"My father," said Robert, "if the recital gives you pain, if it recalls too vividly your sorrows, do not tell me, I pray you, for I would rather you should chase away all sadness and smile yourself to life. I know I shall love you, and I want you to forget what you have suffered. It is not for me to judge you, and believe me, that, no matter what you say, my respect and love for you will always be the same."
The count took the hand of his son, but could not reply for some moments, then commenced thus: "If thy mother has not spoken to thee of my cruelty and injustice toward her, and, still more, if she has rather exculpated than accused me to thee, I owe it to her memory to avow that I alone was the guilty one, and that she was to me, to the last moment, a model of goodness, patience, and gentleness. She was right to leave me, for I was then so blinded by my passions that the threat which decided her to go I would without doubt have executed, if she had not taken the desperate part which has turned so happily to thy advantage. I say it to my shame, I was barbarous, wicked, and ungrateful to thy mother, and what is more frightful is that I was so with premeditation. Incapable of controlling my temper, and my pride wounded by the reproaches of my family, and by the railleries of the young fools I called my friends, I carried my treatment to blows and insults to her who gave thee birth. I know I make thee shudder and fill thee with horror, but I have cruelly expiated these moments of passion, for at heart I loved thy mother, and, when I reflected, I cursed my feebleness and self-love. Unfortunately these moments were of short duration, and the world and its attractions acted in a fatal manner on my heart, filled with the deplorable maxims of a corrupt, irreligious, frivolous, and mocking society. What, then, could stop me in the mad career which would soon bring me to the abyss already yawning under my feet? Nothing, for I hardly believed there was a God, and had none of the faith which thy mother has planted in thy heart. I was as blind and insensate as a drunken man, who knows neither where he is nor what he says. No curb could be put to my passions, for I was like the brute that obeys his instincts, only more miserable, as I had the voice of conscience to enlighten me while he is deprived of the soul, which is the divine essence. See, then, what I was when thy mother took thee far from me; and I was in a perfect transport of fury when on my return to the house I leaned from the servants that thy mother had gone, taking thee with her. At first, rage was the only passion that possessed my soul, and it was perfectly incomprehensible to me that a being as gentle as thy mother had ever proved herself should have the courage to take such a step; but maternal love was stronger than all things else to her, and when I found thy empty cradle, I wept and tore my hair in despair. It was the first time I had really felt as if I was a father; for when I kissed thy fresh young face, it was more from pride than from paternal tenderness; but when I knew thou wert gone forever, my heart was broken. I awoke at once, under the shock of this most agonizing, torturing sorrow, and from that moment my life of expiation commenced. But I do not date my return to God from that day, for it was a long time before my lips uttered a prayer. I suffered more than tongue can tell in the delirious life into which I was plunged, and which soon destroyed my health and left me with a sickness which was long and dangerous. In my hours of suffering and anguish you were always present to my mind, and I knew no one to whom I could confide my sorrow, and feared to die without seeing you. Days succeeded each other, until they became years; my despair increased and my loneliness was horrible. The sign of a reprobate was marked like the curse of Cain upon my brow, and I was consuming myself in useless regrets, without having recourse to the love and compassion of God, when a providential accident brought near me one of those angels of charity who consecrate their lives to the care of the sick and sorrowing.
