I put out my sign. The faithful woman—the so-called sister of Naundorff—was with me still. However the arrangement had originated, whether or not she acted as an instrument of my enemies, her devotion was genuine. To silence malicious tongues, I called her sister.
Europe was convulsed with war. "Is the Corsican's power to be broken?" I would ask myself. And then a wild hope of recovering my name and rank would take possession of me, in spite of the injunctions regarding caution from Le Coq, who visited me about this period. Then came the news of Napoleon's overthrow, followed by our uncle's ascending the throne and of your marriage, Thérèse, to our cousin, the Duke of Orleans. Thus did you become an accomplice in the usurpation. From many sources you and our uncle had tidings of my misfortunes, and these rumors were corroborated by documents found in the belongings of Josephine, Barras, Pichegru and even Napoleon. I at the time wrote letters to you both, letters which I know reached your hands. You, whose lips so often speak the name of God, dare not deny that you read my messages.
[Chapter XII]
THE DAUPHIN'S WIFE
About this time my companion and reputed sister died. Poor woman! She was no grande dame, not even a spotless matron. In her past there had been hours of anguish, despair and shame. An unremitting train of misfortunes had dried the sources of her tears. It was misfortune which had united our lives and welded my youth to her maturity. Despised by the world, she found an asylum in me, and I, in my isolation, found pity and kindness only in her. And I solemnly declare that she was gold hidden beneath mire, for she gave me the shelter and warmth of a human heart, without which I cannot live.
When she died in my arms, blessing me for my ministrations, I regretted that I had written to you, for it seemed the most fitting consummation of my life to pass the remainder of it as a Spandau watch-maker. In my loneliness, I married a beautiful girl, daughter of a mechanic as obscure as I. Having failed to receive an answer from you, I thought to accomplish the extinction of a royal race by an alliance with this woman of the people. A frenzy of vengeance and shame mastered me as I cemented what I considered the pollution of your race and mine, by marrying this pure, gentle girl.
To-day I realize my sin in refusing to thank God for the finding in my path of the sweet blossom of love. Jeanne's affection should have been more grateful than Marie's for it came in consequence of the sublime law that merges one life into another and contained no element of reverence for royalty. But I trampled on the tender fragrance of her devotion during the beginning of our married life, in the arrogance of what I considered my fallen state in being her companion. For hours would I sit in gloomy silence. I could not smother the puerile vanity of earthly grandeur which even in the Black Hole inflated me. Between me and the gentle girl rose the high wall of ancestry, that destroyer of happiness, which seeks to make us unlike other men. I kept from her the gloomy secret of my origin and she shrank from me, almost seeking to ask my forgiveness for being my wife.
When I knew the joy which you will never experience, Thérèse—that of parenthood,—I called my daughter by the name which I had borne during that ill-fated journey which cost our parents their crown and life,—"Amélie." My mother seemed to live again in the child, and I assured myself that the blood of Austria and Lorraine rose, asserting its purity and protesting against admixture with a plebeian strain.