Chapter III: The Vows

_Rodolph to Clemence._

GEROLSTEIN, 12th January, 1842.

Your assurance that your father is better induces me to hope
you will be enabled to return here with him shortly. I dreaded
that at Rosenfeld, situated in the midst of the woods, he would
be exposed to the piercing cold of our rigorous winters, but,
unfortunately, his fondness for hunting rendered all our advice
useless.

I entreat you, Clemence, as soon as your father can bear the
motion of the carriage, quit that country and this habitation,
only fit for those Germans of an iron frame whose race has now
disappeared.

The ceremony of our poor child's taking the vows is fixed for
to-morrow, the thirteenth of January, the fatal day on which I
drew my sword on my father! Alas! I thought too soon I was
forgiven! The hope of passing my life with you and my child made
me forget that it was she who had been punished up to the
present time, and that my punishment was to come. And it is
come, when, six months ago, she disclosed the double torture she
suffered,--her incurable shame for the past, and her hopeless
passion for Henry.

These two sentiments became, by a fatal logic, the cause of her
fixed resolve to take the veil. You know that we could not
conceal from her that, had we been in her place, we should have
pursued the same noble and courageous course she has adopted.
How could we answer those humble words, "I love Prince Henry too
much to give him a hand that has been touched by the bandits of
the Cite!"

I have seen her this morning, and though she seemed less pale
than usual, though she said she did not suffer, yet her health
gives me the most mortal alarm.

Alas! This morning, when I saw beneath the veil those noble
features, I could not refrain from thinking how beautiful she
looked the day of our marriage; it seemed that our happiness was
reflected on her face.

As I told you, I saw her this morning. She does not know that
to-morrow the Princess Juliana resigns her abbatical dignity,
and that she has been unanimously chosen to succeed her.

Since the beginning of her novitiate there has been but one
opinion of her piety, her charity, and the exactitude with which
she fulfils all the rules of the order; she even exaggerates
their austerity. She exercises in the convent that authority she
exercised everywhere, but of which she herself is ignorant. She
confessed to me this morning that she is not so absorbed by her
religious duties as to forget the past.

"I accuse myself, dear father," said she, "because I cannot help
reflecting that, had Heaven pleased to spare me the degradation
that has stained my life, I might have lived happily with you
and my husband. Spite of myself, I reflect on this, and on what
passed in the Cite. In vain I beseech Heaven to deliver me from
these temptations,--to fill my heart with himself; but he does
not hear my prayers, doubtless because my life has rendered me
unworthy of communion with him."

"But," cried I, clinging to this faint glimmer of hope, "it is
not yet too late; your novitiate is only over to-day; you are
yet free. Renounce this austere life, dwell again with us, and
our tenderness shall soften your grief."

Shaking her head sorrowfully, she replied:

"The cloister is, indeed, solitary for me, accustomed as I have
been to your tender care; doubtless cruel recollections come
over me, but I am consoled by the knowledge that I am performing
my duty. I know that everywhere else I should be liable to be
placed in that position in which I have already suffered so
much. Your daughter shall do what she ought to do, suffer what
she ought to suffer."

Without founding any great hopes on this interview, I yet said
to myself, "She can renounce the cloister. But as she is
determined, I can but repeat her words, 'God alone can offer me
a refuge worthy of himself.'" Adieu, dear Clemence! It consoles
me to see you grieve with me, for I can say 'our' child without
egotism in my sufferings. Often this thought lightens my sorrow,
for you are left to me, and what is left to Fleur-de-Marie?
Adieu again; return soon.

R.

ABBEY OF STE. HERMANGELD.
Four o'clock in the morning.

Reassure yourself, Clemence! Thank God, the danger is over, but
the crisis was terrible!

Last evening, agitated by my thoughts, I recollected the
paleness and languor of my poor child, and that she was obliged
to pass almost all the night in the church in prayer.

I sent Murphy and David to demand the Princess Juliana's
permission to remain until the morrow in the mansion that Henry
occupied usually; thus my child would have prompt assistance,
and I prompt intelligence, in case that her strength failed
under this rigorous, I will not say cruel, obligation to pass
the whole of a cold winter's night in the church.

