CHAPTER VI.
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.
Towards ten o'clock in the evening of the same day in which Fleur-de-Marie was carried off by the Chouette and Schoolmaster, a man on horseback arrived at the Bouqueval farm, representing himself as coming from M. Rodolph to tranquillise Madame Georges as to the safety of her young friend, and to assure her of her safe return ere long. The man further stated that M. Rodolph, having very important reasons for making the request, particularly desired no letters might be addressed to him at Paris for the present; but that, in the event of Madame Georges having anything particular to communicate, the messenger now sent would take charge of it, and deliver it punctually.
This pretended envoy on the part of Rodolph was, in fact, an emissary sent by Sarah, who, by this stratagem, effected the twofold purpose of quieting the apprehensions of Madame Georges and also obtaining a delay of several days ere Rodolph learned that the Goualeuse had been carried off; during which interval Sarah hoped to have induced the notary, Jacques Ferrand, to promote her unworthy attempt to impose a supposititious child on Rodolph, after the manner which has already been related. Nor was this all the evil planned by the countess; she ardently desired to get rid of Madame d'Harville, on whose account she entertained very serious misgivings, and whose destruction she had so nearly compassed, but for the timely interposition of Rodolph.
On the day following that in which the marquis followed his wife into the house in the Rue du Temple, Tom repaired thither, and, by skilfully drawing Madame Pipelet into conversation, contrived to learn from her how a young and elegantly dressed lady, upon the point of being surprised by her husband, had been preserved through the presence of mind and cleverness of a lodger in the house, named M. Rodolph.
Once informed of this circumstance, and possessing no positive proof of the assignation made by Clémence with M. Charles Robert, Sarah conceived a plan evidently more hateful than the former: she resolved to despatch a second anonymous letter to M. d'Harville, calculated to bring about a complete rupture between himself and Rodolph; or, failing that, to infuse into the mind of the marquis suspicions so unworthy of his wife and friend as should induce him to forbid Madame d'Harville ever admitting the prince into her society.
This black and malignant epistle was couched in the following terms:
"... You have been grossly deceived the other day; your wife, being apprised of your following her, invented a tale of imaginary beneficence; the real purpose of her visit to the Rue du Temple was to fulfil an assignation with an august personage, who has hired a room on the fourth floor in the house situated Rue du Temple,—this illustrious individual being known only at his lodging under the simple name of Rodolph. Should you doubt these facts, which may probably appear to you too improbable to deserve credit, go to No. 17 Rue du Temple, and make due inquiries; obtain a description of the face and figure of the august personage alluded to; and you will be compelled to own yourself the most credulous and easily duped husband that was ever so royally supplanted in the affections of his wife. Despise not this advice, if you would not have the world believe you carry your devotion to your prince rather too far."
This infamous concoction was put into the post by Sarah herself, about five o'clock in the afternoon of the day which had witnessed her interview with the notary.
On this same day, after having given renewed directions to M. de Graün to expedite the arrival of Cecily in Paris by every means in his power, Rodolph prepared to pass the evening with the Ambassadress of ——, and on his return to call on Madame d'Harville, for the purpose of informing her he had found a charitable intrigue worthy even of her coöperation.
We shall now conduct our readers to the hôtel of Madame d'Harville. The following dialogue will abundantly prove that, in adopting a tone of kind and gentle conciliation towards a husband she had hitherto treated with such invariable coldness and reserve, the heart of Madame d'Harville had already determined to practise the sound and virtuous sentiments dictated by Rodolph. The marquis and his lady had just quitted the dinner-table, and the scene we are about to describe took place in the elegant little salon we have already spoken of. The features of Clémence wore an expression of kindness almost amounting to tenderness, and even M. d'Harville appeared less sad and dejected than usual. It only remains to premise that the marquis had not as yet received the last infamous production of the pen of Sarah Macgregor.
"What are your arrangements for this evening?" inquired M. d'Harville, almost mechanically, of his wife.
"I have no intention of going out. And what are your own plans?"
"I hardly know," answered he, with a sigh. "I feel more than ordinarily averse to gaiety, and I shall pass my evening, as I have passed many others, alone."
"Nay, but why alone, since I am not going out?"
M. d'Harville gazed at his wife as though unable to comprehend her. "I am aware," said he, "that you mentioned your intention to pass this evening at home; still, I—"
"I did not imagine you would choose to have your solitude broken in upon. I believe you have always expressed a wish to be alone when you did not receive company?"
"Perhaps I may have done so," said Clémence, with a smile; "but let me, for once, plead my sex's privilege of changing my mind, and so, even at the risk of astonishing you by my caprice, I will own that I should greatly prefer sharing my solitude with you,—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to you."
"Oh, how very good of you," exclaimed M. d'Harville, with much delight, "thus to anticipate my most ardent desire, which I durst not have requested had you not so kindly encouraged me!"
"Ah, my lord, your very surprise is a severe reproach to me."
"A reproach! Oh, not for worlds would I have you so understand me! But to find you so kindly considerate, so attentive to my wishes, after my cruel and unjust conduct the other day, does, I confess, both shame and surprise me; though the surprise is of the most gratifying and delightful sort."
"Come, come, my lord," said Madame d'Harville, with a smile of heavenly sweetness, "let the past be for ever forgotten between us."
"Can you, Clémence," said M. d'Harville, "can you bring yourself to forget that I have dared to suspect you; that, hurried on by a wild, insensate jealousy, I meditated violence I now shudder to think of? Still, what are even these deep offences to the greater and more irreparable wrong I have done you?"
