Chapter XXII: Explanations (5)

“But was it not very injurious to his daughter’s interests to withhold her thus from all intercourse with her maternal relatives?”

“He began to realize it himself, but only when it was too late. During his illness, finding his case daily growing more serious, he made some efforts to ascertain what had become of Ludwig Dornthal, of whom we have just spoken, who was Margaret’s favorite brother, and never faltered in his affection for her. But he could ascertain nothing respecting him. Ludwig had married, and, long before, left Leipsic to settle in some other part of Germany, he could not find out what, and this fruitless effort was a source of pain, which was not the least he suffered during his last hours. He reproached himself, and not without reason, for the frightful loneliness in which he was about to leave his daughter. The poor, unhappy man bitterly expiated the imprudent and thoughtless act of alienating himself from those whose pardon he should rather have implored, or at least accepted. But it was the consequence of his disposition, which was affectionate, enthusiastic, and fascinating, I imagine, when he was young, but weak, violent, and thoughtless. He was born neither to be happy himself, nor to make others happy, and his daughter would have been almost as great an object of pity, had he lived, as she is now.”

“Poor child!” said Mademoiselle Josephine, raising her small black eyes, with an expression almost celestial lighting up her pale and wrinkled face. After a moment’s silence, she added: “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb! You will see, brother, that some good luck will befall her, or we shall have some fortunate inspiration.”

“Well, the sooner the better, for I have none. Your confidence truly excites my admiration.”

“I trust in God,” simply replied Mademoiselle Josephine.

“Parbleu! and I too,” said the doctor. “I truly believe in his goodness; I hope in his mercy; but in this case--”

“You would prefer to have the affair in your own hands?”

“Come, come, Josephine, let us stick to the point this time. It is eight o’clock, and we must positively go for that poor child. She is more lonely than ever to-day, for the sister who nursed her father, and remained with her after his death, left this morning. She must not, after so sad a day, pass this first night all alone up there.”

“Certainly not,” said the other.

The doctor continued: “She has not left that little room in the fourth story for a fortnight, with the exception of this morning, when she followed her father to the grave, and since her return how do you imagine she has been occupied? Here, look at this.”

Mademoiselle Josephine took the paper her brother held out, and 653 glanced over it. It was a list of the poor artist’s debts.

“The whole amounts to five hundred francs, which are here. She asked me to settle the bills and procure the receipts.”

“I see that, according to her calculation, one-fourth of this sum is intended for the physician who attended her father,” said Mademoiselle Josephine slowly.

“Who, in such a case, will not accept it, of course.”

“Of course not,” said his sister. “Out of this sum one hundred and twenty-five francs will be returned to her, then?”

“Yes, sister, and that will be the amount of her fortune.”

“While we are talking, then, she has absolutely nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

Their conversation at this point was interrupted by a low knock at the door, and almost immediately the girl of whom they had been talking appeared before them. She stopped and leaned against the wall. The doctor sprang toward her.

“Poor child!” he exclaimed. “While we were idly talking, she was faint from exhaustion and fatigue.”

She had, in truth, fallen into a chair against the wall, and seemed losing consciousness. Mademoiselle Josephine hastened to support her head, and bathe her pale brow and colorless cheeks with cold water. Every movement of the doctor’s elderly sister had become prompt and decided. At a sign from her brother, she disappeared an instant, but returned almost immediately with a vial and a glass of water in her hand.

“That is it,” said the doctor. He let fall a few drops into the glass, which he then held to the young girl’s lips. Two or three swallows seemed to revive her.

“Excuse me,” she said, raising her head, and forcing herself to rise. “Excuse me, both of you. I did not think myself so weak, and did not intend to give you so much trouble when I came to see you.”

“Do not talk now, but drink the remainder of this.”

Fleurange put the glass to her lips, but returned it to the doctor without tasting it. “I cannot,” she said, “I feel dizzy. I do not know what ails me--perhaps it is the surprise I have just had. Here, monsieur, read this. It was to show you this letter I came down.”

The doctor took the letter, but, before reading it, led Fleurange to the fire, while the active Josephine, divining her brother’s wishes, placed on the table a bowl of soup and some bread and wine.

Fleurange took Mademoiselle Josephine’s hand between her own: “Thank you,” she said in a low tone. “Yes, I think it was that: I am generally strong, but--but--”

“I dare say you have not eaten anything since yesterday?”

“No; and I am hungry.”

The doctor briskly rubbed his spectacles, and abruptly opened his snuffbox, while the young girl hastily took the slight repast, which brought a lively and unusual color to her cheeks. Her face was generally very pale. Her large eyes, calm and mild, gray rather than blue, shaded by lashes black as her hair, gave her a peculiar and striking appearance. But notwithstanding this peculiarity, notwithstanding her paleness, the delicacy of her features, and the pliancy of her form, which swayed like a reed at every movement, if obliged to characterize in two words the general impression produced by the appearance of Fleurange d’Yves, those words would be: simplicity and energy. Doctor Leblanc was doubtless right in thinking 654 that one so young, beautiful, and destitute needed protection, and yet it required only a glance to see that she, better than any else, could protect herself.

The doctor still held in his hand the letter she had given him. It was dated at Frankfort.

