Chapter VIII

"She sleeps--all is silent now,
No more heart-beats."

The most touching and beautiful affection in the world is that for parents, for their homes, and their graves. A child who reveres his mother's memory will keep his name free from blemish; for a good name is a precious heritage, and the remembrance of virtues in either father or mother will shield against bad actions like an impenetrable buckler. But, alas! a veneration for the names of our fathers is no longer in honor among men. Family homesteads are ruthlessly destroyed by those who forget that every stone is sacred to some tender memory; and it seems now that cool indifference has replaced that sweet affection which of old united parents and children. How common a thing it is in the present day to see children disrespectful to those who have given them birth; and to what can this perversion of heart, which chills all natural feelings, be attributed but a want of religious training, that sanctifying, purifying power which is based upon God's holy will and divine commandments; and faith, hope, and charity, the celestial virtues which ought to fill all hearts?

With Robert, advancing years had not weakened in his soul the tender veneration be avowed for the memory of his mother and her virtues. It was to the principles she had instilled into his mind that he was indebted for his present prosperity and happiness, for, though genius is the inestimable gift of God, it needs guidance and consecration; and all the pious sentiments which were afterward developed in his soul were from the seeds sown by that angel mother.

Robert took the road to Clermont, and could have flown the entire distance, so eager was he to get to his old home. And again and again doubts would fill his mind as to whether he would find the loved grave; whether pitiless time would not in nine years, have effaced the letters which traced the name of his mother? Clermont at last appeared in the distance, then the village of Bains, and then he was at the door of the rectory, standing with a beating heart to see a loved face, but the door is opened by a strange priest, from whom he learns that the venerable curé whom he sought was dead, but in dying he left instructions to his successor; begging that Madame Dormeuil's grave should not be neglected, which gave Robert but another proof of his imperishable love. After obeying the first wish of his heart and visiting his mother's grave, he obtained the papers which concerned him, and, opening them with emotion, read as follows:

"My dear son: I did not wish you to know the contents of these papers
until you were twenty-one, because it seemed to me that before this time
you would hardly comprehend them, and I thought it best to wait until you
had experience and maturity of judgment. You know we are rarely willing
to take the experience of others for our instruction; believing that what
shipwrecked them we would have been wise enough to have avoided; that we
would have acted better, reasoned better, than those who have preceded us
on the perilous sea called the world. The blind lead the blind, and when
we fall we are astonished. It is so with all men. Being feeble, they
think they are strong; being dependent, they think they are free; being
powerless, they think they are creatures of genius. But thou, my dear
child, wilt have more strength than those who repose in themselves the
care of their conduct, and do not invoke God to light them with his
divine rays. In the moment of trial they fall; it happened so to me, my
son, when I took my own feeble reason for my guide. But, though I have no
grave faults to reproach myself for, it is not the less true that I have
compromised thy future, and forgotten my duties as a wife and my duties
as a Christian, for I have not been indulgent and forgetful of injuries.
{71}
To-day, by God's grace, I am calm. I judge myself more severely then he
will judge me, and I feel guilty and cannot excuse myself to thy eyes, by
my youth, inexperience, and the isolation in which I found myself, when I
claimed the right of breaking the links which I ought to have respected
for my son. But it was my fault, and I will have the courage to tell you
all--to confess all my sins, and then ask for pardon. Dormeuil is not thy
name, my child; it is mine, the name of my father, a plebeian name, but
without blemish. Thy name is De Verceil, and thy father is the Count
Sosthène de Verceil. At ten years of age, I lost my father; my mother
died in giving me birth, and I was left to the charge of an aunt who was
my only relative. This worthy woman was not rich, but an annuity left her
by her husband and the revenue from some savings placed her above want,
and her kind heart pitied my orphanage, and she shared everything with
me. I owe to her five years of happiness, and oh! that it were more; her
counsels and her tenderness would have spared me the regrets I feel at
this hour. She had placed me in a school of great renown, wishing, she
said, to leave me, in lieu of fortune, a good education. Notwithstanding
my plebeian name I had a crowd of friends of rich and noble heritage, for
youth never thinks of the differences in rank or the prerogatives of
birth; and it was thus that I became the friend of an amiable young girl,
Helena de Verceil. Her brother came to see her often, and, as we were
inseparable, I was generally present at these visits. I was a simple and
candid girl, and these traits made a profound impression on the young
count, and when I left the school some months after Helena I continued to
see him from time to time, at his sister's house, for she was married
immediately after leaving school. Young, ardent, impetuous, and unused to
any resistance, the count fell easily into the snare which was held out
to his inexperience by an irresistible tenderness. His passion, far from
calming, grew stronger each day, and he resolved to overcome all
obstacles and ask to marry me, although his age and his tastes were far
from this grave determination. With his fortune and hand, he came to beg
my aunt's consent, and to pray that she would not defer his happiness.
Overwhelmed with joy at so brilliant and advantageous an offer for her
niece, she gave her consent, for in all her dreams for the daughter of
her cherished brother she had never caressed so sweet an illusion as
this. She accepted it with the more gratitude as she knew she had a
mortal malady which would soon leave me alone, in the midst of the
manifold dangers that assail youth. In taking for his wife an obscure and
poor girl the count was alienated from all his family, and his proud and
noble parents would not pardon this unworthy _mesalliance_. He
could, they said, have married a woman of rank and wealth, but this
unprofitable union to the eyes of people blinded by their titles,
whatever may have been the qualities of heart, was nothing and worse than
nothing. He could obtain no favor from them, after putting so dark a spot
on their escutcheon. These humiliations and insults would have had no
effect upon me, could I have been consoled by the tender affection of my
aunt, who saw but too late that wealth does not give happiness; and in
less than two years after my marriage I was called to mourn her loss. The
love of the count was soon extinguished, and men are very apt to be
ungrateful and cruel when they cease to love. His conduct soon proved
that he had only formed for me an ephemeral attachment, but I loved him
above everything, and with all the energy of my soul; and this love
increased when I became a mother, and I dared to believe that this title
imposed by nature, and so dear to most men, would touch the heart of my
husband, but the paternal sentiment could not triumph over the aversion
the count felt for her whom, in a moment of insensate passion, he had
taken for his wife.
{72}
For one moment a ray of joy burned in his eyes when he saw that he had an
inheritor; it was the pride of having a son, nothing more. He soon left
my side, and I saw no more of him, except in the rare moments he
consecrated to thee. Carried away in a round of pleasures, stifling in
the noise of revelry the cries of conscience, regretting his liberty,
furious at finding himself tied to a woman who was the only obstacle to
his ambitious desires, be wished to give the half of his fortune to get
clear of me; he overwhelmed me with reproaches, and flew into furious
rages about my being the cause of his misfortunes.