"Again I say," returned Clémence, making a violent effort to command herself, "let us forget the past."
"What do I hear? Can you,—oh, is it possible you will pardon me, and forget all the past?"
"I will try to do so, and I fear not but I shall succeed."
"Oh, Clémence! Can you, indeed, be so generous? But no, no,—I dare not hope it! I have long since resigned all expectation that such happiness would ever be mine."
"And now you see how wrong you were in coming to such a conclusion."
"But how comes this blessed change? Or do I dream? Speak to me, Clémence! Tell me I am not deceiving myself,—that all is not mere illusion! Speak! Say that I may trust my senses!"
"Indeed you may; I mean all I have said."
"And, now I look at you, I see more kindness in your eye,—your manner is less cold,—your voice tremulous. Oh, tell me, tell me, is this indeed true? Or am I the sport of some illusion?"
"Nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed. I, too, have need of pardon at your hands, and therefore I propose that we mutually exchange forgiveness."
"You, Clémence! You need forgiveness! Oh, for what, or wherefore?"
"Have I not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and perhaps even cruel, towards you? Ought I not to have remembered that it required a more than ordinary share of courage to act otherwise than you did,—a virtue more than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheerless, solitary life, for one of wedded sympathy and happiness? Alas, when we are in grief or suffering, it is so natural to trust to the kindness and goodness of others! Hitherto your fault has been in depending too much on my generosity; henceforward it shall be my aim to show you, you have not trusted in vain."
"Oh, go on! Go on! Continue still to utter such heavenly words!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, gazing in almost ecstasy on the countenance of his wife, and clasping his hands in fervid supplication. "Let me again hear you pronounce my pardon, and it will seem as though a new existence were opening upon me."
"Our destinies are inseparably united, and death only can dissever us. Believe me, it shall for the future be my study to render life less painful to you than it has been."
"Merciful Heaven! Do I hear aright? Clémence, can it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting words?"
"Let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humiliation of hearing you express so much astonishment at my speaking as my duty prompts me to do; indeed, your reluctance to credit my assertions grieves me more than I can describe. How cruel a censure does it imply upon my past conduct! Ah, who will pity and soothe you in your severe trials, if not I? I seem inspired by some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect upon my past conduct. I have deeply meditated on all that has happened, as well as on the future. My faults rise up in judgment against me; but with them come also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching me how to repair my past errors."
"Your errors, my poor injured Clémence! Alas, you were not to blame!"
"Yes, I was. I ought frankly to have appealed to your honour to release me from the painful necessity of living with you as your wife; and that, too, on the day following our marriage,—"
"Clémence, for pity's sake no more!"
"Otherwise, in accepting my position, I ought to have elevated it by my entire submission and devotion. Under the circumstances in which I was placed, instead of allowing my coldness and proud reserve to act as a continual reproach, I should have directed all my endeavours to console you for so heavy a misfortune, and have forgotten everything but the severe affliction under which you laboured. By degrees I should have become attached to my work of commiseration, and, probably, the very cares and sacrifices it would have required to fulfil my voluntary duty; for which your grateful appreciation would have been a rich reward. I might, at last—But what ails you, my lord? Are you ill? Surely you are weeping!"
"But they are tears of pure delight. Ah, you can scarcely imagine what new emotions are awakened in my heart! Heed not my tears, beloved Clémence; trust me, they flow from an excess of happiness, arising from those dear words you just now uttered. Never did I seem so guilty in my own eyes as I now appear, for having selfishly bound you to such a life as mine!"
"And never did I find myself more disposed to forget the past, and to bury all reference to it in oblivion; the sight of your gently falling tears, even, seems to open to me a source of happiness hitherto unknown to me. Courage! Courage! Let us, in place of that bright and prosperous life denied us by Providence, seek our enjoyment in the discharge of the serious duties allotted us. Let us be mutually indulgent and forbearing towards each other; and, should our resolution fail, let us turn to our child, and make her the depositary of all our affections. Thus shall we secure to ourselves an unfailing store of holy, of tranquil joys."
"Sure, 'tis some angel speaks!" cried M. d'Harville, contemplating his wife with impassioned looks. "Oh, Clémence, you little know the pleasure and the pain you cause me. The severest reproach you ever addressed me—your hardest word or most merited rebuke never touched me as does this angelic devotion, this disregard of self, this generous sacrifice of personal enjoyment. Even despite myself, I feel hope spring up within me. I dare hardly trust myself to believe the blessed future which suggests itself to my imagination."
"Ah, you may safely and implicitly believe all I say, Albert! I declare to you, by all that is sacred and solemn, that I have firmly taken the resolution I spoke of, and that I will adhere to it in strictest word and deed. Hereafter I may even be enabled to give you further pledges of my truth."
"Pledges!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, more and more excited by a happiness so wholly unlocked for. "What need have I of any pledges? Do not your look, your tone, the heavenly expression of goodness which animates your countenance, the rapturous pulsations of my own heart, all convince me of the truth of your words? But, Clémence, man, you know, is a creature not easily satisfied; and," added the marquis, approaching his wife's chair, "your noble, generous conduct inspires me with the boldness, the courage, to hope—to hope,—yes, Clémence, to venture to hope for that which, only yesterday, I should have considered it even worse than madness to presume to think of."
"For mercy's sake, explain yourself!" said Clémence, alarmed at the impassioned words and glances of her husband.
