THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
143

*abished that institution, which is so charitable, and 1 rowf ully, " because these returns to the past must be
go useful for young orphan or forsaken girls, whom fearful to youbecause they would poison your life if
nothing protects from evil passions?"                             -, you were weak enough to abandon yourself to them."
;i And what has-happened to her? what do you beg
for her?"
" Her father, a very adventurous man, went to seek
his fortune in America, leaving his wife and daughter
to a precarious mode of existence. The mother died;
the daughter, hardly sixteen years old when left to
herself, quitted the country to follow to Vienna a se-
ducer, who soon forsook her. Then, as alv* ays happens,
the first step in the path of vice led this wretched girl
to an abyss of infamy; in a short time she became, like
so many'other miserable creatures, the opprobrium of
ber sex."
Fleur de Marie cast down her eyes, blushed, and
could not conceal a slight shudder, which did not es-
cape the maid of honor. Fearing to have wounded the
chaste susceptibility of the princess by conversing with
her upon such a creature, she continued, with embar-
rassment:
" I ask a thousand pardons of your Royal Highness ; I
have undoubtedly offended you by drawing your atten-
tion to so polluted a being, but the miserable one
shows so sincere a repentance, that I thought I could
solicit for her a little pity."
"And you were right. Go on, 1 pray you;" said
Fleur de Marie, conquering her sad emotion; "indeed,
all errors are worthy of pity, when repentance follows
them."
** And that is the case here as I have remarked to your
Highness. After two years of this abominable life, grace
touched this abandoned one. A prey to a late remorse,
she has returned here. Chance so favored her that, on
her arrival here, she was lodged at a house belonging
to a worthy widow, whose gentleness and piety were
well known. Encouraged by the pious goodness of the
widow, the poor creauture has confessed to her her
faults, adding that she felt a just horror for her past
life, and that she would purchase, at the price of the
most severe penance, the happiness of entering a re-
ligious house, where she might expiate her errors and
deserve their redemption. The worthy widow to whom
ghe has intrusted this confidence, knowing that I had
the honor to serve your Highness, has written to me to
recommend to rae this unfortunate one, who, by means
of the all-powerful agency ot your Highness with the
Princess Juliana, lady superior of the abbey, might
hope to enter the Convent of St. Hermangilda as lay
sister; she asks as a favor to be employed in the most
painful labors, that her penance maybe more merito-
rious. I have several times desired to converse with
this woman before allowing myself to implore for her
the pity of your Highness, and I am firmly convinced
that her repentance will be lasting. It is neither want
nor age that has brought her to the true good ; she is
scarcely eighteen years old; she is yet very beautiful,
and possesses a small sum of money, that she wishes
to devote to a charitable object if she obtains the favor
that she solicits."
" I will take charge of your protegee," said Fleur de
Marie, restraining with difficulty her emotion, so much
resemblance did her past life offer to that of the un-
fortunate one in whose favor she was solicited; she
added, "the repentance of this miserable one is too
praiseworthy to be left without encouragement."
"I know not how to express my gratitude to your
Highness. I hardly dared hope your Highness would
deign to be so charitably interested in such a creat-
ure.'"
"She has been guiltyshe repents," said Fleur de
Marie, with an accent of commiseration and inexpres-
sible sadness; " it is right to nourish pity for her. The
more sincere her remorse, the more painful must it be,
my dear Countess."
"I hear my lord, I believe," said the maid of honor,
suddenly, without remarking the deep and increasing
emotion of Fleur de Marie.
In fact, Rodolphe was entering a saloon which
opened into the oratory, holding in his hand an enor-
mous bunch of roses.
At the sight of the prince, the countess discreetly re
tired. Hardly had she disappeared when Fleur de
Marie threw herself upon her father's neck, resting her
forehead upon his shoulder, and remained thus some
seconds without speaking.
"Good-morning, good-morning, ray dear child,"said
Rodolphe, pressing his daughter to his breast with feel-
ing, without yet observing her sadness. "See this
thicket of roses; what a fine harvest I have made for
you this morning; it was this which prevented me from
coming sooner; I hope that I have never brought you a
more magnificent bouquet.   Take it."
And the prince, still holding the bouquet in his hand,
moved backward gently, to disengage his daughter
from his arms and look at her; but, seeing her burst
into tears, he threw the bouquet upon a table, took
Fleur de Marie's hands in his, and exclaimed:
"You weep; my God! what is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing, my dear father," said Fleur do
Marie, drying her tears, and endeavoring to smile upon.
