Part 1 — FLEURANGE. BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.” TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.

PART SECOND. THE TRIAL.

XXIV.

Fleurange hastily wrapped a large white burnous around her, drew the hood over her face, and then ran to the carriage, which was waiting for her. It seemed as if heaven had sent her aid in the very hour of her greatest need. She felt that her resolutions would be carried out by means of her cousin, but in what way she could not yet see. At all events, she was no longer friendless, and one of the difficulties she had to surmount was already smoothed away.

These thoughts prevailed over all others during her short ride from the palace to the hotel. At her arrival, the sight of Clara made her forget everything for a while but the sweet memories of the past.—The Old Mansion, the fireside around which they used to gather, the family all scattered since they last saw each other—all came back with sharp poignancy, and it was with tears of joy and regret they flew into each other’s arms.

This first emotion somewhat calmed, the two cousins looked at one another. Though they had not been separated more than a year, the appearance of both bore marks of the changes they had passed through. Clara was as fresh and pretty as ever, but her fine son, whose birth had delayed her return to Germany, added to the charm of youth a certain gravity which enters into all maternal joy, and gave to her beauty the crown of dignity it had hitherto lacked.

As to Fleurange, it would be difficult to say what had changed her. Was it the elegance of her dress, which the princess did not excuse her from, even when they were alone? Or the distinguished society in which she now moved? Or was it the increased paleness of her face, and her air of depression, that gave such sweetness to her look, lent such new grace to her form, and rendered her whole person more strikingly attractive than ever?

Fleurange had passed through too many sorrows, and at too early an age, for her face ever to reflect the careless gaiety of youth. And yet, after some weeks passed in her uncle’s family, the Old Mansion was lit up with no smile more radiant than hers—it resounded with no voice more joyful. Now, her pale and noble countenance seemed overshadowed with a premature gravity. Her serene eyes, with their expression of firmness, no longer displayed the sanguine enthusiasm of youth, which used at times to light them up and deepen the gray hue of the iris into the lively brilliancy of black. Without looking a day older, she seemed to have acquired the experience of maturity, and made a correct estimate of life without having taken a step further through it.

Clara and Julian gazed at her with a kind of anxious admiration, but forbore questioning her. They instinctively felt she would prefer not to answer their questions. Besides, her own inquiries left no room for theirs. The names so dear to them all were one by one pronounced, and for some moments everything was lit up with the warmth of the far-off fireside, which, amid all the young girl’s recent emotions, she had never ceased to feel. Everything was going on well among those dear absent ones. Comfort, peace, and even somewhat of ease gradually reappeared beneath their roof. And all this was owing to Clement’s activity and ability.

“Dear Clement!” said Clara with tears in her eyes. “What a providence he has been to them all! May God bless and reward this beloved brother!”

Then the travellers spoke of themselves. They were only passing through Florence, which they had previously visited. After going around to see Perugia, and all that region so attractive to artists, they intended resuming the route to Germany. They were to pass the following year at Heidelberg, where they were impatiently awaited, Julian feeling obliged to make up for the time he had lost in this delightful journey and to undertake with no further delay the orders he had received.

Perugia!—At the very mention of this place an idea suddenly occurred to Fleurange. Before arriving at Perugia they would have to pass near Santa Maria al Prato. Could she not accompany them thus far, and seek the advice and aid of the Madre Maddalena who had always shown so affectionate an interest in her? Guided by her, she would be sure of taking the wisest course in the perplexities of her situation. If she needed courage, where find it if not with her, the very remembrance of whom often sufficed to renew the vigor of her soul? If she needed consolation, who so able to impart it? Yes, this opportunity was providential; she must hasten to profit by it; and, without speaking for the present of absolute separation, she would only obtain the princess’ permission for a few days’ absence in order to make this short journey.

Having decided on this, Fleurange breathed as freely as if a weight had been removed from her heart. Before the end of the hour, she took leave of her cousin after appointing a meeting for the following day, and re-entered the carriage which had brought her.

It was in the month of May. The air was redolent of spring-time—and spring-time at Florence. Count George’s carriage was an open calèche. As she took her seat, one of the passers-by, doubtless struck with her beauty, threw her one of those large bouquets which in that city of flowers are in every one’s hands at that season. Fleurange, without even turning her head to look at the person who offered her this delicate homage, accepted it without any scruple, and inhaled its odor with delight. She felt an unusual pleasure in the sweet fresh night air which caressed her cheek, and at finding herself thus alone for a moment with uncovered head beneath so pure and brilliant a sky. After the long confinement she had endured—passing so many days and nights in a chamber the air and light scarcely penetrated—this moment of freedom was a mental and physical refreshment of which she unconsciously had absolute need. Besides, amid all the anxious care she lavished on the princess, one thought—a constant, painful thought—had not ceased to haunt her: She had been obliged to practise continual renunciation of a tenderness which, mute or sometimes murmured, had on a thousand occasions made itself understood or divined. It was an additional relief to feel this struggle would soon end, that a means of departure was at hand, or rather of flight, and she would only have to courageously struggle and repress her feelings a few days longer. After that, she would only have to suffer; there would be nothing more to fear, either from others or herself.

