, then, my lord, to have the goodness to
choose and give us a name for our dear girl; it is agreed upon with the
godfather and godmother, and this godfather and godmother, do you know who
they are, my lord? Two persons whom you and her ladyship the Marchioness
d'Harville have raised from misery to render happy, happy as we are. In a
word, they are Morel, the jeweler, and Jeanne Duport, the sister of a poor
prisoner named Pique-Vinaigre, a worthy woman whom I saw in prison when I
went to visit my poor Germain there, and whom, afterward, her ladyship, the
marchioness, brought out from the hospital. Now, my lord, you must know why
we have chosen M. Morel for godfather, and Jeanne Duport for godmother. We
said one to another, Germain and I, this will be a way of thanking M.
Rudolph again for his kindness, by taking for godfather and godmother of
our little girl worthy people who owe everything to him and to the
marchioness, without taking into consideration that Morel the jeweler and
Jeanne Duport are the cream of honest people. They are of our class, and
besides, as Germain and I say, they are our kindred in happiness, for they
are like us, of the family of your _protégées_, my lord."

"Oh, father, has not this idea a charming delicacy," said Fleur-de-Marie,
with emotion, "to take as godfather and godmother of their child those who
owe everything to you and my second mother."

"You are right, dear child," said Clémence; "I am most deeply touched by
this token."

"And I am very glad that I have so well bestowed my benefits," said
Rudolph, continuing to read.

"Besides, with the aid of the money you have given him, M. Rudolph, Morel
is now a dealer in precious stones; he gains something to bring up his
family upon, and the means of teaching his children some trade. The good
Louise will, I think, marry a worthy laborer, who loves and respects her,
as he should, for she has been unfortunate, but not guilty, and the
betrothed of Louise has heart enough to understand this."

"I was very certain," exclaimed Rudolph, addressing his daughter, "of
finding in dear little Rigolette's letter arms against our enemy! You hear,
it is the expression of the plain common sense of this honest and upright
soul. She says of Louise, 'She has been unfortunate, but not guilty, and
her betrothed has heart enough to understand this.'"

Fleur-de-Marie, more and more moved and saddened by the reading of this
letter, trembled at the glance that her father fixed upon her, for a
moment, as he emphasized the above last words.

The prince continued: "I will tell you also, my lord, that Jeanne Duport,
through the generosity of the marchioness, has been able to be separated
from her husband, that wicked man who ate her out of everything and beat
her; she has taken her eldest daughter with her, and she keeps a little
lace shop, where she sells what she and her children make; their trade
prospers. There are nowhere such happy people, and thanks to whom! thanks
to you, my lord, to the marchioness, who both know how to give so much, and
to give to so good purpose.

"By the way, Germain will write to you as usual, my lord, at the end of the
month, on the subject of the Bank for Laborers out of employment, and of
gratuitous loans; the reimbursements are seldom behindhand, and we perceive
already much good that this spreads in this quarter. Now, at least, poor
families can get through the dull season for work without putting their
linens and beds in pledge. Then when work returns, you should see with what
spirit they put themselves to it; they are so proud that confidence is
placed in their work and their probity! And, indeed, it is not only this
you should see. Besides, how they bless you for having lent them the
wherewithal. Yes, my lord, they bless you, _you_, for although you say
you have done nothing in its institution but to nominate Germain for head
cashier, and that it is an unknown who has done this good work, we like
better to believe that it is to you we owe it; it is more natural. Besides,
there is a famous trumpet to repeat on every occasion that it is you we
should bless; this trumpet is Madame Pipelet, who repeats to every one that
it is only her _prince of tenants_ (excuse me, M. Rudolph, she always
calls you so) who can have done this charitable work, and her Darling
Alfred is of her opinion. As to him, he is so proud and so pleased with his
office of bank porter, that he says that the employment of M. Cabrion would
be nothing to him. To end your family of _protégées_, my lord, I will
add that Germain has read in the papers that Martial, a planter in Algiers,
has been spoken of with great praises for the courage he had shown in
repulsing, at the head of his farmers, an attack of thievish Arabs, and
that his wife, as intrepid as himself, had been slightly wounded in the
side while she was discharging her gun like a real grenadier. From that
time, they say in the papers, she has been called 'Mrs. Rifle.' Excuse this
long letter, my lord, but I thought you would not be sorry to hear from us
concerning those whose good Providence you have been. I write to you from
the farm at Bouqueval, where we have been since spring with our good
mother. Germain leaves every morning for his business, and returns at
night. In the autumn we shall go back to live in Paris. How strange it is,
M. Rudolph, I, who never loved the country, adore it now. I make it clear
to myself: it is because Germain loves it so much. Speaking of the farm, M.
Rudolph, you, who undoubtedly know where that good little Goualeuse is--if
you have an opportunity, tell her how we always remember her as one of the
sweetest and best beings in the world; and that I myself never think of our
happiness without saying, since M. Rudolph was also the M. Rudolph of dear
Fleur-de-Marie, through his care she must be as happy as we; and this makes
my happiness yet more perfect. How I run on! What will you say to me, my
lord? But oh! you are so good! And then, you see, it is your fault if I
chatter as much and as joyously as Papa Cretu and Ramonette, who no longer
dare to rival me in singing. Indeed, M. Rudolph, I can tell you, I put it
into their mouths. You will not refuse us one request, will you, my lord?
If you give a name to our dear little child, it seems to us it will bring
her good fortune, it will be like a happy star for her; believe it, M.
Rudolph, sometimes my good Germain and I almost congratulate ourselves for
having known so much sorrow, because we feel doubly how happy our child
will be not to know what is the misery through which we have passed. If I
close by telling, M. Rudolph, that we endeavor to aid poor people here and
there, according to our means, it is not to boast of ourselves, but that
you may know we do not keep to ourselves alone all the happiness you have
given us; beside, we always say to those we succor, 'It is not we that you
must thank and bless, it is M. Rudolph, the best, most generous man that
there is in the world; 'and they take you for a kind of _saint_, if
nothing more. Adieu, my lord! believe me, when our little girl shall begin
to spell, the first words she shall read will be your name, M. Rudolph, and
afterward, those words you caused to be written upon my wedding gift:

"Labor, and wisdom--honor and happiness."

"With the help of these four words, our tenderness and our care, we hope,
my lord, that our child will be always worthy to speak the name of him who
has been our good Providence, and that of all the wretched ones he has
known. Pardon, my lord, for finishing thus; I have such large tears in my
eyes-they are good tears--excuse, if you please--it is not my fault--but I
cannot see clearly, so that I write badly.

"I have the honor, my lord, to salute you with as much respect as
gratitude, RIGOLETTE GERMAIN."

"P.S.--Oh! my lord, in reading over my letter, I perceive that I have very
often written _M. Rudolph_. You will pardon me? I may hope so? You
know well that under one name or another, we respect and bless you the
same, my lord."


"Dear little Rigolette," said Clémence, softened by the letter which
Rudolph had just read. "This simple epistle is full of sensibility."

"Undoubtedly," replied Rudolph, "a benefit was never better bestowed. Our
friend is endowed with an excellent disposition; she has a heart of gold,
and our dear child appreciates her as we do," added he, addressing his
daughter. Then, struck with her paleness and emotion, he cried:

"But what is the matter?"

"Alas, what a sad contrast between my position and Rigolette's. Work and
wisdom--honor and happiness--those four words tell all that has happened
to her. A laborious and sensible daughter, a beloved wife, a happy mother,
an honored woman--such is her destiny--while I--"

"Great God, what are you saying?"

"Pardon, my good father, do not accuse me of ingratitude, but
notwithstanding your ineffable tenderness, notwithstanding that of my
second mother, notwithstanding your sovereign power, notwithstanding the
respect and splendor with which I am surrounded, my shame is incurable.
Nothing can annihilate the past--once more, pardon me, my father. I have
until now concealed it from you, but the remembrance of my former
degradation throws me into despair--it kills me."

"Clémence, do you hear her?" cried Rudolph, in despair.

"But, my poor child," said Clémence, taking affectionately the hands of
Fleur-de-Marie in her own, "our tenderness, the affection of those who
surround you, and which you so well merit, does not all this prove to you
that the past should be to you only a vain and bad dream?"

"Oh, fatality, fatality!" resumed Rudolph. "Now I curse my fears and
silence; that sad idea, so long rooted in her mind, has made there, unknown
to us, dreadful ravages, and it is too late to contend against this
deplorable error; alas! how unfortunate I am."

"Courage, my dear," said Clémence to Rudolph; "you just now said it is
better to know the enemy which threatens us. We now know the cause of our
dear child's sorrow! we shall triumph over it, because we shall have
reason, justice, and tenderness on our side."

"And then at last, because she will see that her affliction, if it were
incurable, would render ours incurable also," replied Rudolph, "for in
truth it would be to despair of all justice, human and Divine, if our poor
child had only a change of sufferings."

After a silence of some moments, during which Fleur-de-Marie appeared to be
collecting herself, she took with one hand Rudolph's, with the other
Clémence's, and said to them, with a voice expressive of deep emotion:
"Listen to me, my good father, and you also, my loving mother, this day is
a solemn one--God has granted, and I thank Him for it, that it should be
impossible for me to conceal from you any longer what I feel. In a little
time I should, in any event, have made to you the confession you are now
about to hear, for all suffering has an end, and concealed as mine has
been, I should not have been able to keep silence to you much longer."

"Oh! I understand all," cried Rudolph; "there is no longer any hope for
her."

"I hope for the future, my father, and this hope gives me strength to speak
to you thus."

"And what can you hope for the future, my poor child, since your present
fate causes you only grief and bitterness?"

"I am going to tell you, my father; but, before all, permit me to recall
the past to you, to own to you, before God who hears me, what I have felt
up to this time."

"Speak, speak, we hear you," said Rudolph, seating himself with Clémence,
by Fleur-de-Marie.

"While I remained at Paris, near you, my father," said Fleur-de-Marie, "I
was so happy, oh! so completely happy, that those delicious days would not
be too well paid for by years of suffering. You see I have at least known
what happiness is."

"During some days, perhaps?"

