Chapter XII.
"Extend to them the hand of pardon:
They have sinned, but heaven forgives!"
Lamartine.
Our young hero, wishing to have a view from the highest point of the mountain, was pushing on to reach the spot from where he thought it would be most extensive. When he had almost attained it, his foot slipped and for a moment he lost his balance, and it was this appearance of danger that kept the other traveller watching him, and led to his fall. But Robert was light and active, and raised himself by holding on to the rugged sides of the mountain and getting on a kind of plateau, when the cries, first of the man, then the lady, and then the guide attracted his attention and made him turn quickly. Then at great risk he leaned almost his whole body over the side of the precipice, and saw that imminent and terrible death menaced the man for whom his heart had conceived so much affection. The lady and the guide were both afraid to descend, for there was nothing to hold on to but some loose stones projecting out of the earth. The gentleman's position is both critical and perilous, but Robert descends cautiously to his side and assists him to climb up; and indeed it is almost a miracle that he is saved; and with a face radiant with joy Robert receives the thanks of the lady and the traveller, who, remarking a medallion Robert always wore, and of which he had obtained glimpses in the vivacity of his movements, said to him, in a trembling voice: "Where did you get that medallion, speak quickly!" And as if the reply he would receive was a sentence of life and death, he waited in horrible anxiety, as if his soul was suspended on the lips of Robert. Though surprised at this question, he was too polite not to answer without hesitation when he saw the agitation of the stranger. "This portrait," said he, "comes from my mother; it represents—" "Oh! pardon—the name of your mother?" eagerly interrupted the stranger. "Stephanie Dormeuil." "But what was her other name?" Robert hesitated a moment, then replied, "She was called Madame de Verceuil." At this answer a dazzling fire burned in the eyes of the stranger, and he made such a quick, impetuous movement that the cord which held the medallion was broken, and it fell to the ground. Robert stooped to pick it up, and heard these words, which overwhelmed him with astonishment: "O my God, the remorse I have suffered for twenty-five years!" and fainted, but the care of the lady and Robert soon brought back consciousness, and when he opened his eyes be caught Robert in his arms, and cried, "Oh! thou art my son, my own Robert! and I am thy father. Wilt thou pardon me, my son, my dear child, wilt thou pardon me?" "What! you are my father!" cried the artist, delirious with joy. "If you are, I must press you to my heart, which has so long called for you and needed you. I curse you?—for what? My saintly mother did not teach me this, but the contrary. O my God!" he said on bended knee, "you have fulfilled my prayers, you have given me my father." It is in vain that we can find words to express this touching scene. Robert was folded in his father's arms, repeating in a tender voice, "My father, my father!" He covered him with caresses and kisses, and calls his name with a joy so expressive, and a love so profound, that the count wept bitterly, and cried, raising his eyes to heaven, "O Stephanie, what noble vengeance thou hast given me!" Then gazing on his son, he was filled with pride at seeing the child whom he had lost when an infant, and found when a young man of splendid genius and glorious intellect. He said to him, with some embarrassment but with a lively interest, "My son, where is thy mother? What does she now?"
"Alas!" said Robert, pointing to heaven, "she is there! She sees us, and her noble soul rejoices in our happiness."
The count understood it, his head was cast down, overwhelmed by the bitterness of his remembrances and his remorse. Robert had seized his hand and was pressing it affectionately, when he took the young woman and presented her to Robert, saying: "This is thy cousin, Julia de Moranges, who has been to me the best and most indulgent of nieces. I know you will love each other." They shook hands with frank cordiality, but here both filled with emotion at this strange meeting, and as this was not a favorable place for more extended explanations, and the guides were already impatient of so long a delay, they concluded to go on, and God knows the most tender sentiments filled Robert's mind. Filial love had ever been his first and strongest sentiment, and it burned in his heart with a passionate energy that charmed the count, and made him stop each moment to embrace his son, who had been the constant object of his regrets, for whom he had wept so much, and whose loss was the cause of the sorrow which had brought on premature old age.
Arriving at the top of this mountain, which is more than 2000 feet above the level of the sea, our travellers are on a plateau four leagues in circumference and covered with green pasture that charms the eyes, and in the middle of it was a large lake about thirty feet deep, filled with several varieties of fish.
The count was a man of extensive and varied information, and it was a pleasure for Robert to hear him talk, so charming and attractive was his conversation; and questioned by his son, the count related many things concerning Mont Cenis. "There is a certain celebrity," said he, "attached to the mountain we are crossing. Some authors pretend that Hannibal crossed here to enter Italy, and it is certain that Augustus opened a route, that was enlarged by Charlemagne. Thou hast before thee," added he, "the still more recent traces of the work that Napoleon commenced, and which is truly worthy of the great man who brought it thus far to perfection." It was not until they were descending the mountain that the count commenced to relate his life to his son, which we already know from his mother, but we cannot pass over in silence his poignant regrets at the loss of such saintly and sweet intercourse. When he looked at his son, left an orphan at twelve years of age, with no resources but his perseverance and good conduct, and reflected that he had come out of obscurity and made friends and a name, he blessed the wife whom he had so cruelly injured and who had given him a son, the glory of his white hairs and the love of his old age. But his remorse for his treatment of his wife was nothing to the fear that his son would refuse him his esteem and tenderness and would not consent to live with him. But these dread thoughts could not remain long in his mind; the respectful manner and caressing words of his son effaced them. The more he studied the character of Robert the more he felt the need of his love and of pleasing him, and the stronger was his desire to win the heart on which he set so high a price. To obtain this he gave him his entire confidence, and let him read his heart as he would an open book, and Robert saw the remorse his guilty conduct toward his mother had caused him. It was a painful avowal to make his son, but he had the courage; and the next day, after Robert had related to him the principal events of his life, he drew him to him, saying:
"I owe to thee, my child, a history of the years I have passed far from thee and thy mother, but it is not that I wish to make a parade of my regrets and my sufferings, but simply to tell thee in what way God called me to himself and to virtue."