“MY DEAR NIECE: It was only yesterday, and by the most
unforeseen chance, we at last learned the state of your father’s
health and where he lives. None of us have seen him since his
marriage with my poor sister Margaret twenty years ago. You know
there was at that time a profound hatred against France
throughout our country, and my father would never consent to
receive a Frenchman as his son-in-law. Then my poor sister (God
forgive her!) left the paternal roof to marry the man of her
choice. My father was exceedingly grieved, very angry, and at
first implacable, but before his death he forgave her. She was
past knowing it. From that time we lost all trace of your father.
We only learned he had left Pisa with his child, and, for a long
time, had given up all hope of ever seeing him again, or knowing
my poor sister’s daughter, when yesterday a stranger, passing
through this city, accidentally showed me a picture he had just
purchased at Paris--the work, he said, of a dying artist. This
painting represented Cordelia kneeling beside her father, and the
canvas bore the name of Gerard d’Yves. The painter’s address was
given us by the owner of the picture, and I hasten to profit by
it to tell you, my dear child, that your mother’s relatives have
not forgotten the tie that binds them to you. If you ever need a
shelter, you can find one beneath our roof. My wife and children
already regard poor Margaret’s daughter with affection. The latter
have thought of her from infancy as an absent sister whose return
they awaited. If God restores your father’s health, bring him
among us. If otherwise ordered, come yourself, my dear child. The
stranger who put us on your track told us the artist’s daughter
was the original of his Cordelia. If the resemblance is correct,
it does not diminish our desire to see you. Come soon, then, my
dear niece. At all events, answer this letter promptly, and be
assured of the affectionate regard of your uncle,
“LUDWIG DORNTHAL.”

“Josephine! Josephine!” exclaimed the doctor. “Here, read this: but, first, embrace me. Yes, you were right. Your trust was better than my wisdom! Yes, yes, God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. Poor child, embrace me also.”

Fleurange rose: “Oh! very willingly,” said she as she threw herself sobbing into the doctor’s arms. Fatigue, grief, and the emotion caused by the unforeseen and unhoped-for offer of a refuge at the very moment of extreme need, all combined to agitate her mind, excite her nerves, and exhaust her strength. Her heart swelled with the emotion she could not repress, and tears unrestrained came to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and fell like rain on her clasped and icy hands, while a convulsive movement agitated her breast, and her trembling lips gave utterance to a feeble cry.

The doctor allowed her to weep a long time in silence, not uttering a word to increase her agitation, and yet saying nothing to repress it. At length the paroxysm subsided, and Fleurange rose quite confused.

“Excuse me once more,” said she; “I am distressing you, instead of showing my gratitude as I ought. I could not restrain myself, but I think I can safely promise it will not happen again. I seldom give way 655 to tears.”

She uttered these words in a firm tone, drying her tears, and throwing back her hair with her two hands as if to cool her brow, then she rose.

“Where are you going, pray?” asked Mademoiselle Josephine in an abrupt tone of authority.

“Why,” stammered Fleurange, “I am going up-stairs. I--”

“Perhaps you are thinking to spend the night all alone in the cabinet next the chamber--the chamber--” She stopped. Fleurange turned pale, and her lips trembled as she replied:

“What can I do? It is sad, it is painful, I know well; but it must be done. Besides, I am not afraid: I feel I am under your roof.”

“Well, for the present you shall also be under the protection of our lock and key,” said the kind Josephine: and, taking Fleurange by the arm, she led her into a little chamber next her own, where a small bed surrounded by white curtains was in readiness for the young girl. This little chamber, with its walls covered with blue paper, and lit up with a good fire, had a most cheering aspect.

“Here, child, is your chamber and your bed,” said she. “Come, come, no thanks, and, above all, no tears! Go to bed at once without giving yourself the time to think, still less to say a word. You think you are not going to sleep, but you are mistaken. On your knees? Well, I consent to that, but let it be a short prayer. That is right. Now stop till I gather up your thick hair. Is your head easy on that pillow? Well, I am glad. May God, and all good angels, watch over you! Allow me to kiss your forehead. Good-night!”

Mademoiselle Josephine lowered the curtains of the bed, and softly left the chamber, while the poor orphan, in fact, lost all remembrance of the sorrows and joys of the day in a profound and beneficent sleep.