"One day, after a fit of fury, in which he had treated me most cruelly,
he said, 'I do not wish you to nourish this child any more; I am not
going to have him raised by you!' These words struck me dumb. I had you
in my arms, my dear Robert, and I resolved to keep you there, and fly
with you to where he could not find me. I had laid by the sum of four
thousand francs, which my aunt had left me, and some savings from my
father's pension, with the jewels my husband gave me at our marriage.
These I sold, and that, added to the rest, made ten thousand francs. I
filled a trunk with the clothing which was absolutely necessary for us,
leaving behind all luxuries, and all ornaments and jewels, save a
portrait of thy father, which is in a small medallion set in pearls, and
may aid you to recognize him. All my preparations being made, I waited
until the servants had gone to their evening meal, and then, with a
thousand precautions, left by a stairway which led to the vestibule. It
was scarcely night when I came out and found a stage to take my baggage
and myself. I did not know at first where to go, but I wanted to fly far
from the city where I had suffered so much, and to assure myself of
keeping my child; this was my only thought, my only desire. In thinking
over where I should go, I remembered that my parents were originally of
l'Auvergne, and in my childhood I had heard my father describe this part
of France, and, above all, the baths of Mount Dore. I hesitated no
longer, taking the road to Clermont, but filled with the most horrid
fears. Each time the stage stopped I fancied I saw the angry figure of
thy father, and that he jerked thee from my arms. What I suffered during
this journey I can never express to you. A thousand terrors, shudderings,
and anguishes of all kinds agitated me, until I feared I should lose my
reason. If anyone looked at me, I thought they knew my secret, and was
ready to scream with horror. The gallop of a horse made me tremble and
think I was overtaken, and my emotion would have betrayed me had the
passengers been interested in watching my movements. Every unknown person
I suspected as an enemy, and the remembrance of those hours of my life is
still so vivid that they even now fill me with horror. However, I arrived
at Clermont without accident, and remained there long enough to inform
myself of the chances of being able to find a small house to let, in the
neighborhood of the baths of Mount Dore. Here the first years of thy life
were passed, and no remarkable event has ever troubled our happy
solitude. What I have most dreaded was that I might have to return to the
world, but God spares me this; he will take me soon. Thou canst now judge
of my anguish at the thought of being separated from thee, and the
desolation of my soul, that I know will soon leave thee alone in the
world. O my child! in this hour, when my love redoubles its strength and
struggles against death to enjoy some moments more of thy sweet society,
I weep bitterly at the loneliness I have made for thee. I may, perhaps,
exaggerate my wrongs; I may have acted badly; but when the moment comes
when I will appear before my sovereign Judge, to render an account for
all my actions, if I reproach myself with voluntarily throwing off the
yoke which weighed me down, I will say also, with the same frankness,
that I rejoice to have raised thee far from the world's corruptions and
would rather leave thee alone in life than surrounded by wicked men.
{73}
I have tried to instil good principles into thy mind, and I know that
thou fearest and lovest God and will cherish my memory, and the heart is
the talisman that will preserve thee from evil. I have the firm
conviction that thou wilt never forget the sublime teachings of religion,
and that it will ever guide thee in the right way. Pardon me, my son, for
having deprived thee of thy father's caresses and protection; and as I
have need of thy indulgence, I will be indulgent to others, and efface
all remembrance of what I have suffered, and will think only of the
happiness thou hast given me. Then, if it pleases God that thou shouldst
ever find thy father, tell him that I pardoned him long ago, but that I
never forgave myself for my conduct to him. Tell him that to the last
hour of my life I regretted I could not make him happy; and, if remorse
should fill his heart, console him, my child, be to him an angel of
mercy, be prodigal of thy cares and tenderness, for repentance is a
second baptism; it is the regeneration of the soul. When thou wilt read
the lines I now trace with trembling hand, it will be long after I have
bid adieu to the transitory things of time. Thou wilt be a man and
subject to passions. If thou art pure, God be blessed a thousand times;
if thou art feeble, repent sincerely and call upon God to assist thee.
Respect, above all things, the purity of affection. Hold out thy hand to
help all who need encouragement and pity. A word of compassion does more
good than severity and reproach. What can I say more, but what thou
knowest better than I do? for I have seen little of the world, and what I
have seen makes me regard it with horror. Flee from the wicked, from whom
nothing can be gained and all lost. Whatever career you may choose, fill
it with honor and credit. Happiness consists neither in feasting nor the
brilliancy of riches; it is in the life within, in doing good and making
others happy, and in laying up treasures in heaven. Recall often the
sweet and peaceful joys of thy childhood, the twelve years of thy life
which will forever be engraven in thy heart. May these simple pleasures
inspire thee with wisdom to choose between the burning, wasting pleasures
of a vain world, and the pure joys of retirement."

Thus finished the letter.

"O my precious mother!" cried Robert, raising his eyes toward heaven, "if
thou wert living, I would say to thee, with lively gratitude, 'Thou hast
done well;' for, if I am exempt from the passions of youth, it is to thy
tender care that I owe it; it is to thy love and thy virtues that I am
indebted for that peace of mind which makes my whole life happy. O my
good mother! thy memory will ever be for me a precious talisman, and thy
least desires and wishes will be sacred orders for thy son; and I swear
by thy revered memory to try and find my father, if the Lord will permit
me."

To the confession of his mother were joined the register of the birth of Robert and the marriage of Mlle. Stephanie Dormeuil with the Count Sosthène de Verceil. Though Robert had the right to take his father's name, be did not wish it. He preferred the more humble one of his mother, and hoped, by his talent, to raise it above the noble one of his father; to efface its original plebeianism under a crown of fame. This was the generous idea of a good son, who wished to avenge the contempt his mother had received from his noble grandparents. He had now but this desire, and determined the maternal name should be cited among the illustrious.

After one more visit to the grave of his mother, and another to his loved mountain, the little house, and all the place, which spoke so eloquently of her, he set out for the classic land of Italy, the cradle of the arts and sciences.

{74}