The young girl’s evening ride came to an end too soon. The horses went like the wind, and brought her in a few moments to the foot of the broad marble staircase. She ascended it slowly, and proceeded at the same pace through the large salons, till she came to the one in which she had left the princess and her son. This room, it will be remembered, was the last of the suite, and opened, as well as the one next it, upon the terrace, which thus afforded an exterior communication between the two rooms.

When Fleurange came to the latter, she stopped. She feared the princess might have retired without waiting for or needing her. But not so: her son was still with her. She could distinctly hear the sound of their voices. Owing to the vernal mildness of the evening, all the windows were open, and, instead of entering, Fleurange passed out on the terrace to await the conclusion of their conversation. And, moreover, it had not yet struck ten—the hour appointed for her return.

But she had scarcely gone out before she regretted it, for she could not help hearing, not only their voices, but their very words. She was about to return when she was stopped, and rooted as it were to the ground, by a word which her ear caught, and which gave her a thrill. That word was Cordelia; and almost immediately after she heard her own name—her name, not that of Gabrielle, the only one by which she was known, but the name of her childhood, the name unknown to every one at Florence except him who now uttered it—and in such a tone!

“Fleurange!” said Count George. “Yes, mother, this name which just escaped me in speaking of her; this name as strange as her beauty, and which, like the charm she is endowed with, belongs to no one else in the world, was the one her father called her by the first time I ever saw her—a thousand times more charming than the Cordelia of which she was the original—”

Fleurange heard nothing more.—For some moments she felt ready to faint, and it was only a resolute effort of her will that kept her from falling to the ground, overcome by surprise and emotion. Was it really the count she heard speaking? and could it be his mother to whom he was talking? What madness led him to brave the princess by using such language—her whom the slightest contradiction often threw into a violent state of impatience and anger—her who could not endure the least opposition from any one? What would she say? What reply was Fleurange about to hear?

She no longer thought of stirring. She felt incapable of deciding whether it were well or ill to remain; she had but one wish—to hear the princess’ reply, and to act in consequence. Perhaps, after hearing it, she would leave the place where she stood, never to appear before her again; who could tell? Already a confused idea entered her mind of leaving the palace and returning through the streets, alone and on foot—night though it was—to the Steinbergs.

After a long silence the princess spoke, but her trembling and subdued voice, to Fleurange’s great surprise, betrayed no signs of anger. The effect was only the more profound on her who now stood quivering with silent expectation.

“Then, George, you wish to cause me the greatest mortification it is possible for a son to cause his mother—you wish to violate the promise on which I relied with so much faith and confidence?”

“Mother, I have already told you I never made any promise.”

“Enough, George. I like your frankness. Do not spoil it now by prevarication. If you made her no promise, you made me one which you have not kept—me, your mother. This is sufficient, I think, to merit my reproaches.”

“Mother—!” And George rose with an impatient air, and turned as if to go out.

The princess rose too. She seemed completely cured. It often happened that some extraordinary excitement effaced in a moment the last traces of a long and severe attack.

She put her arm around her son’s neck and drew him towards her. “George,” said she, when he returned to the place he had just left, “I ought not to trust any more in your promises, and yet there is one I beg you to make.”

“What is it, mother?”

“You will not yield to this folly without taking time for reflection?”

“I can promise that.”

“Moreover—listen to what I am going to ask—Swear you will never yield to it till you have obtained my consent.”

George hesitated. “That would be a very serious promise,” said he at length in a caressing tone, “if I did not know that in the end you never refuse anything to your spoiled child.”

“Come, come, George,” resumed his mother in an eager tone of distress, “do not make me repent of my indulgence. Give me your promise!”

“Well, mother, it should be acknowledged I ought to hesitate to give it—without ever having asked her, without even knowing how, after all, I should be received.”

The princess shrugged her shoulders.

He continued: “I am persuaded she would dispense with your consent less readily than I, and consequently my submission is under the guard of a will stronger than mine.”

The princess at first looked astonished; then, after a moment’s reflection, she said: “Perhaps you are right. No matter, give me your hand on this promise.”

George bent down, kissed his mother’s hand, and pressed it in his. “There it is,” said he, “and my promise—on my word of honor.”

“That is right, my child, now leave me. It is time for Gabrielle to return, and it would be better for her not to find you here.”

George rose, and, embracing his mother once more, left the room.

As soon as she was alone, the princess threw herself on her chaise longue, put both hands to her face, and burst into sobs.