The chamber to which Mademoiselle Josephine had taken Fleurange rightfully belonged to the doctor’s niece, now at school in one of the convents at Paris, but which she occupied during her vacation. However, it was far from being vacant the remainder of the year. Mademoiselle Leblanc was one of those persons who are devoted to the searching out of the unfortunate, and the alleviation of their woes. In such cases, he who seeks finds, and that without difficulty, consequently a week seldom passed without offering a good reason for opening the blue chamber for a few days’ shelter to some poor girl out of work and destitute of a home, or to a poor abandoned child, or some one recovering from illness but too feeble to resume work. The doctor heartily approved of this. He would gladly have added to his dwelling a veritable _succursale_ for the accommodation of his poor patients, and if he was not yet rich enough for that, though he reaped the benefit of his skill and celebrity, it was partly because he gave away with one hand what he received in the other, and that with a generosity not always in conformity with prudence. When there was a question of benevolence between the brother and sister, one was not more disposed than the other to count the cost. They had invented a proverb, worthy of the Gospel, which they made use of in reply to the remonstrances of their friends: “He who gives alms, grows rich,” they said; and they continued to enrich themselves in this way by giving themselves up, both of them, to a noble excess of charity. Fortune, in fact, had not been unfavorable to them, and thus far had remained 656 unfulfilled the sinister prophecies of those who take as a _devise_ quite a different proverb, respecting charity, too well known and too often acted upon in the world. Doctor Leblanc and his sister knew nothing, it is true, of the luxury of elegant quarters and fine equipages. They still lived in a street of the Latin quarter where they were born; an old servant was the sole assistant of the cook; and Mademoiselle Josephine continued to preserve order and neatness around her with her own hands. But at all times they were magnificent in their own way; and the artists they encouraged, the scholars befriended, and the sick gratuitously attended and generously aided, added to the renown of the distinguished physician and gave to his name a reputation he did not seek. Simple and learned, healing the body and respecting the soul, he loved his profession as a mission from heaven, and practised it as a sacred ministry with respect and with love.

II.

When Fleurange opened her eyes on the following morning, it was late, for it was broad daylight and in the month of December. She must have slept very profoundly, for she had not heard any one kindle the fire already blazing in the chimney. Her slumbers must have been such as in youth succeed great fatigue or prolonged efforts to endure anxiety and grief in silence. The fit of weeping the evening before and the long repose of the night had brought double refreshment to the exhausted strength of the young girl, and her first sensation was one of delicious comfort.

But her remembrances soon became more distinct, and the anguish of the first awakening after a great misfortune made her heart sink within her. She had, it is true, known her father but little. The convent where she had been reared was not even in the town where he dwelt, and she saw him but seldom during her childhood. But the days when he appeared at the convent were to both great festivals. It was difficult to understand how a father so glad to see his child could voluntarily have allowed her to grow up away from him. But the time of reunion came at last, and for several weeks they rambled around Italy together. In unveiling all its wonders to a mind naturally capable of appreciating them, the artist felt all the enthusiasm of his youth revive. But it was a flame only rekindled to be extinguished. Soon came symptoms of illness, the sad return to Paris, the fluctuations of disease, which enfeeble the mind as well as the body, and separated the child from her father while he was yet alive, and she night and day at his bedside. His look that gave back no answering glance, the words she murmured in his ear without making him understand, convinced her of her loss before the separation by death which soon followed.

“O father! father scarcely known and so soon lost!” Such was Fleurange’s cry, and perhaps an involuntary reproach mingled with her accents of grief. She did not suspect it was a sublime and paternal instinct that had influenced the poor artist in separating from his child. He wished her to be self-reliant; he wished her to be pious and pure; he wished her rare mental gifts only to be developed when order, an immutable and divine order, was established in her soul; finally, 657 he desired her to be all that he himself lacked, and God blessed this desire.

In a beautiful spot near Perugia, he found at the head of a charity school one of those women whom the world itself would honor and venerate if it comprehended them. By the _world_, I mean the mass of light and scoffing people who are hostile to every sentiment in which they have no share, and, above all others, to religious sentiments. Yet this world is, on the whole, suspicious rather than unjust, and incredulous than false: if it sees the semblance of evil, it immediately supposes it real; if it sees the appearance of goodness, it at once imagines this appearance deceitful; but when virtue is unquestionably manifest, irrecusable in its simplicity and truth, and succeeds in being regarded in a true light, the world--even the world of which we have been speaking--generally bows down before it. The thing is rare, it is true, more so than it should be, because the most perfect natures aim not at displaying themselves, but at concealment; and the world to which I refer seeks not to discover, but to deny, their existence.

Madre Maddalena was one of these great hidden souls. No one ever spoke of her, or of her little monastery, intended for the education of poor children, but where a limited number of girls of a more elevated class were also admitted. Like so many other monasteries in Italy, this one was in a poetic and charming situation, but not one of those visible afar off on the lofty summits that command views which ravish the eye and transport the soul--views that kindle a desire in the most indifferent heart to keel before them, and that have inspired Christians to perpetuate prayer amid them in permanent sanctuaries.

The Convent of Santa Maria al Prato was, on the contrary, in a deep valley, and surrounded by a landscape like those in which Perugino and Raphael placed their divine creations or their sacred representations. Afar off were mountains whose outlines were clearly defined on the horizon in soft and harmonious colors; a stream wound through olive groves, now and then encircling rustic dwellings--the evident handiwork of a people with an instinctive taste for the arts; the sombre verdure of a knot of pines or cypresses contrasted here and there with the azure of the morning sky or the purple tints of evening: such were the principal features of the landscape. The beauty of such a scene subdues and reposes, as that of sublime summits transports and exalts, and seems designed for meditation and labor, as the other for contemplation and ecstasy.

