“No; and I am hungry.”
The doctor briskly rubbed his spectacles, and abruptly opened his snuffbox, while the young girl hastily took the slight repast, which brought a lively and unusual color to her cheeks. Her face was generally very pale. Her large eyes, calm and mild, gray rather than blue, shaded by lashes black as her hair, gave her a peculiar and striking appearance. But notwithstanding this peculiarity, notwithstanding her paleness, the delicacy of her features, and the pliancy of her form, which swayed like a reed at every movement, if obliged to characterize in two words the general impression produced by the appearance of Fleurange d’Yves, those words would be: simplicity and energy. Doctor Leblanc was doubtless
right in thinking that one so young, beautiful, and destitute needed protection, and yet it required only a glance to see that she, better than any else, could protect herself.
The doctor still held in his hand the letter she had given him. It was dated at Frankfort.
“My Dear Niece: It was only yesterday, and by the most unforeseen chance, we at last learned the state of your father’s health and where he lives. None of us have seen him since his marriage with my poor sister Margaret twenty years ago. You know there was at that time a profound hatred against France throughout our country, and my father would never consent to receive a Frenchman as his son-in-law. Then my poor sister (God forgive her!) left the paternal roof to marry the man of her choice. My father was exceedingly grieved, very angry, and at first implacable, but before his death he forgave her. She was past knowing it. From that time we lost all trace of your father. We only learned he had left Pisa with his child, and, for a long time, had given up all hope of ever seeing him again, or knowing my poor sister’s daughter, when yesterday a stranger, passing through this city, accidentally showed me a picture he had just purchased at Paris—the work, he said, of a dying artist. This painting represented Cordelia kneeling beside her father, and the canvas bore the name of Gerard d’Yves. The painter’s address was given us by the owner of the picture, and I hasten to profit by it to tell you, my dear child, that your mother’s relatives have not forgotten the tie that binds them to you. If you ever need a shelter, you can find one beneath our roof. My wife and children already regard poor Margaret’s daughter with affection. The
latter have thought of her from infancy as an absent sister whose return they awaited. If God restores your father’s health, bring him among us. If otherwise ordered, come yourself, my dear child. The stranger who put us on your track told us the artist’s daughter was the original of his Cordelia. If the resemblance is correct, it does not diminish our desire to see you. Come soon, then, my dear niece. At all events, answer this letter promptly, and be assured of the affectionate regard of your uncle,
“Ludwig Dornthal.”
“Josephine! Josephine!” exclaimed the doctor. “Here, read this: but, first, embrace me. Yes, you were right. Your trust was better than my wisdom! Yes, yes, God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. Poor child, embrace me also.”
Fleurange rose: “Oh! very willingly,” said she as she threw herself sobbing into the doctor’s arms. Fatigue, grief, and the emotion caused by the unforeseen and unhoped-for offer of a refuge at the very moment of extreme need, all combined to agitate her mind, excite her nerves, and exhaust her strength. Her heart swelled with the emotion she could not repress, and tears unrestrained came to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and fell like rain on her clasped and icy hands, while a convulsive movement agitated her breast, and her trembling lips gave utterance to a feeble cry.
The doctor allowed her to weep a long time in silence, not uttering a word to increase her agitation, and yet saying nothing to repress it. At length the paroxysm subsided, and Fleurange rose quite confused.