"Yes, but what pure and unmingled felicity! Love surrounded me then, as
ever, with the tenderest care. I gave myself up without fear to the
emotions of gratitude and affection which every moment raised my heart to
you. The future dazzled me: a father to adore, a second mother to love
doubly, for she had taken the place of my own, whom I had never known--I
must own everything; my pride was excited in spite of myself, so much was I
honored in belonging to you. Then the few persons of your household who at
Paris had occasion to speak to me called me 'your highness,' I could not
prevent myself from being proud of this title. If I thought then, at times,
vaguely of the past, it was to say to myself, 'I, formerly so humble, the
beloved daughter of a sovereign prince who is blessed and revered by every
one; I, formerly so miserable, I am enjoying all the splendors of luxury,
and of an almost royal existence.' Alas! my father, my fortune was so
unforeseen, your power surrounded me with such a splendid _eclat_
that; I was excusable perhaps in allowing myself to become so blinded."

"Excusable! nothing was more natural, my poor beloved angel; what wrong was
there in being proud of a rank which was your own, of enjoying the
advantages of the position to which I had restored you! At that time I
recollect you were delightfully gay; how many times have I seen you fall
into my arms as if overpowered with happiness, and heard you say to me,
with an enchanting accent, 'My father, it is too much, too much happiness!'
Unfortunately, these are only recollections; they lulled me into a
deceitful security, and since then I have not been enough alarmed at the
cause of your melancholy."

"But, tell us then, my child," asked Clémence, "what has changed into
sadness this pure, this legitimate joy which you first felt?"

"Alas! a very sad and entirely unforeseen circumstance."

"What circumstance?"

"You recollect, my father," said Fleur-de-Marie, without being able to
conquer a shuddering of horror; "you remember the sad scene which preceded
our departure from Paris, when your carriage was stopped near the barrier?"

"Yes," replied Rudolph, sadly. "Brave Slasher, after having again saved my
life; he died there before us, saying, 'Heaven is just; I have killed, they
kill me.'"

"Oh well, father, at the moment when this unfortunate man was expiring, do
you know whom I saw looking intently at me? Oh, that look, that look! it
has pursued me ever since," added Fleur-de-Marie, shuddering.

"What look? of whom do you speak?" cried Rudolph.

"Of the Ogress of the White Rabbit," murmured Fleur-de-Marie.

"That monster seen again?--where?"

"You did not perceive her in the tavern where the Slasher breathed his
last. She was among the women who surrounded him."

"Oh, now!" said Rudolph, dejectedly, "I understand: already struck with
terror by the murder of the Slasher, you thought there was something
providential in this dreadful meeting."

"It is but too true, my father. At the sight of the Ogress I felt a mortal
shudder. It seemed to me that, under her look, my heart, until then radiant
with happiness and hope, was suddenly frozen. Yes; to meet this woman at
the moment when the Slasher was dying and repeating the words 'Heaven is
just,' this seemed to me a providential reproof of my proud forgetfulness
of the past, which I ought to expiate by humiliation and repentance."

"But the past was laid upon you; you can answer for it before high heaven!
You were constrained, intoxicated, unfortunate child. Once precipitated, in
spite of yourself, in this abyss, you could not leave it, notwithstanding
your remorse, your terror your despair, thanks to the atrocious
indifference of that society of which you were the victim. You saw yourself
forever chained in that cavern; the chance which placed you in my path
could alone have dragged you from it."

"And then, my child, as your father has told you, you were the victim, not
the accomplice, of the infamy," cried Clémence.

"But to this infamy I have submitted, my mother," sadly rejoined
Fleur-de-Marie; "nothing can annihilate these horrible recollections. They
pursue me incessantly, no longer as formerly, in the midst of the peaceable
inhabitants of a farm, or of the degraded women, my companions in Saint
Lazare, but they pursue me even to this palace, peopled with the
_elite_ of Germany. They pursue me even to the arms of my father, even
to the steps of his throne."

Fleur-de-Marie melted into tears. Rudolph and Clémence remained mute before
this frightful expression of invincible remorse. They, too wept, for they
felt the powerlessness of their consolations.

"Since then," resumed Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears, "every moment of
the day I say to myself, with bitter shame, 'I am honored, I am revered;
the most eminent and most venerable surround me with respect; in sight of
the whole court, the sister of an emperor has deigned to fasten the bandeau
upon my head; yet I had lived in the mud of the city-have been spoken to
familiarly by thieves and assassins!' Oh, father, forgive me! but the more
my position is elevated, the more I have been struck with the profound
degradation into which I had fallen. At each new homage which is rendered
me, I feel myself guilty of a profanation. Think of it, oh, heaven! after
having been what _I have been_ to suffer old men to bow before me--to
suffer noble young women, women justly respected, to feel themselves
flattered to approach me--to suffer finally, that princesses, doubly august
by age and their sacerdotal character should heap upon me favors and
praises, is not this impious and sacrilegious? And then, if you knew, my
father, what I have suffered--what I still suffer every day, in saying, 'If
it should please God that the past should be known, with what merited scorn
would she be treated who is now elevated so high. What a just--what a
frightful punishment!'"

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