It was to this retreat Fleurange’s father was providentially led--perhaps guided by the protective inspiration we love to attribute to mothers who are fond of their children. It was in the hands of Madre Maddalena that he left his daughter as soon as she was five years old, and, until the day she was eighteen, he only saw her twice a year. But from year to year he felt more sure of having realized the aim he had proposed respecting her. Fleurange had, nevertheless, no proof to give him of her progress under the form of prizes obtained or crowns conferred. The solemn occasions when such trophies are distributed were unknown at Santa Maria al Prato, as well as the examinations for which the memory is burdened for a day with facts that are often remembered no longer. In fact, they did not aim at giving her varied instruction, but they taught her how to learn, and 658 gave her a taste for study, work, and silence.

She was naturally sincere and courageous; she also became skilful and active. Madre Maddalena seemed to have foreseen that this young person, so sheltered in her early years, would one day be unusually exposed to the rough combat of life. She probably did not foresee that Fleurange would soon be left alone; but what she had read of her father’s nature, what she knew of his history, made her comprehend that prudence and a certain premature experience would serve as a safeguard to his daughter. What would have been true had her father lived, was no less so now his death left her entirely to herself.

Fleurange resisted the temptation of remaining in bed absorbed in sad thoughts. She hastily rose, and was quite ready when Mademoiselle Josephine entered her chamber for the third time. A smile enlivened the features of the elderly maiden when she saw the effect of a good night’s rest on the countenance of her _protégée_. The latter, affected and grateful, and retaining the Italian habits of her childhood, bent to kiss the hand of her benefactress.

“Do not kiss my old hand,” said Mademoiselle Josephine, “but my cheek, if you like; now, let us not keep my brother waiting. It is nine o’clock, our breakfast-hour which never varies.”

Fleurange followed her hostess to the breakfast-room, which was next the parlor. The furniture of these two rooms had not been renewed for more than fifty years, but nothing seemed dilapidated, thanks to the exquisite neatness that everywhere reigned.

The doctor was already seated at the table. His sister took her place opposite, giving Fleurange a seat between them.

“You have quite recovered,” said the doctor, extending his hand to the young girl. “I am very glad to see it; but, for fear of relapse, you must remain under my eye for some days to come. Everything has been arranged, and from this time till your departure you will return no more to the fourth story.”

“What can I say, monsieur? You are both so kind, and I love you so much that I accept alms from your hands without shame and almost without pain.”

“I forbid you making use of so shocking a word,” said Mademoiselle Josephine.

“Yet it is really alms,” said Fleurange in a sad but firm tone, “for I have nothing of my own, and if in want of a piece of bread to-day, I should have to extend the hand of a beggar.”

“Come, come! you are not reduced to that yet, thank God! But let us drop this, and speak of something more important. You must answer your uncle’s letter without delay.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Fleurange. And after a short silence, she added: “I am going to ask him to be kind enough to receive me for a month.”

“But from his letter, he seems disposed to offer you a much more extended hospitality than that.”

“Perhaps so, but I am only willing to accept it till I have found the means of living without being a burden on him.”

“What is your intention, then?”

“I do not know,” said Fleurange; “but there are many means of gaining a, livelihood, are there not? Well, I shall endeavor to find one not beyond my strength.”

The doctor looked at her, and then said: “There are certainly many things not beyond your strength, but yet unsuitable for you.” 659

“Why?” asked Fleurange.

“They would be unsuitable for one of your age and condition.”

“Why so?” repeated she.

“I will explain myself after you tell me what you think of doing.”

“Come!” said Mademoiselle Josephine impatiently. “There is no need of so much circumlocution in telling her that, when one is young and pretty, caution is needful. If the child does not know that, the sooner she is warned, the better it will be for her.”

“Young and pretty,” repeated Fleurange quietly without the slightest embarrassment. “Yes, I know that will be a great obstacle to me in my position. It would be much better to be homely and ten years older. I had already thought of that. It is very unfortunate; but what can be done?”

The doctor smiled. He had never heard any woman admit her own beauty with so little vanity. Fleurange’s simplicity, the childlike candor of her large eyes, the expression of which was yet grave and thoughtful, struck him, and he felt an increase of the interest which up to this moment had been excited by the young girl’s destitute condition, rather than herself. He resumed, still smiling:

“As to this misfortune, you must resign yourself to it, at least for twenty years to come.” But seeing that Fleurange did not smile in return, but, on the contrary, became more and more thoughtful, he continued: “Besides, if you ever come to that, we will find a means for surmounting the difficulty.”

Fleurange’s face expanded. “Oh! thank you, monsieur; if you could realize how much courage I have. And then,” she added, “I assure you there are a great many things I know how to do.”

“For instance?” said the doctor.

“First, the instruction of children, to which I think myself adapted. I love them, and they are generally fond of me also, and readily obey me.”

“What else?”

“I know Italian and German (for I have made it a special point to understand my mother’s native language thoroughly). My father thought me also a good reader, and preferred my voice and accent to those of any of the numerous readers and speakers he had heard. His fondness perhaps blinded him to my defects; yet he might have been right, and I could try.”

“Hem!” said the doctor. “There is much to be said for and against that talent.”

“Finally, monsieur, I can do all kinds of work. I know how to sew well--to wash, iron, and sweep. I could even cook a little.”

The doctor again regarded the noble countenance of the young girl while she thus complacently enumerated the humble and laborious employments she thought herself capable of. She was evidently sincere. Her ability and willingness to do all she said could not be doubted. He was affected, and remained silent.