I wrote to Fleur-de-Marie that, whilst I respected her religious
exercises, I besought her to watch in her cell and not in the
church. This was her reply:

"_My dear Father_:--I thank you for this fresh proof of
your tenderness, but be not alarmed, I am sufficiently
strong to perform my duty. Your daughter must be guilty
of no weakness. The rule orders it, I must submit. Should
it cause me some physical sufferings, how joyfully shall
I offer them to God! Adieu, dear father! I cannot say I
pray for you, because whenever I pray to Heaven I cannot
help remembering you in my prayers. You have been to me
on earth what God will be, if I merit it, in heaven.
Bless your child, who will be to-morrow the spouse of
Heaven.

"SISTER AMELIE."

This letter, in some measure, reassured me; however I had, also,
a vigil to keep. At nightfall I went to a pavilion I had built,
near my father's monument, in expiation of this fatal night.

About one o'clock I heard Murphy's voice. He came from the
convent in order to inform me that, as I had feared, my unhappy
child, spite of her resolution, had not had sufficient strength
to accomplish this barbarous custom.

At eight o'clock in the evening Fleur-de-Marie knelt and prayed
until midnight, but, overpowered by her emotion and the intense
cold, she fainted; two nuns instantly raised her, and bore her
to her cell. David was instantly summoned, and Murphy came to
me. I hastened to the convent, where the abbess assured me that
my daughter's swoon, from which she had recovered, had been
caused only by her weakness, but that David feared that my
presence might seriously affect her. I feared they were
preparing me for something more dreadful, but the superior said:

"I assure you, monseigneur, the princess is in no danger; the
restorative the doctor has given her has greatly recruited her
strength."

David soon returned. She was better, but had insisted upon
continuing her vigil, consenting only to kneel upon a cushion.

"She is in the church, then?" cried I.

"Yes, monseigneur, but she will quit it in a quarter of an
hour."

I entered the church, and, by the faint light of a lamp, I saw
her kneeling and praying fervently. Three o'clock struck; two
sisters, seated in the stalls, advanced and spoke to her; she
crossed herself, rose, and traversed the choir with a firm step,
and yet as she passed the lamp she seemed to me deathly pale. I
remain at the abbey until the ceremony be over. I think now it
is useless to send this letter incomplete. I will forward it
to-morrow, with all the details of this sad day. Adieu,
dearest!--I am heart-broken--pity!

R.

THE LAST CHAPTER.

THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY.

_Rodolph to Clemence._

The thirteenth of January! Now a doubly sinister anniversary!
Dearest, we have lost her for ever! All is over,--ended all. It
is true, then, that there is a horrid pleasure in relating a
terrible grief.

Yesterday I was complaining of the necessity that kept you from
me; to-day, Clemence, I congratulate myself that you are not
here,--you would have suffered too much. This morning I was in a
light slumber, and was awakened by the sound of bells. I started
in affright; it seemed to me a funereal sound,--a knell! In
fact, our daughter is dead,--dead to us! And from to-day,
Clemence, you must begin to wear her mourning in your heart, a
heart always so maternally disposed towards her. Whether our
child be buried beneath the marble of the tomb or the vault of
the cloister, what is the difference to us? Hardly eighteen
years of age, yet dead to the world!

At noon the profession took place, with solemn pomp, and I was
present, concealed behind the curtains of our pew. I felt, but
even with greater intensity, all the poignant emotion we
underwent at her novitiate. How strange! She is adored! And they
believe, universally, that she was attracted to a religious life
by an irresistible vocation; and yet whilst they believed it was
a happy event for her, an overwhelming sadness weighed down the
spectators. There appeared in the very air, as it were, a
doleful foreboding, and it was founded, if only half realised.

The profession terminated, they led our child into the
chapter-room, where the nomination of the new abbess was to take
place, and, thanks to my sovereign privilege, I went into this
room to await Fleur-de-Marie's return to the choir. She soon
entered; her emotion and weakness were so excessive that two of
the sisters supported her. I was alarmed, less at her paleness
and the great change in her features, than at the peculiar
expression of her smile, which seemed to me imprinted with a
kind of secret satisfaction.

Clemence, I say to you, perhaps we may very soon require all our
courage,--I feel within myself that our child is mortally
smitten. May Heaven grant that I am deceived, and may my
presentiments arise only from the despairing sadness which this
melancholy spectacle has inspired!

Fleur-de-Marie entered the chapter-room, all the stalls were
filled by the nuns. She went modestly to place herself last on
the left-hand side, still leaning on the arm of one of the
sisters, for she yet appeared very weak.