"Yes," cried he, seizing her hand, "yes, by dint of tender, untiring, unwearied love,—Clémence, do you understand me?—I say, by dint of love such as mine I venture to hope to obtain a return of my affection. I dare to anticipate being loved by you,—not with a cold, lukewarm regard, but with a passion ardent as my own for you. Ah, you know not the real nature of such a love as I would inspire you with! Alas! I never even dared to breathe it in your ears,—so frigid, so repulsive were you to me. Never did you bestow on me a look, a word of kindness, far less make my heart leap with such joy as thrilled through my breast but now, when your words of sweet and gentle tenderness drew happy tears from my eyes, and which, still ringing in my ears, make me almost beside myself with gladness; and, amid the intoxicating delight which floats through my brain, comes the proud consciousness of having earned even so rich a reward by the deep, the passionate ardour of my love for you. Oh, Clémence, when you will let me only tell you half I have suffered,—how I have writhed in despairing anguish at your coldness, your disdain, how I have watched and sighed in vain for one encouraging glance,—you will own that, for patient devotion to one beloved object, I am inferior to none. Whence arose that melancholy, that avoidance of all society, our best friends have so fruitlessly sought to rouse me from? Can you not guess the cause? Ah, it originated in desolation of spirit and despair of ever obtaining your love. Yes, dearest Clémence, to that overwhelming dread was owing the sombre taciturnity, the dislike to company, the desponding gloom, which excited so many different conjectures. Think, too, how much my sufferings must have been increased by the fact that she, the beloved object of my heart's idolatry, was my own,—legally, irrevocably mine,—dwelling beneath the same roof, yet more completely alienated from me than though we dwelt in the opposite parts of the earth. But my burning sighs, my bitter tears, reached not you; or, I feel almost persuaded, they would have moved even you to pity me. And now it seems to me that you must have divined my sufferings, and have come, like an angel of goodness as you are, to whisper in my ears bright promises of days of unclouded happiness. No longer shall I be doomed to gaze in unavailing yet doting admiration on your graceful beauty; no more shall I account myself most blessed yet most accursed in possessing a creature of matchless excellence, whose charms of mind and body, alas! I am forbidden to consider as mine; but now the envious barrier which has thus long divided us is about to be withdrawn, and the treasure my beating heart tells me is all my own will henceforward be freely, indisputably mine! Will it not, dear Clémence? Speak to me, and confirm that which the busy throbbings of my joyful heart tell me to hope for and expect, as the reward of all I have so long endured!"
As M. d'Harville uttered these last words, he seized the hand of his wife, and covered it with passionate kisses; while Clémence, much grieved at the mistake her husband had fallen into, could not avoid withdrawing her hand with a mixture of terror and disgust. And the expression of her countenance so plainly bespoke her feelings, that M. d'Harville saw at once the fearful error he had committed. The blow fell with redoubled force after the tender visions he had so lately conjured up. A look of intense agony replaced the bright exultation of his countenance exhibited a little while since, when Madame d'Harville, eagerly extending her hand towards him, said, in an agitated tone:
"Albert, receive my solemn promise to be unto you as the most tender and affectionate sister,—but nothing more. Forgive me, I beseech you, if, inadvertently, my words have inspired you with hopes which can never be realised."
"Never?" exclaimed M. d'Harville, fixing on his wife a look of despairing entreaty.
"Never!" answered she. The single word, with the tone in which it was spoken, proved but too well the irrevocable decision Clémence had formed.
Brought back, by the influence of Rodolph, to all her nobleness of character, Madame d'Harville had firmly resolved to bestow on her husband every kind and affectionate attention; but to love him she felt utterly out of her power; and to this immutable resolution she was driven by a power more forcible than either fear, contempt, or even dislike,—it was a species of repugnance almost amounting to horror.
After a painful silence of some duration, M. d'Harville passed his hand across his moist eyelids and said, in a voice of bitterness:
"Let me entreat your pardon for the unintentional mistake I have made. Oh, refuse not to forgive me for having ventured to believe that happiness could exist for me!"
And again a long pause ensued, broken at last by D'Harville's vehemently exclaiming, "What a wretch am I!"
"Albert," said Clémence, gently, "for worlds would I not reproach you; yet is my promise of being unto you the most loving and affectionate of sisters unworthy any estimation? You will receive from the tender cares of devoted friendship more solid happiness than love could afford. Look forward to brighter days. Hitherto you have found me almost indifferent to your sorrows; you shall henceforward find me all zeal and solicitude to alleviate them, and eager to share with you every grief or cause of suffering, whether of body or of mind."
At this moment a servant, throwing open the folding doors, announced:
"His Highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein."
M. d'Harville started; then, by a powerful effort, recovering his self-command, he advanced to meet his visitor.
"I am singularly fortunate, madame," said Rodolph, approaching Clémence, "to find you at home to-night; and I am still more delighted with my good fortune, since it procures me the pleasure of meeting you, also, my dear Albert," continued he, turning to the marquis, and shaking him cordially by the hand.
"It is, indeed, some time since I have had the honour of paying my respects to your royal highness."
"If the truth must be spoken, my dear Albert," said the prince, smilingly, "you are somewhat platonic in your friendships, and, relying on the certain attachment of your friends, care very little about either giving or receiving any outward proof of affection."
By a breach of etiquette, which somewhat annoyed Madame d'Harville, a servant here entered the room with a letter for the marquis. It was the anonymous epistle of Sarah, accusing Rodolph of being the lover of Madame d'Harville.