But Mademoiselle Josephine exclaimed with enthusiasm: “That is what I call an education! And who, my dear child, taught you so many reasonable and useful things?”

Tears of emotion filled Fleurange’s eyes. “It was my dear Madre Maddalena,” she replied.

This answer elicited fresh inquiries, to which Fleurange replied by minutely relating the way in which her childhood had passed. The doctor’s satisfaction increased with every word of her account, which, nevertheless, made a breach in two of his prejudices. 660

Without any antipathy to pretty faces, they inspired him with a kind of mistrust, or at least of solicitude, which his long experience had doubtless very often warranted. But in regarding this young girl, so self-reliant and so modest, so courageous and so delicate, and who seemed ready to struggle so bravely against the difficulties of life, how could he be angry with her for being beautiful, and how help overlooking it in one sense?

The doctor had also a singular and, considering his belief as a whole, an inconsistent prejudice against convents. He seemed to have retained this point of agreement with those whom he habitually opposed on every other subject. And here was an education which accorded not only with all his ideas, but with all his whims--a conventual education. He would be obliged to somewhat modify his opinions on this subject, as well as on some others, and he resigned himself to it with a good grace.

They finally resumed the subject of the letter to Frankfort. The doctor and his sister already began to look forward with sorrow to the departure of their young _protégée_, but they felt it was for her interest not to delay joining the relatives who had invited her at so opportune a moment. By their advice, Fleurange immediately began her letter. Short and to the point, it was soon completed, and she gave it to Mademoiselle Josephine. The latter began to read it with an air of satisfaction, but when she came to the signature, a cloud suddenly appeared on her face.

“What is it?” said Fleurange. “I have made some mistake or blunder?”

“No, you have not: the letter is very well, it could not be better, but, but--”

“What, then? Tell me frankly, I beg of you.”

“Well, it is--indeed, I dare not tell you.”

“Pray tell me,” said Fleurange, “what has displeased you? There is nothing in the letter I am not willing to correct according to your advice.”

“It is--but you cannot change that.”

But what is it, then, dear mademoiselle? You really frighten me,” insisted Fleurange with a disturbed air.

“You cannot change your baptismal name,” said the other, at length.

“My baptismal name?” exclaimed Fleurange with surprise. “Does my name displease you to such a degree? I am sorry, for Madre Maddalena liked it so much! She said it signified _the flower of the angels_--the fairest of all the angels--the angel Gabriel, whom she considered my patron. And she called me Gabrielle as often as Fleurange.”

“Gabrielle!” cried Mademoiselle Josephine eagerly. “Gabrielle! Ah! that is a name everybody can understand. So that is the meaning of Fleurange, according to your Madre Maddalena? Then I beseech, I conjure you, to assume that name and give up the other!”

The doctor had for some minutes been occupied in reperusing Professor Dornthal’s letter, which he kept the evening before; he now raised his eyes, and attended to the conversation. While Fleurange was still hesitating what reply to make to Mademoiselle Josephine’s singular request, he said:

“I do not understand my sister’s persistency on this point. As to my own opinion, it is opposed to hers. But it may be that the simpler of the two names will be more in conformity with the tastes of the good 661 German family that awaits you, and perhaps Gabrielle would have a better reception than Fleurange. Besides,” he continued, smiling, “your young cousins beyond the Rhine would doubtless pronounce the name in a way to diminish its charm and deprive it of all meaning according to the pious and poetical interpretation you have just given it.”

“That might be,” said Fleurange, smiling in return. “Anyhow, I will do as you advise respecting it.”

“We will take it into consideration,” said the doctor. Then, glancing once more over the professor’s letter, he continued: “Do you know the name of the stranger who, by buying the last picture your father painted, has unwittingly rendered you so great a service?”

“I do not. That picture was sold with the remainder when, at the beginning of his fatal relapse, my father saw his finances diminishing, and lost the hope of ever repairing them. My poor father!” she continued with a trembling voice, “he was very ill the day he made me sit in order to finish that picture--” Fleurange suddenly stopped and blushed. The doctor’s look seemed to demand an explanation, and she continued artlessly, but not without confusion: “The owner of the picture is perhaps the stranger who visited the studio that day. At least, I acknowledge the idea has repeatedly occurred to me.”

“For what reason?”

“Because he was so delighted with Cordelia, and begged permission to see it after its completion. But my father, from that day, was obliged to give up the use of the brush, and the picture was sold as he left it, with the others.”

“Was this amateur a German?”

“I do not know. He spoke French very well, but with a slight accent, I know not what.”

“Was he some great lord?”

“I do not know--I have never seen a great lord.”

“But what kind of an air had this visitor--God bless him!” interrupted Mademoiselle Josephine.

“A lofty and noble air, a remarkable physiognomy, and a grave and sonorous voice,” replied Fleurange. “But, in spite of the gratitude I perhaps owe him, the remembrance of his visit always troubles and depresses me.”

“Why so?” said Josephine.

“Because it was the cause of the last and fatal crisis of my father’s malady, who at that time even could not bear the slightest agitation. I do not know the words the stranger murmured as he glanced at me, but they greatly excited my father, who requested me in a tremulous voice to leave the studio. As a general thing, he never allowed me to enter it at the hour for visitors. The evening of that day he spoke to me in an agitated manner of the lone condition in which I should soon be left, and gave me some incoherent counsels, which were his last words. He never recovered his full mind after that.”