The Princess Juliana was seated at the end of the apartment,
with the grand prioress on one side and another dignitary on the
other, holding in her hand the golden crozier, the symbol of
abbatial authority. There was profound silence; and then the
lady abbess rose, took the crozier in her hand, and said, in a
voice of great emotion:

"My dear daughters, my great age compels me to confide to
younger hands this emblem of my spiritual power," and she
pointed to the crozier. "I am authorised by a bull of our holy
father; I will, therefore, present to the benediction of
monseigneur the Archbishop of Oppenheim, and to the approbation
of his royal highness the grand duke our sovereign, whosoever of
my dear daughters shall be pointed out by you to succeed me.
Our grand prioress will inform you of the result of the
election, and she who has been chosen will receive my crozier
and ring."

I did not take my eyes off my daughter. Standing up in her
stall, her two hands folded over her bosom, her eyes cast down,
and half covered by her white veil and the long folds of her
black gown, she was pensive and motionless, not supposing for a
moment that she would herself be elected, as this fact had been
communicated by the abbess to no one but myself.

The grand prioress took a book and read:

"Each of our dear sisters having been, according to the rule,
requested a week since to place her vote in the hands of our
holy mother, and keep her choice secret until this moment, in
the name of our holy mother I declare to you, my dear, dear
sisters, that one of you has, by her exemplary piety, merited
the unanimous suffrages of the community, and that she is our
sister Amelie, the most noble and puissant Princess of
Gerolstein."

At these words a murmur of pleased surprise and satisfaction
went around the apartment; the eyes of all the nuns were fixed
on my daughter with an expression of tender sympathy, and, in
spite of my painful forebodings, I was myself deeply touched at
this nomination, which, done isolatedly and secretly, had yet
presented such an affecting unanimity.

The abbess continued, in a serious and loud voice:

"My dear daughters, if it be, indeed, Sister Amelie whom you
think the most worthy and most deserving of you all,--if it be
she whom you recognise as your spiritual superior, let each of
you reply to me in turn, my dear daughters."

And each nun replied in a clear voice:

"Freely and voluntarily I have chosen, and I do choose, Sister
Amelie for my holy mother and superior."

Overcome by inexpressible emotion, my poor child fell on her
knees, clasped her hands, and remained so until each vote was
declared. Then the abbess, placing the crozier and the ring in
the hands of the grand prioress, advanced towards my daughter to
take her hand and conduct her to the abbatial seat.

"Rise, my dear daughter," said the abbess; "come and assume the
place that belongs to you. Your virtues, and not your rank, have
obtained for you the position you have gained."

Fleur-de-Marie, trembling, advanced a few steps, and said:

"Pardon me, holy mother, but I would speak to my sisters."

"Then first place yourself, my dear child, in your abbatial
seat," said the princess; "it is from thence your voice shall be
heard."

"That place, holy mother, never can be mine!" replied
Fleur-de-Marie, in a low and tremulous voice.

"What mean you, my dear daughter?"

"So high a dignity was not made for me, holy mother."

"But the wishes of all your sisters call you to it."

"Permit me, holy mother, to make here, on my knees, a solemn
confession; and my sisters will see, and you, also, holy mother,
that the humblest condition is not humble enough for me."

"This arises from your modesty, my dear child," said the
superior, with kindness, believing that the unhappy girl was
giving way to a feeling of overdelicacy.

But I divined the confession Fleur-de-Marie was about to make,
and, greatly alarmed, I exclaimed, in a voice of entreaty:

"My child, I conjure thee--"

It is impossible, my dearest Clemence, to describe the look
which Fleur-de-Marie gave me. In an instant she understood all,
and saw how deeply I should share in the shame of this horrible
revelation. She comprehended that after such a confession they
might accuse me of falsehood, for I had always made it out that
Fleur-de-Marie had never left her mother. At this reflection the
poor dear child thought she would be guilty of the blackest
ingratitude towards me; she had not power to continue, but bowed
down her head, overcome--overwhelmed.

"Again I assure you, my dear child," said the abbess, "your
modesty deceives you. The unanimity of the choice of your
sisters proves how worthy you are to replace me. It is not the
princess--it is Sister Amelie who is elected. For us your life
began on the day when you first put foot in this house of the
Lord, and it is this exemplary and holy life that we recompense.
I will say more, my dear daughter; if before you entered this
retreat your life had been as wrong as it has been, on the
contrary, pure and praiseworthy, the heavenly virtues of which
you have given me an example since your abode here would expiate
and ransom, in the eyes of the Lord, any past life, however
culpable. And now, my dear daughter, judge if your modesty ought
not to be reassured."