The marquis, out of deference for the prince, put away with his hand the small silver salver presented to him by the servant, saying, in an undertone:
"Another time,—another time."
"My dear Albert," said Rodolph, in a voice of the most genuine affection, "why all this ceremony with me?"
"My lord!"
"With Madame d'Harville's permission, let me beg of you to read your letter without delay."
"I assure you, my lord, it is not of the slightest consequence."
"Again I say, Albert, read your letter all the same for my being here."
"But, my lord, indeed—"
"Nay, I ask you to do so; or, if you will have it, I desire you to read it immediately."
"If your highness commands it, my duty is obedience," said the marquis, taking the letter from the salver.
"Yes, I positively command you to treat me as one old friend ought to treat another." Then turning towards Madame d'Harville, while the marquis was breaking the seal of the fatal letter, the contents of which were, of course, unknown to Rodolph, he said, smilingly, to Madame d'Harville:
"What a triumph for you, madame, to bend this untractable spirit, and make it bow to your very caprice!"
M. d'Harville having opened Sarah's infamous letter, approached the wax-lights burning on the mantelpiece, the better to read it. His features bore no visible mark of agitation as he perused the vile scrawl. A slight trembling of the hand alone was visible, as, after a short hesitation, he refolded the paper and placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat.
"At the risk of passing for a perfect Goth," said he, with a smile, to Rodolph, "I will ask you to excuse me, my lord, while I retire to reply to this letter, which is more important than it at first appeared."
"Shall I not see you again this evening?"
"I am fearful I shall not have that honour, my lord; and I trust your royal highness will condescend to excuse me."
"What a slippery person you are!" cried Rodolph, gaily. "Will you not, madame, endeavour to prevent his quitting us?"
"Nay, I dare not attempt that your highness has failed to accomplish."
"But seriously, my dear Albert, endeavour to come back as soon as you have concluded your letter; or, if that is not possible, promise to give me a few minutes in the morning. I have a thousand things to say to you."
"Your highness overwhelms me with kindness," answered the marquis, as, bowing profoundly, he withdrew, leaving Clémence and the prince alone.
"Your husband has some heavy care on his mind," observed Rodolph to the marquise; "his smile appeared to me a forced one."
"At the moment of your highness's arrival, M. d'Harville was much excited, and he has had great difficulty in concealing his agitation from you."
"My visit was, probably, mal à propos?"
"Oh, no, my lord! You came just in time to spare me the conclusion of a most painful conversation."
"Indeed! May I inquire the subject of it?"
"I had explained to M. d'Harville the line of conduct I had determined to pursue towards him for the future, assuring him of my future sympathy and affectionate attention to his happiness."
"How happy you must have rendered him by such gratifying words!"
"He did, indeed, at first, seem most truly happy; and so was I, likewise; for his tears and his joys caused in me a feeling of delight I never before experienced. Once I fancied I did but indulge a just revenge each time I addressed to him a reproach or a sarcasm; but it was a weak and impotent mode of torture, which always recoiled upon myself, as my better judgment pointed out the unworthiness of such conduct; while just now how great was the difference! I had inquired of my husband if he were going out, to which he mournfully replied that he had no intention of so doing, but should pass the evening alone, as he most frequently did. Ah, my lord, could you but have seen his surprise when I offered to be his companion, and how suddenly did the gloomy expression of his features give place to a bright glow of happiness! Ah, you were quite right, there is nothing more really delightful than preparing happy surprises for those around us."
"But how could so much kindness on your part have brought about the painful conversation you were alluding to just now?"
"Alas, my lord!" said Clémence, blushing deeply, "M. d'Harville, not satisfied with the hopes I felt myself justified in holding out, allowed himself to form others of a nature too tender to admit of their being realised, and in proportion to my consciousness of my utter inability to respond to such sentiments had been my anxiety not to arouse them; and, greatly as I had felt touched by the warmth of my husband's gratitude for my proffered affection, I was even still more terrified and alarmed by the passionate ardour of his manner and expressions; and when, carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings, he pressed his lips upon my hand, a cold shudder pervaded my whole frame, and I found it impossible to conceal the disgust and alarm I experienced. Doubtless this manifestation of my invincible repugnance pained him deeply, and I much lament having been unable to prevent his perceiving my feelings. But now that the blow has fallen, it will, at least, serve to convince M. d'Harville of the utter impossibility of my ever being more to him than the most tender and devoted friend."
"I pity him most sincerely, without being able to blame you in the slightest degree for the part you have acted. There are certain feelings which must ever be held sacred. But poor Albert! With his noble, generous spirit, his frank, confiding nature, his warm, enthusiastic heart,—if you only knew how long I have been vainly trying to discover the cause of the hidden melancholy which was evidently preying upon his health. Well, we must trust to the soothing effects of time and reason. By degrees he will become more sensible of the value of the affection you offer him, and he will resign himself as he did before, when he had not the consolatory hopes you now present to his view."
"Hopes which I solemnly assure you, my lord, it is my fixed determination to realise in their fullest extent."
"And now let us turn our attention to others who are also called upon to suffer and taste of heavy sorrows. You know I promised to occupy you in a charitable work, which should have all the charm of a romance of real life; and I am here to perform my promise."
"What, already, my lord? Indeed, you rejoice me greatly."
