"New causes of fear!"
"For you."
"For me?"
"You have confessed to us but half your troubles, my poor child."
"Be so kind as to explain yourself, my father," said Fleur-de-Marie, blushing.
"Now I can do it; I could not sooner, not knowing how much you despaired of your fate. Listen, my beloved daughter! You believe yourself, or rather, you are, very unhappy. When, at the beginning of our conversation, you spoke to me of the hopes which remained to you, I understood--my heart was broken, for I was to part with you forever--that I was to see you shut yourself up in a cloister--to see you descend living to a tomb. Is it your wish to enter a convent?"
"Father!"
"My child, is this true?"
"Yes, if you will permit me to do it," replied Fleur-de-Marie, with a stifled voice.
"Leave us!" cried Clemence.
"The Abbey of Saint Hermangilda is very near Gerolstein. I shall often see you and father."
"Do you consider that such vows are eternal, my dear child? you are only eighteen years old, and perhaps some day--"
"Oh, I shall never repent the resolution I have taken. I shall never find repose and forgetfulness but in the solitude of the cloister, if you, my father, and you my second mother, continue your affection to me."
"The duties and consolations of a religious life might, indeed," said Rudolph, "if they could not heal, at least calm, the sorrows of your poor depressed and distracted spirit. And though half the happiness of my life is the forfeit, I may perhaps approve your resolution. I know what you suffer, and I do not say that renouncing the world may not be the fatally logical end of your sorrowful existence."
"What, you also, Rudolph?" cried Clemence.
"Permit me, my dear, to express all my thoughts," replied Rudolph. Then, addressing his daughter, "But before taking this last determination, we must examine if there may not be other prospects for the future, more agreeable to your wishes and ours. In this case, I should not regard any sacrifice, if I could secure you such a future existence."
Fleur-de-Marie and Clemence started with surprise. Rudolph continued, fixing his eyes on his daughter, "What do you think of your cousin Henry?"
After a moment of hesitation, she threw herself weeping into the arms of the prince.
"You love him, my poor child?"
"You never asked me, father," replied Fleur-de-Marie, drying her tears.
"My dear, we were not deceived," said Clemence.
"So you love him," added Rudolph, taking his daughter"s hands in his own, "you love him well, my dear child?"
"Oh, if you knew," replied Fleur-de-Marie, "how much it has cost me to hide from you the sentiment as soon as I discovered it in my heart--alas, at the least question from you, I should have owned everything. But shame restrained me, and would always have restrained me."
"And do you think that Henry knows your love for him?" said Rudolph.
"Great Heaven, father, I do not think so," cried Fleur-de-Marie, in terror.
"And do you think he loves you?"
"No, father, no--oh, I hope not--he would suffer too much."
"And how did this love come, my beloved angel?"
"Alas, almost without my knowing it-you remember the picture of the page?"
"Which is in the apartment of the Abbess of Saint Hermangilda--it was Henry"s portrait."
"Yes, dear father, believing this to be a painting of another age, one day in your presence, I did not conceal from the superior that I was struck with the beauty of this portrait. You said to me then, in jest, that the picture represented one of our relations of the olden time, who, when very young, had displayed great courage and excellent qualities. The grace of this figure, joined to what you told me of the n.o.ble character of this relative, added yet to my first impression. From that day, I often took pleasure in recalling this portrait, and that without the least scruple, believing that it belonged to one of my cousins long since dead. Little by little I habituated myself to these gentle thoughts, knowing that it was not permitted me to love on this earth," added Fleur-de-Marie with a heart-rending expression, and her tears bursting forth anew. "I gave to these romantic reveries a sort of melancholy interest, half smiles, half tears. I looked upon the pretty page of the past time as a lover beyond the grave, whom I should perhaps one day meet in eternity. It seemed to me that such a love was alone worthy of a heart which belonged entirely to you, my father. But pardon me these sad, childish imaginations."
"Nothing can be more touching, on the contrary, poor child," said Clemence.
"Now," replied Rudolph, "I understand why you one day reproached me with an air of regret for having deceived you about the picture."
"Alas, yes, dear father. Judge of my confusion when, afterward, the superior informed me that this picture was that of her nephew, one of our relations. Then my trouble was extreme; I endeavored to forget my first impressions, but the more I endeavored, the more they became rooted in my heart, in consequence even of the perseverance of my efforts.