These words of the abbess were, as you may think, my Clemence,
the more precious for Fleur-de-Marie, as she believed the past
ineffaceable. Unfortunately, this scene had deeply moved her,
and, although she affected calmness and serenity, I saw that her
features altered in a most distressing manner.

"I believe I have convinced you, my dear daughter," said the
Princess Juliana; "and you will not cause so great a grief to
your sisters as to refuse this mark of their confidence and
affection?"

"No, holy mother," she said, with an expression which struck me,
and in a voice more and more feeble, "I think now I may accept;
but as I feel myself fatigued and in pain, if you will permit
it, holy mother, the ceremony of the consecration shall not
take place for a few days."

"As you wish, my dear daughter; but in the meanwhile, until your
dignity is blessed and consecrated, take this ring, come to your
place, and our dear sisters will do you homage according to our
rules."

And the superior, putting the pastoral ring on Fleur-de-Marie's
finger, led her to the abbatial seat. It was a simple and
touching sight. Supported on one side by the grand prioress,
bearing the golden crozier, and on the other by the Princess
Juliana, each of the sisters, as she passed by, made obeisance
to our child, and respectfully kissed her hand. But judge of my
affright when she swooned before the procession of the sisters
was terminated. David had not quitted the convent, and he
hastened to the abbess's apartment, whither we had conveyed her,
and then attended to her.

The superior having returned to close the sitting of the
chapter, I remained alone with my daughter. After looking at me
for some time, she said:

"My dear father, can you forget my ingratitude? Can you forget
that at the moment when I was about to make my painful
confession--when you implored me--"

"Silence! I beseech you!"

"And I did not reflect," she continued, with bitterness, "that,
in telling in the face of all the world from what an abyss of
depravity you had rescued me, I revealed a secret which you had
preserved out of tenderness to me! It would have been to accuse
you publicly--you, my father--of a dissimulation, which you only
resigned yourself to to assure me a brilliant and honoured
existence! Can you ever forgive me?"

Instead of replying, I pressed my lips on her forehead; she felt
my tears flow. Having kissed my hands many times, she said:

"Now I feel better, and, as now I am dead to the world, I should
like to make a few bequests in favour of several persons; but as
all I have comes from you, do you authorise me, dearest father?"

"Say, dearest, and I will do all you desire."

"I should wish my beloved mother to keep always in the little
boudoir in which she usually sits my embroidery-frame, with the
work I began."

"It shall be so, love; your apartment is as when you left it.
Clemence will be deeply touched by your thought of her."

"As for you, dear father, take, I pray, my large ebony armchair,
in which I have thought of--reflected upon so much."

"I will put it beside my own, in my own private closet, and will
imagine I see you in it every day, where you have so often sat,"
I said, unable to repress my tears.

"And now I would leave some souvenirs to those who took so much
interest in me when I was unhappy. To Madame Georges I would
give the writing-desk I have lately used; she taught me to write
originally, so the gift will be very appropriate," she said,
with her sweet smile. "As to the venerable cure of Bouqueval,
who instructed me in religion, I intend for him the beautiful
crucifix in my oratory."

"Very well, my dearest child."

"I should like to send my bandeau of pearls to my good little
Rigolette; it is a simple ornament which she may wear in her
beautiful black hair. And as you know where Martial and La Louve
are in Algeria, I should like to send to the brave woman who
saved my life my gold enamelled cross. These different
keepsakes, dearest father, I would have sent to them 'from
Fleur-de-Marie.'"

"I will do all you wish,--I will not forget one."

"I am sure you will not, dearest father."

"Is there no other person present to your memory?"

The dear child understood me, and pressed my hand, whilst a
slight blush tinged her pale cheeks as I said, "He is
better--out of danger."

"And his father?"

"Better as his son is better. And what will you give to Henry? A
souvenir from you will be a consolation so dear and precious!"

"My father, offer him my _prie-Dieu_. Alas! I have often watered
it with my tears when begging from Heaven for strength to forget
Henry, as I was unworthy of his love."

"How happy it will make him to see that you have had one thought
of him!"