"It was a most fortunate idea of mine to hire the small chamber I told you of in the Rue du Temple; you can scarcely imagine all the curious and interesting objects it has made me acquainted with. In the first place your poor protégées in the garrets are now enjoying that happiness your presence secured to them. They have still some severe trials to undergo; but I will not enter upon the painful details at the present moment. One of these days you shall learn how many direful evils may be heaped upon one unfortunate family."
"How grateful they must feel towards you!"
"Nay, 'tis your name is ever on their lips, loaded with praises and blessings."
"Ah, my lord, is it then in my name you have succoured them?"
"To increase the value of the gift, I confess I did presume to name you as their benefactress. Besides, what have I done more than carry out your promises?"
"I cannot allow of even this pious fraud, and to-morrow they shall learn from me whom they have to thank. I will tell them the extent of their obligations to you."
"Oh, pray do no such thing, or you will spoil all my fine schemes. Remember that I have a small apartment in the house; that for the sake of much good I hope to effect, I am anxious to preserve a strict incognito there. Recollect, also, that the Morels are now beyond the reach of further distress; and, finally, let me remind you that there are other claimants for your benevolence. And now for the subject of our present intrigue. I want your generous aid and assistance in behalf of a mother and daughter, who from former affluence are at this moment reduced to the most abject penury, in consequence of having been most villainously despoiled of their just rights."
"Poor things! And where do these unfortunate beings reside, my lord?"
"I do not know."
"Then how did you become acquainted with their misfortunes?"
"Yesterday I was at the Temple,—perhaps, Madame la Marquise, you do not know what sort of place the Temple is?"
"Indeed, my lord, I do not."
"It is a bazaar of the most amusing description. Well, I went there for the purpose of making several purchases in company with a female lodger who occupies an apartment adjoining my own—"
"Indeed! A female neighbour?"
"Yes, my next-door neighbour on the fourth floor. Don't you recollect I told you I had a chamber in the Rue du Temple?"
"Pardon me, my lord, I had quite forgotten that circumstance."
"I must tell you that this same neighbour is one of the prettiest little mantua-makers you ever saw. She is called Rigolette, is for ever laughing, and never was in love."
"Upon my word, a most uncommon specimen of her class!"
"She even admits that her indifference to the tender passion arises less from prudence than because she has not time to think about love or lovers, both of which she says would take up too much of her time; as, working from twelve to fifteen hours daily, it is with difficulty she manages to earn twenty-five sous a day, yet on that trifling sum she lives contentedly."
"Is it possible?"
"Possible! Why, she even launches out into luxuries,—has a couple of birds, who consume as much food as herself, arranges her chamber with the most scrupulous and pretty neatness, while her dress would make a modern belle grow pale with envy."
"And all this effected upon five and twenty sous a day? It is almost difficult to believe it."
"I assure you my fair neighbour is a pattern of industry, order, economy, and practical philosophy; and as such I beg to recommend her to your notice in her capacity of dressmaker, in which she is reported to have much skill. If you will honour her with your commands, her fortune will be surely made; although there is no occasion for your carrying your beneficence so far as to wear the dresses you permit her to make."
"Oh, I will take care to give her employment immediately. Poor girl! living honestly and contentedly upon a sum squandered by the rich for the most trifling whim or caprice."
"Well, now then that you have undertaken to interest yourself in my deserving young neighbour, let us proceed to the little adventure I was about to relate to you. I went, as I told you, to the Temple with Mlle. Rigolette in order to purchase many articles necessary for the comfort of the poor family in the garret, when, accidentally examining the drawers of an old secrétaire exposed for sale, I found the fragment of a letter in a female hand, in which the writer bitterly deplored the destitution to which herself and daughter were exposed in consequence of the villainy of the person in whose hands their money had been placed. I inquired of the mistress of the shop how she became possessed of the piece of furniture in question. She told me it was part of a lot of very common household goods she purchased of a person still young, who had evidently disposed of all her effects from stern necessity, and being without any other means of raising money. Both mother and daughter, continued my informant, seemed much superior to their condition, and each bore their distress with a proud yet calm fortitude."
"And do you not know where these poor ladies can be found, my lord?"
"I do not, unfortunately, at the present moment, but I have given directions to M. de Graün to use every effort to discover them, and, if needs must be, even to apply to the police for assistance. It is just probable that the unfortunate parent and child, finding themselves stripped of their little stock of furniture, may have sought refuge in some obscure lodging; and if so, there is every chance of discovering their abode, since the keepers of lodging-houses are obliged to write a daily report of every fresh inmate they receive."
"What a singular combination of events!" said Madame d'Harville, much astonished: "Your account is, indeed, a most interesting one."
"You have not heard all yet. In a corner of the fragment of writing found in the old secrétaire, are these words, 'To write to Madame de Lucenay.'"
"Oh, how fortunate!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville, with much animation. "No doubt the duchess can tell me all about these unfortunate ladies. But then," added she, thoughtfully, "I do not see, after all, how we shall be able to describe them, as we do not even know their name."
"Nay, it will be easy to inquire whether she is acquainted with a widow still in the prime of life, whose air and manner indicate her being far superior to her present circumstances, and who has a daughter about sixteen years of age named Claire. I am sure it was Claire the woman told me the younger female was called."
"How very strange! That is my child's name; and furnishes an additional reason for my interesting myself in their misfortunes."
"I forgot to tell you that the brother of this unhappy widow died by his own hands a very few months ago."