Rodolphe.
"Tell me, I beg you, what is the matter? What can
have made you sad?"
"I assure"you, father, it is nothing to distress you.
The countess has just solicited my interest fora poor
woman, so interesting, so unhappy, that in spite of
myself 1 am moved by her recital."
" Truly?   Is it only'this?"
"It is only this, answered Fleur de Marie, taking
from a table the flowers that Rodolphe ha thrown
there; "but how you spoil me!" added she, "what a
magnificent bouquet, and when I think that each day,
you bring me such, gathered by yourself."
" My child," said Rodolphe, gazing upon, his daugh-
ter with anxiety, "you conceal something from rae;
your smile is sadconstrained. Tell me, I beg you,
what distresses you; do not occupy yourself with this
bouquet."
" Ah,-you know this bouquet is my joy every morn-
ing; and then I love roses so in^eliI have always
loved them so much. You rememoer, added she, with
an affecting smile, "you remember my poor little rose-
bush.   I have always kept its remains."
At this painful allusion to the past, Rodolphe ex-
claimed:
"Unhappy child! Are my suspicions founded. In
the midst of the splendor that surrounds you, would
rou yet sometimes think of that horrible time?   AlasI
had thought to have made you forget it by tender-
ness."
"Pardon, pardon, father! these words escaped me.
I make you sad."
"lain myself sad, poor angel," said Rodolphe, sor-
Father  this was by   chance.  "Since   our  arrival
here, this is the first time-----"
"This is the first time you have spoken of ityes,
but, perhaps this is not the first time that these
thoughts have troubled you. I have perceived your mo-
ments of melancholy, and sometimes I have accused
the past as causing your sadness. But, as I was un-
certain, I dared not even attempt to combat the sad
influence of these remembrancesto show you the
uselessness, the injustice of themfor, if your grief
had arisen from another cause, if the past had been to
you what it ought to be, a vain, bad dream, I should risk
awakening in you painful ideas, that I should wish to
destroy."
"How good you are! how do these fears show me
your ineffable tenderness?"
" What do you mean? My position was so difficult,
so delicate. On another occasion I said nothing, but!
was ever thinking of what concerned you. By con-
tracting this marriage, which crowned all my desires,
I also hoped to give another guarantee to your repose.
I knew toe well the excessive delicacy of your heart to
hope that you could everever cease to"think of the
past; but I said to myself, that if, by chance, your
thoughts ever lingered there, you ought, feeling your-
self cherished as a daughter by the noble woman who
knew and loved you in the depth of your misfortunes
you ought, I say, to regard the past as sufficiently
expiated for by your heavy miseries, and be indulgent,
or rathe, ^nst, towards yourself ; for, indeed, my wife
is entitled by her high qualities to the respect of all
is it not su  Ah, well, since you are to her a daughter,
a cherished sister, ought you not to be encouraged? Is
not her tender attachment an entire redemption? Does
it not tell you that she knows, as I do, that you have
been a victimthat you are not guiltythat others
can, indeed, reproach you only with misfortune, that
has overwhelmed you from your birth? Had you even
committed great faults, would they not be a thousand
times expiated, redeemed, by all the good you have
done, by all that is excellent and adorable thc.^ has
been developed in you?"
"My father-----"
" Ah, let melet me tell you all my thoughts, since
an accident, for which indeed we ought to be grateful,
has caused this conversation. For a long time I have
desired, and at the same time dreaded it. God will
that it may have a salutary result' It was mine to
make you forget so many dreadful sorrows; I have a
mission to fulfil towards you, so august, so sacred, that
I should have had the courage to sacrifice for your re-
pose my love for Madame d'Harvillemy friendship
for Murphy, if I had thought their presence would have
recalled to yon too bitterly the past."
"Oh, my good father, could you think so! Their
presence, the presence of those who know what J was,
and who yet love me tenderly, does it not, on the con-
trary, personify forgetfulness and pardon? Indeed,
my father, would not my whole life have been made
desolate, had you renounced for me your marriage
with Madame d'Harville?"
"Ah! I should not have been the only one to desire
this sacrifice, if it would secure your happiness. You
know not what self-denial Clmence had already vol-
untarily imposed upon herself, for she also compre-
hends all the extent of my duty to you."