“Poor man!” said the doctor; but he did not pursue the subject that led to this account. Fleurange’s fleeting blush disappeared, and she was again pale and calm as before, her pen in hand ready to correct her letter according to the doctor’s advice. After a final deliberation between the young girl and her elderly friends, it was decided that the letter should be sent after it was signed _Gabrielle d’Yves_.

III. 662

The day Margaret married Gerard d’Yves, the aged Sigismund Dornthal blotted out his daughter’s name from his will, and gave orders that it should never be uttered in his presence. Notwithstanding this, softened by illness, and urged by his second son Ludwig, Margaret’s favorite brother, he soon consented to send her his forgiveness and blessing, but when they reached Pisa poor Margaret had just expired! In the fury of his despair, which increased the impetuosity and thoughtlessness of his character, Gerard tore up the letter containing the long-delayed pardon, and only replied in these two words: “Too late!”

It was thus the aged Dornthal was informed of his daughter’s death. He himself died shortly after, ignorant of the existence of the child to whom she had given birth. His property was divided between his two sons, but Ludwig, devoted to study, and already in possession of a professor’s chair at Leipsic, entirely abandoned to his elder brother the administration of their common fortune, and Heinrich Dornthal became the sole head of the commercial and banking houses founded by Sigismund. He thenceforth made use of his brother’s capital as well as his own, paying him regularly his income, without any interference in his business on Ludwig’s part. The latter was at the same time pursuing so brilliant a career as to attract the attention of all the learned men of Germany to his labors. One of these, a resident of Frankfort, invited him to pass at his house the annual vacations of the numerous students who attended his lectures. The result of these visits was that this professor’s daughter became Ludwig Dornthal’s wife, and, in the course of time, the mother of his five children. The professor, when he married, resigned his position at Leipsic to settle in his wife’s native place. There, free from a professor’s duties, he had leisure to write books that constantly added to his reputation and increased his income, which the flourishing business of the commercial house alone made sufficient.

Such was, in a few words, the condition of the new home that awaited Fleurange. A second letter came promptly in reply to hers. Her uncle expressed the liveliest joy at having found her, and invited her very particularly to arrive at Frankfort in time for Christmas, so dear to the Germans as the time of family reunions. To do this she would have to leave Paris, at the very latest, on the twenty-first of December, for at that time it took three days and nights for the journey to Frankfort. The doctor and his sister, though sorry to part with their young _protégée_, hastened the preparations for her departure. They were touched by the cordial tone of this unknown uncle’s letters, and predicted a happy life for her in his family, which they did not wish to defer. But every day added to their attachment to Fleurange and to her tender gratitude to them.

“If this continued a week longer,” said the doctor, “I could not part with that child.”

“Then she must start soon,” replied Mademoiselle Josephine; “it is for her good, and we should do wrong to keep her with us.”

Fleurange said nothing, but her eyes turned sadly from one of her old friends to the other. At length came the last day she was to pass with them. She made an effort to repress her tears, that she might not distress them, and quietly put up her modest packages, actively aided 663 by the doctor and his sister.

“An English proverb which I think very reasonable,” said the doctor, “places the hospitality which speeds the parting guest on a level with that which welcomes his coming: it is that which I am now showing you, my dear Fleurange.”

Fleurange had just hastily finished the repast always so sad before a journey. The doctor perceived her courage failing. He was himself greatly affected by her pale and youthful countenance, and in thinking of the long and lonely journey she was about to undertake, at the end of which she would be received by people, perhaps kind, but wholly unknown. Nevertheless, he resumed with an encouraging voice:

“Come, come, child, everything looks favorable yonder; show your courage, and do not allow yourself to be cast down.”

“You are right,” said Fleurange, rising. “I feel I have reason to bless God, and I only desire to be grateful. Be sure, at all events, that I shall be courageous.”

It was eight o’clock in the evening: the fiacre was waiting at the door to take her to the diligence. She went out, accompanied by the doctor and his sister, who entered the carriage with her. The night was dark, and the snow falling in great flakes, which the young girl, reared beneath the sky of Italy, now saw for the first time in her life. The spectacle excited curiosity mingled with fear. The new and the unknown seemed to surround her on every side, and these two things, generally so attractive to those of her age, bore now an aspect more calculated to depress her young heart than to expand it. She involuntarily shivered, and drew around her slender form the thick cloak that felt too thin to protect her from the severity of the weather, to which she was so unaccustomed. They all remained silent for some moments. Fleurange pressed Mademoiselle Josephine’s hand, and carried it from time to time to her lips, in spite of the efforts of the latter to prevent it.

Mademoiselle Josephine, on her side, with a faltering voice renewed a multitude of counsels, which had already been repeated a thousand times--among others, to write to them often and regularly. Then she slipped on her arm a small basket which her provident kindness had filled with everything that could be useful to her on the way, as well as more than one souvenir which, when far distant, would recall her old friends.

They arrived too quickly at their destination. “I have bespoken a place for you in the coupé,” said the doctor, getting out of the carriage. “You will be in company with one of my patients, still very feeble, but who will absolutely go to Germany to rejoin her husband. She has two children with her, and they will be your only travelling companions.”