Madame d'Harville was silent for some minutes, as though reflecting deeply; at length she said:
"If Madame de Lucenay be in any way acquainted with this unfortunate family, these particulars will be quite sufficient to identify them; besides which the lamentable end of the brother must have fixed every circumstance connected with them more strongly in her memory. How impatient I feel to question the duchess on the subject! I will write her a note this very evening, begging of her not to go out to-morrow till I have seen her. Who can these interesting people be? From your account, my lord, I should say they certainly belong to the higher class of society, and must, therefore, feel their present distress so much the more keenly. Alas, to such as they the falling into such utter destitution must inflict a deeper, keener sting!"
"And all their sufferings have arisen from the knavery of an unprincipled scoundrel,—a notary, named Jacques Ferrand. But I am in possession of other acts of villainy on his part equally black with this."
"That is the name of the person acting as the legal adviser both of my husband and mother-in-law," exclaimed Clémence; "and, indeed, my lord, I think you must be mistaken in your opinion of him, for he is universally regarded as a person of the strictest honour and probity."
"I assure you I have the most irrefragable proofs of what I assert. Meanwhile let me beg of you to be perfectly silent as to the character I assign this man, who is as subtle as unprincipled; and the better to unmask his nefarious practices, it is necessary he should be allowed to think himself secure from all danger; a few days will enable me to perfect my schemes for bringing him to a severe reckoning. He it was who brought such unmerited affliction upon the interesting females I have been telling you of, by defrauding them of a large sum, which, it appears, was consigned to his care by the brother of the unfortunate widow."
"And this money?"
"Was their sole dependence."
"This is, indeed, a crime of the most heinous description!"
"'Tis, indeed, of blackest die," exclaimed Rodolph, "having nothing to extenuate it, and originating neither in passion nor necessity. The pangs of hunger will often instigate a man to commit a theft, the thirst for revenge lead on to murder; but this legal hypocrite is passing rich, and invested, by common consent, with a character of almost priestly sanctity, while his countenance and manners are moulded with such studious art as to inspire and command universal confidence. The assassin kills you at a blow,—this villain tortures, prolongs your sufferings, and leaves you, after the death-blow has been inflicted, to sink under the gnawing agonies of want, misery, and despair. Nothing is safe from the cupidity of such a man as Ferrand: the inheritance of the orphan, the hard-earned savings of the laborious poor,—all excite alike his unprincipled avarice; and that which in other men arises out of the impulse of the moment is with this wretch the result of a cold and unrelenting calculation. You entrust him with your wealth,—to see it is to covet it, and with him to desire is to possess himself, without the smallest scruple. Totally unheeding your future wretchedness, the grasping deceiver deprives you of your property, and without a pang consigns you to beggary and destitution. Suppose that, by a long course of labour and privations, you have contrived to amass a provision against the wants and infirmities of old age; well, no sooner is this cold-blooded hypocrite made the depositary of your little treasure, than he unhesitatingly appropriates it, leaving you to drag on a miserable existence, without a morsel of bread but such as the hand of charity doles out to you. Nor is this all. Let us consider the fearful consequences of these infamous acts of spoliation. Take the case of the widow of whom we were speaking just now,—imagine her dying of grief and a crushed spirit, the results of her heavy afflictions; she leaves a young and helpless girl to struggle alone in the world,—a weak and delicate being, whose very loveliness increases her dangers and difficulties. Without friends or support, unaccustomed to the rough realities of life, the poor orphan has but to choose between starvation and dishonour. In an evil hour she falls, and becomes a lost, degraded creature. And thus Jacques Ferrand, by his dishonest appropriation of the things committed to his charge, occasions not only the death of the mother, but the dishonour of the child; he destroys the body of the one and the soul of the other,—and again, I say, not with the merciful despatch of the assassin's dagger, but by the slow tortures of lingering cruelty!"
Clémence listened in profound silence, not unmixed with surprise, at hearing Rodolph express himself with so much indignation and bitterness. Accustomed only to witness the most urbane suavity in the tone and manner of her guest, she felt more than ordinarily struck by his vehement and excited language; which, however, seemed to show his intense abhorrence of all crooked and nefarious dealings.
"I must entreat your pardon, madame," said the prince, after a pause, "for having permitted myself to use so much warmth in the presence of a lady; but, in truth, I could not restrain my indignation when I reflected on all the horrible dangers which may overwhelm your future protégées. But, be assured, it is quite impossible to exaggerate those fearful consequences brought about by ruin and misery."
"Indeed! Indeed, my lord, you rather merit my thanks, for having so powerfully and energetically augmented, if possible, the tender pity I feel for this unfortunate parent, whose heart is, doubtless, wrung with anguish rather for her young and innocent daughter than for herself. It is, in truth, a fearful situation. But we shall soon be enabled to relieve her mind, and rescue her from her present misery, shall we not, my lord? Oh, yes, I feel assured we shall,—and henceforward their happiness shall be my care. I am rich,—though not so much so as I could wish, now that I perceive how worthily wealth may be employed; but should there be occasion for further aid than I am enabled to afford, I will apply to M. d'Harville in their behalf. I will render him so happy, that he shall find it impossible to refuse any of my new caprices, and I foresee that I shall have plenty of them. You told me, did you not, my lord, that our protégées are proud? So much the better. I am better pleased to find them so; for pride under unmerited misfortune always betokens a great and elevated mind. But I shall be able to overreach them, for I will so contrive that they shall be relieved from their present misery without ever guessing to what channel they owe their deliverance from misery. You think I shall find it difficult to deceive them? So much the better. Oh, I have my own plans of action, I can assure you, my lord; and you will see that I shall be deficient neither in cunning nor address."
