“Ah! my God!—my God!—Is that love?”
LVIII.
Fleurange, to the great regret of Mademoiselle Josephine, laid aside the rich dress which seemed to realize the old lady's dreams of the previous night, and had just reappeared clad in the simple high-necked dress of dark cloth which was her usual costume, when Clement, who had told her he should not return till late in the evening, suddenly re-entered [pg 611] the salon he left only half an hour before. His intention was to consecrate the remainder of the day to the sad duty he felt he owed his cousin, and thought it useless to mention it to Gabrielle, from whom he concealed all he had learned respecting Felix. But the letter just given him altered the case, and made it indispensable to inform her at once.
He therefore explained to her without much preamble the actual situation of their unhappy cousin; he informed her of the attempt he was about to make to see him, and then related what he had learned from the Marquis Adelardi, giving her the letter of which he was the bearer. It was not without lively emotion Fleurange broke the seal and hurriedly read it aloud:
“Cousin Gabrielle: I am condemned to the mines for life, but as, at the same time, I am dangerously wounded, I shall probably have long ceased to exist when this letter reaches you, if it ever does. I regret the misfortunes I have brought on so many, and especially on my last benefactor, and I particularly regret this on your account, for it will perhaps be a source of suffering to you. I should have thought of this sooner, but, seeing you unexpectedly pass by in a calèche one evening at Florence, I waited at the door of the hotel where I saw you stop, and yielded to the irresistible desire of making you think of me by throwing you some lines concealed in a bouquet. A few days after, my patron, who was very far from suspecting my acquaintance with the original, imprudently showed me his beautiful Cordelia. I confess I was seized with a keen desire to tear him away from contemplating it, which irritated me. Lasko opportunely arrived. But I did not think that would go so far. As to the rest, Gabrielle, believe me, my love which you rejected (and I confess you acted wisely) was perhaps more worthy of you than his; for I feel if I had met you sooner, and you could have loved me, you would have made me better, whereas he!—But it is too late to speak to you either of him or myself!—It is all over. It is to you—you alone, dear cousin, I address these last words; you must repeat them to all to whom they are due; uttered by you they will be heard. Forgive and Farewell.
F. D.”
Fleurange wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. The letter affected her in more than one way, and Clement, it may be imagined, did not listen to it with indifference. But now one thought overruled all others, and, after a moment's silence, he said: “This letter was written when he expected to die from his wound. Illness is now hastening his end, and perhaps he is no longer living while we are talking. This evening, at all events, you will know whether I found him dead or alive.”
Fleurange interrupted him: “Clement, listen to me. If Felix is still alive, as is by no means impossible, I should like to see him again, and will go with you.”
“You!—no, that cannot be; the danger from contagion is too great. That hospital! you cannot go there; it is a place provided for criminals and miserable creatures of the lowest grade. I cannot expose you to so much danger. I will not.”
“But, perchance,” said Fleurange, “this preference, this sort of sympathy he has always expressed for me in his way, might give me the power of consoling the last moments of his wretched life. Who knows but my voice might utter some word to soothe the despair of his last agony? Clement, Clement, do you dare tell me I should not attempt it? Can you conscientiously venture to dissuade [pg 612] me from it, because thereby I shall incur some danger?”