“Thank you,” said Fleurange. “The prayers of the orphan are said to draw down blessings: may you both experience the effect of mine!” She could not utter another word. She threw her arms for the last time around Mademoiselle Josephine’s neck, and the next instant, leaning on the doctor’s arm, she was crossing with some difficulty the littered court at the end of which they found the diligence. The snow had delayed them on the way, and now rendered every step difficult. The other passengers had taken their places, and they were only waiting for Fleurange. The horses were harnessed, and to the noise of their stamping the driver added his impatient exclamations. “Come, come! We 664 are off!” he repeated in a rough voice. Fleurange, hurried, pushed about, stunned, and frightened, had only time to press the doctor’s hand once more and spring into the coupé. The door was instantly shut. A fearful clashing of irons, mingled with cries, blows of the whip, and vociferations, above which could be heard: “Adieu! à revoir! à bientôt!” with other exclamations much less harmonious, and the heavy diligence was in motion. Fleurange, now free from the necessity of any restraint, allowed herself the solace of giving vent to her feelings and letting her tears flow freely and abundantly.

She continued to weep for a long time without the least attempt at repressing her emotion. Why should she? She was alone, entirely alone now. She had never been so to such a degree before. All the events of the past faded away in the distance, and the future offered nothing to replace them. She was separated from all whom she had loved from her infancy, either by death or indefinite absence. Would it be so always? Was that to be her lot on earth? Would she never be permitted to love with assurance, trust, and a sense of repose? Was she to be always thus torn from places and persons at the very moment her heart began to cling to them?--her heart, so tender and ardent, which she had so often felt beating with tenderness and joy, with admiration and enthusiasm? And while her eyes peered out through the darkness of night at objects that seemed in the obscurity like pale phantoms, her imagination set before her, as in a magic mirror, all the different scenes of her past life: the beautiful cloister of Santa Maria al Prato, with the terrace at the top, where the eye could wander so far, and the sweet and noble features of Madre Maddalena; then came the varied remembrances connected with her father; first, the rapid vision of Italy in all its splendor, then the terrible and dismal days at Paris, and finally, at the darkest hour of all; the beneficent forms of her old friends, whom she never wished to leave, but whom she had just bidden farewell--perhaps farewell for ever!

It was impossible for Fleurange, at this moment, to control her sad thoughts. But, now and then, her reason recalled those who awaited her, the welcome she had a right to expect, and the goodness of Divine Providence in opening such a refuge; but in vain--consolation seemed unable to find an entrance into her soul, and, in spite of her nature, despondency obtained the mastery.

“If they are kind, and I love them,” she said to herself bitterly, “I shall soon have to leave them. If, on the contrary, they --” Here her imagination had free course and depicted the future in the darkest colors. But this new reverie had not the clearness of the first, and before long her anticipations began to mingle in vague confusion with her remembrances. Little by little, fatigue, the motion of the vehicle, and the influence of night lulled the young girl asleep, and transformed into uneasy and indistinct dreams all the thoughts that had successively assailed her.

Fifteen minutes after, she was suddenly awakened. Something quite heavy had fallen against her shoulder and thence into her lap. She sat up, and, groping in the obscurity, her hand came in contact with the long silky hair of a child. From the first, she had rather supposed than seen a pale, sick young woman in the opposite corner of the coupé, with her arm thrown around a child beside her, against whom slept another still smaller. It was the latter who had just suddenly 665 changed his position. Fleurange began to comprehend the case, and bent down to raise him softly to a more comfortable seat in her lap. Then she drew his little sleepy head against her, and kissed the sweet face now near her own. This trifling incident had the sudden and unforeseen effect of putting to flight all the phantoms her imagination had been conjuring up to increase her sorrows. She recalled her interior murmuring with remorse.

“O my God!” she cried, pressing the child in her arms, “if I love this poor little one, whose features I have not yet seen, if I am ready to watch the night long over his slumbers, what wilt not thou, who art _my Father_, do for thy child?” She raised her eyes a moment in prayer, not with her lips, but in her heart. The snow had ceased falling. The clouds passing away, the heavens appeared brilliant with stars. The cloud had also passed away from Fleurange’s soul, and a mysterious light from on high was infused therein. She gazed at the starry sky with delight, then closed her eyes, and again slept sweetly, the child in her arms sleeping as profoundly as herself.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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SEVERAL CALUMNIES REFUTED; OR, EXECUTIVE DOCUMENT No. 37.[130]

In addition to the secular press, which seldom misses an opportunity of saying something ungracious of the Catholic Church, we have published in the United States over a hundred so-called religious newspapers, the principal stock-in-trade of which seems to be unlimited abuse of everything Catholic, and unqualified misrepresentation of all who profess or teach the doctrines of our faith. No dogma or point of discipline of Catholicity ever finds favor in the eyes of the individuals who fill the columns of those publications, and no man or woman who may see fit to devote his or her life to the dissemination of the Gospel is safe from the malice or scurrility of their pens.