"Your duty to me, my God! Andwhat have I done
to merit so much?"
"What have you done, poor dear angel! Until the
moment you were restored to me, your life was only
bitterness, misery, desolation; and for your past suf-
ferings I reproach raj'self as if I had caused them.
And when I see you smiling, pleased, I believe myself
pardoned ; my only aim, my only wish is to render you
as entirely happy as you have been unfortunate; to
raise you as much as you have been lowered, for it
seems to me the last traces of the past are effaced
when the most eminent, the most honorable persons
pay you the respect which is due to you."
"Respect to me? no, no, my father; but to my rank,
or, rather, to that you have given me."
"Ah! it is not your rank that is loved, that is revered
it is you, understand; indeed, my dear child, it is
yourself, it is yourself alone. There is homage im-
posed by rank, but it is another imposed by powers of
attraction and fascination! You know-not how to dis-
tinguish between these, because you know not your-
self: because you know not "that, by a wonderful in-
telligence and tact, which renders me as proud as idol-
atrous of you, you carry into all ceremonious inter-
course, so new to you, a union of dignity, modesty, and
grace, which is irresistible to the most stately charac-
ters."
"You love me so much, father, and all love you so
much, that every one is sure of pleasing you by show-
ing me deference."
"Ah, the wicked child!" exclaimed Rodolphe, in-
terrupting his daughter; and embracing her tenderly:
" what a wicked child, who will not grant a single sat-
isfaction to my fatherly pride!"
"Is not this pride sufficiently satisfied by attributing
to you the good feeling that is shown me, my good
father?"
 "No, indeed. Mademoiselle," said the prince, smiling,
to his daughther, to chase away the sadness with
which he still saw her affected, "no, Mademoiselle, it
is not the same thing; for it is not allowable for me to
be proud of myself, and I can and ought to be proud
of youyes, proud. And again, you know not how
div'inely you are endowed; for fifteen months your
education has become so marvellously complete, that
the most difficult mother would be satisfied with you,
and this education has increased still more the almost
irresistible influence that you spread around you with-
out being yourself aware of it."
"My father, your praises confuse me."
'I speak the truth, nothing but the truth. Do you
wish for instances? Let us speak boldly of the past;
it is an enemy that I wish to fight hand to hand; we
must look it in the face. Do you not, then, remember
La Louve, that courageous woman who saved you?
Recall that prison scene which you have related rae;
a crowd of prisoners, more hardened indeed than
wicked, were bent upon tormenting one of their com-
panions, feeble, infirm, and yet their drudge; you ap-
pear, you speak, and behold, immediately these furies,
blushing for their base cruelty towards their victim,
show themselves as charitable as they were wicked.
Is this, then, nothing? Again, is ityes or noowing
to you that La Louve, that ungovernable woman, has
felt repentance, anl eaivc n -on^st i laborious
life? Ah, believe me, my dear child, that which con*
quered La Louve and her turbulent companions,
merely by the ascendency of goodness, combined witli
a rare elevation of mind; this, although in other cir-
cumstances and in an utterly different sphere, must by
the same charm (do not smile at such a parallel.
Mademoiselle) fascinate the stately Arch-duchess*
Sophia and all the circle in my court; for the good
and wicked, great and small, submit almost always to
the influence of higher, nobler spirits. I do not wish
to say that you were born princess in the aristocratie
sense of the word; that would be a poor flattery to
make you, my child; but you areof that small number
of privileged beings who are born both to speak to a
queen so as to charm her, and to earn her love, and
also to speak to a poor, debased, and abandoned creat-
ure, so as to make her better, to console her, and thus
gain her adoration."
" But, my dear father, I beg-----"
"Ah, it is so much the worse for you, Mademoiselle,
that it is so long since my heart has poured forth.
Think, then, how, with my fear of awakening in you
the remembrances of the past wdiich I wish to annihil-
ate, and that I will forever annihilate in your mind, I
dared not converse to you of these comparisons, these
parallels, which render you so admirable iu my eyes.
How many times have Clemenee and I been enraptured
with you! How many times, moved so that the tears
rose in her eyes, has she said to me, *Is it not wonder-
ful that this child should be what she is, after misfor-
tune has so pursued her? or, rather,' would Clemenee
continue, ' is it not wonderful that far from im-
pairing that noble and rare nature, misfortune has, oa
the contrary, given a higher range to what there was
excellent in her.' "
At this moment the door opened, and Clemenee,
grand-duchess of Gerolstein, entered, holding a letter
in her hand.