"As to the asylum for the orphans and young girls abandoned by
their parents, I should wish, my dear father, that--"

Here Rodolph's letter was broken off by these words, almost
illegible:

"Clemence, Murphy will conclude this letter! I am lost,--bereft
of sense! Ah, the thirteenth of January!"

At the end of this letter Murphy had written as follows:

_Madame_:--By the order of his royal highness I complete this
sorrowful recital. The two letters of monseigneur will have
prepared your royal highness for the overwhelming news I have to
communicate. Three hours since, whilst monseigneur was writing
to your royal highness, I was waiting in the antechamber for a
letter to be despatched by a courier, when suddenly I saw the
Princess Juliana enter in the greatest consternation.

"Where is his royal highness?" she said to me, in an agitated
voice.

"Writing to the grand duchess," I replied.

"Sir Walter," she said, "you must inform monseigneur of a
terrible event. You are his friend,--you should tell him; from
you the blow may be less terrible!"

I understood all, and thought it most prudent to charge myself
with the distressing intelligence. The superior having added
that the Princess Amelie was sinking gradually, and that
monseigneur must hasten to receive his daughter's last sigh, I
went into the duke's room, who saw how pale I was.

"You have some bad news for me?"

"Terrible, monseigneur! But courage! Courage!"

"Ah, my forebodings!" he exclaimed; and, without adding a word,
he ran to the cloisters. I followed him.

From the apartment of the superior, the Princess Amelie had been
conveyed to her cell, after her last interview with monseigneur.
One of the sisters watched over her, and at the end of an hour
she perceived that the Princess Amelie's voice, who spoke to her
at intervals, was weaker, and more and more oppressed. The
sister hastened to inform the superior, who sent for Doctor
David, who administered a cordial; but it was useless, the pulse
was scarcely perceptible. He saw with despair that the
reiterated emotions having probably exhausted the little
strength of the Princess Amelie, there was not a hope of saving
her left. Monseigneur arrived at this moment. The Princess
Amelie had just received the last sacrament; a slight degree of
consciousness remained. In one hand, crossed over her chest, she
held the remains of her little rose-tree.

Monseigneur fell on his knees at the foot of the bed, and
sobbed, "My child! My beloved child!" in a voice of piercing
agony. The Princess Amelie heard him, turned her head a little
towards him, opened her eyes, tried to smile, and said, in a
faint voice, "My dearest father, pardon!--Henry, too!--and my
beloved mother!--pardon!"

These were her last words. After a slight struggle of one hour,
she rendered her soul to God.

When his daughter had breathed her last sigh, monseigneur did
not say a word; his calmness and silence were frightful. He
closed the eyelids of the princess, kissed her forehead several
times, took piously from her hands the relics of the little
rose-tree, and left the cell. I followed him, and he returned to
the house outside the cloister, when, showing me the letter he
had commenced writing to your royal highness, and to which he in
vain endeavoured to add a few words, for his hand trembled too
convulsively, he said to me, "I cannot write! I am crushed! My
senses are gone! Write to the grand duchess that I have no
longer a daughter!"

I have executed the orders of monseigneur. May I be allowed, as
his old servant, to entreat your royal highness to hasten your
return as soon as the health of M. d'Orbigny will permit?
Nothing but the presence of your royal highness can calm
monseigneur's despair. He will watch his daughter's remains
every night until the day when she is to be buried in the
grand-ducal chapel.

I have accomplished my sad task, madame. Deign, to excuse the
incoherence of this letter, and to receive the expression of
respectful devotion with which I have the honour to be

Your royal highness's most obedient servant,
WALTER MURPHY.

On the evening before the funeral of the Princess Amelie, Clemence arrived at Gerolstein with her father. Rodolph was not alone on the day of Fleur-de-Marie's interment.

THE END.

* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:

This e-text was prepared from numbered edition 505 of the 1000 printed.

Minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made without comment.

Minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled correctly throughout the text have been made without comment.

Word Variations appearing in the original text which have been retained:

"ante-room" (1) and "anteroom" (1) "death-like" (1) and "deathlike" (1) "for ever" (1) and "forever" (1) "proteges" (1) and "protegees" (1) "work-girl" (1) and "workwoman" (1)

Throughout the text, illustrations and their captions were placed on facing pages. For the purpose of this e-text these pages have been combined into one entry.

Footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears.

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