For the honor of the American character we are sorry to say that we have daily evidence of this blind prejudice and reckless disregard of truth on the part of this class of editors, many of whom arrogate to themselves the title of “reverend”; but we have some consolation in knowing that the more intelligent members of the sects are fast growing tired and ashamed of such senseless appeals to their passions and ill-founded traditions and that the time is not far distant when such efforts to sustain a sinking and indefensible cause will be encouraged only by the ignorant and wilfully blind.

These repeated and continuous attacks on the church are not the work of any one sect or confined to any particular locality, but are general with all Protestants, and extended over the whole country. As long as 666 they are confined to newspapers, and afford employment and remuneration to a number of persons who probably could not gain a livelihood in any other manner, we scarcely consider them worthy of serious attention; but we have had recently placed before us an official document, printed at the public expense for the edification of the United States Senate--and no doubt widely circulated throughout the Union under the convenient frank of many pious members of Congress--in which are reproduced calumnies so gross, and falsehoods so glaring, that we consider it our duty not only to call public attention to it, but to demand from our rulers in Washington by what right and authority they print and circulate under official form a tissue of fabrications, misrepresentations, and even forgeries, against the religion, and the ministers of that religion, which is professed by five or six millions of free American citizens.

This document, known as _Executive Document No. 37_, XLI_st Congress_, III_d Session_, was furnished by Mr. Delano, Secretary of the Interior, in compliance with a resolution of the Senate, passed February 2, 1871, and is composed exclusively of information supplied by Rev. H. H. Spaulding to A. B. Meacham, Superintendent of Indian Affairs, who in his letter of transmittal says:

“I am respectfully requested by the Rev. H. H. Spaulding, the
oldest living Protestant missionary in Oregon, to place on file
in your department the accompanying documents, giving a history
of the early missionary work and labors of Dr. Marcus Whitman,
himself, and others; the progress and civilization of the Indians
under their charge, without aid from the government; also, a
history of the massacre of Dr. Whitman and others; also,
resolutions of Christian associations in answer to _Executive
Document No. 38, House of Representatives_, and a variety of
historical information, which it would seem proper to have on
file, or placed in some more permanent form for future history.”

It may be remarked that the letter from which the above is an extract is dated on the 28th of January, just five days before the passage of the Senate resolution, and evidently in anticipation of such action on the part of that body. “No one,” says a distinguished senator, “except the few in the secret, knew anything of the matter until the document was printed. All the previous proceedings were as of course.” The documents that were thus to be “placed in a more permanent form for future history,” apart from their uniformly infamous character, are perhaps the strangest in origin and composition that have ever been presented for the information of any deliberative body, much less one of the gravity and importance of the Senate of the republic. They consist mainly of extracts from the religious press, so-called; inflammatory letters from jealous and disappointed preachers, including the Rev. H. H. Spaulding himself; depositions written out by that indefatigable hater with his own hand, and changed in many essential points after having been sworn to and removed from the control of the deponents; false quotations from _The Account of the Murder of Dr. Whitman_, by the Very Rev. J. B. A. Brouillet, V.G., and others’ statements of the massacre; an address from the professors of that advanced educational institution called Oberlin College, Ohio; answers to leading queries addressed to Oregon officials, based on a false and supposititious statement of facts; and, lastly, a report adopted and endorsed by eight associations, including the Old School, New School, Cumberland, and United Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists, 667 Congregationalists, and the “Christian Church of Oregon,” and claiming to represent thirty thousand brother members, all of whom, though differing radically in other respects, are suspiciously unanimous in denouncing the “Jesuits,” and equally positive in affirming a previous condition of affairs, their knowledge of which must of necessity have depended solely on the statements of the veracious Rev. H. H. Spaulding. In style, the documents are unique, and have a very strong family resemblance. It is a judicious mixture of sanctimonious cant seldom heard outside of a camp-meeting, with a dash here and there of Shakespeare and the modern poets, to give it variety, we suppose.

Now, whence this solemn assembly of presbyteries and conferences, this pile of affidavits and newspaper extracts, and the desire of the Senate to be enlightened as “to the early labors of the missionaries of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions in Oregon, commencing in 1836”? Simply this. On the week commencing on the 29th of November, 1847, more than twenty-four years ago, a certain missionary to the Cayuse Indians, named Dr. Whitman, who had resided among them for several years, was, with his wife and twelve other Americans, brutally murdered by the savages; and it is now attempted by Spaulding, who was his friend, and missionary to the Nez Perces, a neighboring tribe, to fix the guilt of this foul outrage on the missionary priests who in that year accompanied the Rt. Rev. A. M. A. Blanchet, Bishop of Nesqualy, to Oregon, and who, it is alleged, instigated the Indians to commit the deed in order to get rid of the Protestant missions. At the time of the slaughter, there was with others under Dr. Whitman’s roof a young woman named Bewley, whom one of the chiefs desired to have for his wife; and it is also asserted that not only did the priests encourage her to yield to the Indian’s wishes, but forced her from the shelter of their home and refused her any protection whatever. Other charges growing out of this sad calamity, such as baptizing children with the innocent blood of their victims on their hands, inhumanity to the prisoners left unharmed, attempting the precious life of Spaulding, supplying the Cayuses with guns and ammunition, etc., are likewise alleged, but the first two are the principal counts in this clerical indictment.