"I fully anticipate the most Machiavelian system of ruse and deep combination," said Rodolph, smiling.
"But we must, first of all, discover where they are. Oh, how I wish to-morrow were come! When I leave Madame de Lucenay, I shall go directly to their old residence, make inquiries of their late neighbours, collect all the information I can, and form my own conclusions from all I see and hear. I should feel so proud and delighted to work out all the good I intend to these poor ladies, without being assisted by any person; and I shall accomplish it,—I feel sure I shall. This adventure affects me greatly. Poor things! I seem even to feel a livelier interest in their misfortunes when I think of my own child."
Deeply touched at this charitable warmth, Rodolph smiled with sincere commiseration at seeing a young creature of scarcely twenty years of age, seeking to lose, amid occupations so pure and noble, the sense of the severe domestic afflictions which bore so heavily upon her. The eyes of Clémence sparkled with enthusiasm, a delicate carnation tinged her pale cheek, while the animation of her words and gestures imparted additional beauty to her lovely countenance.
The close and silent scrutiny of Rodolph did not escape the notice of Madame d'Harville. She blushed, looked down for a few minutes, then, raising her eyes in sweet confusion, said:
"I see, my lord, you are amused at my girlish eagerness. But, in truth, I am impatient to taste those sources of delight which are about to gild an existence hitherto so replete with grief and sadness, and, unfortunately, so useless to every one. Alas, this was not the life my early dreams had pictured to me,—the one great passion of life I must for ever renounce! Though young, I must live, and act, and think, as though scores of years had passed over my head. Alas, alas!" continued Clémence, with a sigh, "to me is denied the dear domestic joys my heart could so fondly have prized." After a minute's pause she resumed: "But why should I dwell on such vain and fruitless regrets? Thanks to you, my lord, charity will replace the void left in my heart by disappointed affection. Already have I owed to your counsels the enjoyment of the most touching emotions. Your words, my lord, affect me deeply, and exercise unbounded influence over me. The more I meditate on what you have advanced, the more I search into its real depth and value, the more I am struck by its vast power and truth, the more just and valuable does it appear to me. Then, when I reflect that, not satisfied with sympathising with sufferings of which you can form no idea from actual experience, you aid me with the most salutary counsels, and guide me, step by step, in the new and delightful path of virtue and goodness pointed out by you to relieve a weary and worn-out heart, oh, my lord, what treasure of all that is good must your mind contain! From what source have you drawn so large a supply of tender pity for the woes of all?"
"Nay, the secret of my sincere commiseration with the woes of others consists in my having deeply suffered myself,—nay, in still sighing over heavy sorrows none can alleviate or cure."
"You, my lord! Surely you cannot have tasted thus bitterly of grief and misfortune?"
"Yes, 'tis even so. I sometimes think that I have been made to taste of nearly every bitter which fills our cup of worldly sorrows, the better to fit me for sympathising with all descriptions of worldly trials. Wounded and sorely afflicted as a friend, a husband, and a parent, what grief can there be in which I am not qualified to participate?"
"I always understood, my lord, that your late wife, the grand duchess, left no child?"
"True; but, before I became her husband, I was the father of a daughter, who died quite young. And, however you may smile at the idea, I can with truth assert that the loss of that child has poisoned all my subsequent days. And this grief increases with my years. Each succeeding hour but redoubles the poignancy of my regrets, which, far from abating, appear to grow,—strengthen, even as my daughter would have done had she been spared me. She would now have been in her seventeenth year."
"And her mother," asked Clémence, after a trifling hesitation, "is she still living?"
"Oh, name her not, I beseech you!" exclaimed Rodolph, whose features became suddenly overcast at this reference to Sarah. "She to whom you allude is a vile, unworthy woman, whose feelings are completely buried beneath the cold selfishness and ambition of her nature. Sometimes I even ask myself whether it is not better that my child has been removed by death than for her to have been contaminated by the example of such a mother."
Clémence could not restrain a feeling of satisfaction at hearing Rodolph thus express himself. "In that case," said she, "I can imagine how doubly you must bewail the loss of your only object of affection!"
"Oh, how I should have doted on my child! For it seems to me that, among princes, there is always mixed up with the affection we bear a son, a sort of interested regard for the being destined to perpetuate our race,—a kind of political calculation. But a daughter!—oh, she is loved for herself alone! And when, alas! one is weary of witnessing the many fearful pictures of fallen humanity an intercourse with the world compels us to behold, what joy to turn from the dark pictures of guilt and crime to refresh ourselves by the contemplation of a young and innocent mind, and to delight in watching the unfolding of all those pure and tender feelings so guilelessly true to nature! The proudest, the happiest mother feels not half the exquisite joy of a father in observing the gradual development of a daughter's character. A mother will dwell with far greater rapture on the bold and manly qualities of a son. For have you never remarked that the cause which still further cements the doting affection of a mother for her son, or a father for his daughter, is the feeling of either requiring or bestowing aid and protection? Thus, the mother looks upon her son in the light of a future support and protection; while the father beholds in his young and helpless daughter a weak and fragile creature, clinging to him for safety, counsel, and protection from all the storms of life."
"True, my lord,—most true!"
"But what avails it thus to dwell on sources of delight for ever lost to me?" cried Rodolph, in a voice of the deepest dejection. His mournful tones sunk into the very heart of Clémence, who could not restrain a tear, which trickled slowly down her cheek. After a short pause, during which the prince, making a powerful effort to restrain himself, and feeling almost ashamed of allowing his feelings thus to get the better of him in the presence of Madame d'Harville, said, with a smile of infinite sadness, "Your pardon, madame, for thus allowing myself to be drawn away by the remembrance of my past griefs!"
