"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?"