Unfortunately, yet, I often hear you, dear father, praising the heart, the mind, the character of Prince Henry."
"You already loved him, my dear child, even when you had as yet seen only his portrait, and heard of his rare qualities!"
"Without loving him, I felt toward him an attraction, for which I bitterly reproached myself. But I consoled myself by thinking that no one in the world would know this sad secret which covered me with shame in mine own eyes. To dare to love, me, me, and then not to be contented with your tenderness and that of my second mother! Did I not owe to you enough to employ all my strength, all the resources of my heart, in loving you both?
Oh, believe me, among the reproaches I made myself, these last were the most painful. Finally, I saw my cousin for the first time at that grand fete you gave to the Archd.u.c.h.ess Sophia. Prince Henry resembled his portrait in such a striking manner, that I recognized him immediately. The same evening, dear father, you presented my cousin to me, authorizing between us the intimacy which our relationship permitted."
"And soon you loved each other?"
"Ah, my father, he expressed his respect, his attachment, his admiration, with so much eloquence; you had yourself told me so much good of him."
"He deserved it; there is no more elevated character; there is no better or braver heart."
"Your pardon, dear father, do not praise him so much; I am already so unhappy."
"And I must convince you of all the rare qualities of your cousin. What I say surprises you; I understand it, my child--go on."
"I felt the danger that I incurred in seeing Prince Henry every day, and yet I could not withdraw myself from the danger. Notwithstanding my blind confidence in you, dear father, I dared not express my fears to you. I directed all my courage to concealing my love; however, I own to you, dear father, notwithstanding my remorse, often in this fraternal intimacy of every day, forgetting the past, I felt gleams of happiness till then unknown to me, but followed soon, alas! by dark despair, when I again fell under the influence of my sad recollections. For, alas! if they pursued me in the midst of the homage and respect of persons almost indifferent to me, judge, judge, dear father, of my tortures when Prince Henry lavished on me the most delicate praises, followed me with such frank and pious adoration; putting, as he said, the brotherly attachment that he felt for me under the holy protection of his mother, whom he lost when he was Very young. I endeavored to merit this sweet name of sister, which he bestowed upon me, by advising my cousin respecting his future prospects, according to my weak knowledge; by interesting myself in all which related to him; by promising always to ask of you such a.s.sistance for him as you might be able to give.
But often, also, what torments have I felt, how I have restrained my tears when, by chance, Prince Henry interrogated me about my infancy, my early youth! to deceive--always to deceive, always to fear, always to lie, always to tremble, before the inexorable look of one"s judge. Oh! my father, I was guilty, I know it; I had no right to love; but I expiated this sad love by many bitter sorrows. What shall I say to you? The departure of the Prince Henry, in causing me a new and violent chagrin, enlightened me--I saw that I loved him more than I imagined. Thus," added Fleur-de-Marie, with deep dejection, and as if this confession had exhausted her strength, "I should have soon made you this avowal, for this fatal love has filled up the measure of my sufferings. Say, now that you know all, my father, is there any future prospect for me but that of the cloister?"
"There is another, my child; yes, and this future is as sweet, as smiling, as happy, as the other is dark and gloomy."
"What do you say, dear father?"
"Hear me in my turn. You must feel that I love you too much, that my tenderness is too clear-sighted, to have allowed your love and that of Henry to have escaped me; at the end of a few days I was certain that he loved you, more even, perhaps, than you loved him."
"My father, no, no; it is impossible; he does not love me at this time."
"He loves you, I tell you; he loves you pa.s.sionately, to madness, almost."
"Oh, heaven!"
"Listen further. When I told you that pleasantry about the picture, I did not know that Henry was about to visit his aunt at Gerolstein. When he came I yielded to the inclination I have always felt toward him; I invited him to come and see us often. I had before always treated him like my son; I changed in no degree my manner toward him. At the end of some days, Clemence and myself no longer doubted the regard you felt for each other.
If your position was painful, my poor child, mine was not less so; it was extremely delicate. As a father, knowing the rare and excellent qualities of Henry, I could not but be profoundly happy at your attachment, for I could never have dreamed of a husband more worthy of you."