" Here, my friend," said she to Rodolphe, *' is % let-
ter from France. I wished to bring it to you, Chat 1
might say good-morning to my indolent child, whom I
have not seen this morning," added Clemenee, embrac-
ing Fleur de Marie tenderly.
"This letter comes just at the right moment," said
Rodolphe, gayly, after having read it through. " We
were talking just now ofthe past; of that monster that
we must incessantly combat, my dear Clemenee, for it
threatens the repose and the happiness of our dear
child."
" Is this true, my friend? those attacks of melan-
choly wliich we have observed' *
" Have no other cause than wicked remembrances:
but, fortunately, we now know our enemy, and we will
triumph over it.
" But from whom, then, is this letter, my friend?"
asked Clemenee.
" From the pretty Rigolette, the wife of Germain."
*' Rigolette!" exclaimed Fleurde Marie; "what hap-
piness to hear from her!"
"My friend," said Clemenee, aside to Rodolphe, at
the same time glancing at Fleur de Marie, "do you not
fear that this letter may recall to her painful recol-
lections?"
" These are those very remembrances I wish to put
an end to, my dear Clemenee: we must approach them
boldly, and I am sure that I shall find in Rigolette's
letter excellent arms against them, for this excellent
little creature adored our child, and appreciated her aa
she should be."
And Rodolphe read aloud the following letter;
* * Bouqueval Farm, Aug. 15th, 1841.
" My LordI take the liberty of writing to you again
to make you a sharer of a great happiness which has
befallen us, and to ask of you a new favorof you, to
whom we already owe so many, or, rather, to whom
we owe the perfect paradise in which we live, I, my
Germain, and his good mother.
"This is the cause, my Lord; for ten'daysP have been
mad with jo3', for it is ten days since I have possessed
a love of a little girl; I fancy that she is the very pic
lure of Germain; he, that she*is of me; our dear
Mamma Georges Says that she resembles both; the
fact is, she has charming blue eyes like Germain, and
black hair, curly, like mine. Just now, contrary to
his custom, ray husband is unjust; he wishes to have
our little one always upon his knees, while I, it is my
right, is it not, my Lord ?"
"Fine, worthy young persons! they ought to be
happy," said Rodolphe. "If ever couple were well
matched, it is this."
" And Rigolette deserves her happiness," said Fleur
de Marie.
"I have always blessed the good fortune that caused
me to meet them," said Rodolphe, and he continued:
"But indeed, my Lord, pardon my burdening you
with these little family quarrels that end always with
a kiss. Certainly your ears must tingle well, my Lord,
for there does not pass a day that we do not say, look-
ing at each other, we two, Germain and I, * How happy
we are, 0God, how happy we are!' and naturally
your name follows directly after these words. Excuse
the scrawl there is just here, my Lord, and the blot; I
had written without thinking Monsieur Rodolphe, as I
used to say, and I have scratched it out. I hope, by-
the-way, that you will find my writing has improved
much, as well as ray orthography, for Germain always
shows me how, and I no longer make great biota
stretching all across, as when you made my pens."
"I must confess,"said Rodolphe, laughing, "thatmy
protegee is under a slight illusion, and I am sure that
Germain is occupied rather with kissing the hand of
his pupil than directing it."
" Come, come, my friend, you are right," said Clem-
enee, looking at the letter," the writing is a little large
but very legible."       ;
"In truth, there is some progress," said Rodolphe;
" formerly it would hiwe taken eight pages to contain
what she writes now in two."
And he continued:
"It is, however, true, that you have made pens for
me, my Lord; when we think of it, Germain and I, we
are quite ashamed, in recalling how far from proud
you were. Ah, my God! here again do I find myseU
speaking to you of something besides what we wish to
ask you, my Lord; for my husband unites with me, and
it is very important; we have formed a plan. You sha5
see.
" We supplicate you, then, my Lord, to have the good-
ness to choose and give us a name for our dear girl; it
is agreed upon with the godfather and godmother, and
this godfather and godmother, do you know who they
are, my Lord? Two persons whom you and her lady-
ship the Marchioness   d'Harville   have raised froo>