"A good sister of the order of St. Vincent de Paul came one day to excite my interest in favor of the poor, and her angelic face and her tender and persuasive voice touched me deeply. I was strangely attracted to her, and could not help contrasting her manner with the means used by women of the world to obtain what they desire. It was with pleasure, I might even say joy, that I gave her my purse, and we became engaged in conversation. She had read in my face the ravages of passion and the storms of the heart; and, as all sorrows were familiar to her, she easily guessed those of my soul, and forced me by her winning manner to confess to her the cause of my sufferings. Then when she knew all, she spoke to me in a language so filled with faith and charity that my frozen soul thawed under the warmth of her burning words. The name of God was so eloquent in her pure mouth that before she left me I pronounced it with faith and confidence. From this moment I prayed, and the saintly woman came several times to finish her work of grace. By her cares my body regained some strength, and my soul felt all the hopes of a Christian, all the salutary truths of our sublime religion. My repentance took the character of resignation, which gave some calmness and tranquillity to my desolate days. I bade adieu to the world, putting far from me its perfidious and deceitful charms, which I had before so eagerly sought, and all the illusions which had appeared seductive and worthy of my homage were dispelled. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and I loved now what I had hated. Thy mother appeared to me with her virtues and her touching simplicity and her charming candor and purity, and, now that I was in a state to appreciate her, I could behold her no more. At this time I lost my sister Helena, of whom thy mother has spoken to thee, and she left a daughter, thy cousin Julia. I took her to my home and heart, but still she did not console me for thy loss; for, good and amiable as she was, she was not my son, and the lost happiness is what we always sigh for, and which can never be replaced. My niece married and soon became a widow, when she returned to me, and, finding all her efforts to diminish my sadness without effect, she proposed our traveling. We have been all over Europe, and everywhere I looked for you and enquired for you, for a secret voice said to me always, 'Go on! go on! thou wilt find him.' I had already explored Italy from one end to the other, had visited cold England, crossed the German States, been through Spain and Portugal, when the fiery inquietude which kept me always moving made me turn my steps a second time toward Italy. It was doubtless a presentiment, since it was on this earth, a thousand times blessed, that I found thee—that we met! I feel that God as pardoned me, and my sorrows are at an end. Thou art the conciliating angel, the treasure and consolation and the last happiness of a penitent old man who has lost and suffered much. Oh! may thy love be the sign of the forgiveness thy mother has sent me, and a bond of peace and felicity. But," said the count, in a suppliant tone, in terminating this long and painful confession, "thou wilt not leave me, Robert? thou wilt live with me, my son? It would be too cruel to deprive me of thy presence, and, after having found my earthly heaven, thou wilt not plunge me into the depths of hell; for if I lose thy tenderness, I lose all."
"My father," replied Robert, "I could not leave you. I am too happy to possess your love to deprive myself of so sweet a joy. God has reunited us, and we will never again separate!"
Chapter XIII.
"Nothing can be dearer to a man
than a father he is proud of."
Some days after this interview, Robert, the count, and Julia were travelling toward l'Auvergne. If the dead could feel in their cold graves, certainly Robert's mother would have felt a deep and holy joy in seeing her son and her husband kneeling on her tomb. But their eyes were not on the grave, but raised toward heaven, and Robert saw the same vision which had appeared to him in his youth, and he cried out: "I see it! O my father, I see it! She blesses us."
The name of Dormeuil was effaced from the modest stone, and that of Countess de Verceuil substituted, to the great astonishment of the people of the surrounding country. Then the count visited the little house which had fallen in ruins, and here Robert called up a thousand tender memories, and thanked God for the manifestation of his love in permitting him to find his father. But it was not for the rank he would have in the world, nor for the titles society would look upon with jealous eyes, nor for this wonderful elevation of his talent, which dazzled and made him happy. It was the power which God had put into his hands, to enable him to do good to others, and the knowledge of the future of repose and comfort he could ensure to the two objects of his early affection, good Madame Gaudin and the old soldier of the guard. It was of them that he thought when he said. "I am rich." How he longed to see Paris, and to be folded again to the hearts of his friends, from whom he had so long been separated. His father, seeing his impatience, smiled at the projects he formed for them, but was none the less anxious to know them and thank them for the cares they had bestowed on his son. At last they arrived, and when they reached the house a cruel thought crossed Robert's mind, that they might be "no more." His heart beat, and he scarcely dared to knock, but listened a moment, and—oh! what happiness—two well-known voices fell upon his ear. One said: "Six months have passed since his last letter, and no news of our dear child. What can have happened him?" "You must have patience, good woman," said the other voice, "he can't always find opportunities to write. I believe the reason he does not write is, that be intends to come some day soon." "Ah! I know he is not sick, and it is the faith of Cyprien says it. The Lord is too just to make so good a boy ill."