"I beseech you, my lord, make no apology to me; but, on the contrary, believe that I most sincerely sympathise with your very natural regrets. Have I not a right to share your griefs, for have I not made you a participator in mine? My greatest pain is, that the only consolation I could offer you would be vain and useless to assuage your grief."
"Not so; the very expression of your kind commiseration is grateful and beneficial to me; and I find it a relief to disburden my mind, and tell you all I suffer. But, courage!" added Rodolph, with a faint and melancholy smile; "the conversation of this evening entirely reassures me on your account. A safe and healthful path is opened to you, by following which you will escape the trials and dangers so fatal to many of your sex, and, still more so, for those as highly endowed as yourself. You will have much to endure, to struggle against, and contend with; but in proportion to the difficulties of your position will be your merit in overcoming them. You are too young and lovely to escape without a severe ordeal; but, should your courage ever fail you, the recollection, not only of the good you have done, but also that you propose to effect, will serve to strengthen your virtuous resolutions, and arm you with fresh courage."
Madame d'Harville melted into tears.
"At least," said she, "promise me your counsels and advice shall never fail me. May I depend on this, my lord?"
"Indeed, indeed, you may. Whether near or afar off, believe that I shall ever feel the most lively interest in your welfare and well-doing; and, so far as in me lies, will I devote my best services to promote your happiness, or that of the man whom I glory in calling my dearest friend."
"Thanks, my lord," said Clémence, drying her tears, "for this consoling promise. But for your generous aid, I feel too well that my own strength would fail me. Still I bind myself now, and in your presence, faithfully and courageously to perform my duty, however hard or painful that duty may be."
As Clémence uttered these last words, a small door, concealed by the hangings, suddenly opened; and M. d'Harville, pale, agitated, and evidently labouring under considerable excitement, appeared before Madame d'Harville and Rodolph. The latter involuntarily started, while a faint cry escaped the lips of the astonished wife.
The first surprise over, the marquis handed to Rodolph the letter received from Sarah, saying:
"Here, my lord, is the letter I but just now received in your presence. Have the kindness to cast your eyes over it, and afterwards commit it to the flames."
Clémence gazed on her husband with utter astonishment.
"Most infamous!" exclaimed Rodolph, indignantly, as he finished the perusal of the vile scrawl.
"Nay, my lord, there is an act more dastardly even than the sending an anonymous letter; and that act I have committed."
"For the love of heaven, explain yourself!"
"Instead of at once fearlessly and candidly showing you this letter, I concealed its contents from you. I feigned calmness and tranquillity, while jealousy, rage, and despair filled my heart. Nor is this all. To what detestable meanness do you suppose, my lord, my ungoverned passions led me? Why, to enact the part of a spy,—to hide myself basely and contemptibly behind this door, to overhear your conversation and espy your actions. Yes, hate me, despise me as you will, I merit all for having insulted you by a suspicion. Oh, the writer of these fiendish letters knew well the culpable weakness of him to whom they were addressed. But, after all I have heard,—for not a word has escaped me, and I now know the nature of the interest which attracts you to frequent the Rue du Temple,—after having, by my mean and unworthy jealousy, given support to the base calumny by believing it even for an instant, how can I hope for pardon, though I sue for it upon my knees? Still, still, I venture to implore from you, so superior to myself in nobleness and generosity of soul, pity, and, if you can, forgiveness for the wrong I have done you!"
"No more of this, my dear Albert," said Rodolph, extending his hands towards his friend with the most touching cordiality; "you have nothing to ask pardon for. Indeed, I feel quite delighted to find you have discovered the secrets of Madame d'Harville and myself. Now that all further restraint is at an end, I shall be able to lecture you as much and as frequently as I choose. But, what is better still, you are now installed as the confidant of Madame d'Harville,—that is to say, you now know what to expect from a heart so pure, so generous, and so noble as hers."
"And you, Clémence," said M. d'Harville, sorrowfully, to his wife, "can you forgive me my last unworthy act, in addition to the just causes you already have to hate and despise me?"
"On one condition," said she, extending her hand towards her husband, which he warmly and tenderly pressed, "that you promise to aid me in all my schemes for promoting and securing your happiness!"
"Upon my word, my dear marquis," exclaimed Rodolph, "our enemies have shown themselves bunglers after all! They have afforded you an opportunity you might never otherwise have obtained, of rightly appreciating the tender devotion of your incomparable wife, whose affection for you, I venture to say, has shone out more brightly and steadily under the machinations of those who seek to render us miserable, than amidst all the former part of your wedded life; so that we are enabled to take a sweet revenge for the mischief intended to be effected: that is some consolation, while awaiting a fuller atonement for this diabolical attempt. I strongly suspect the quarter from which this scheme has emanated; and however patiently I may bear my own wrongs, I am not of a nature to suffer those offered to my friends to remain unpunished. This, however, is my affair. Adieu, madame,—our intrigue is discovered; and you will be no more at liberty to work alone in befriending your protégées. But, never mind! Before long we will get up some mysterious enterprise, impossible to be found out; and we will even defy the marquis, with all his penetration, to know more than we choose to tell him."
After accompanying Rodolph to his carriage with reiterated thanks and praises, the marquis retired to his apartments without again seeing Clémence.