Part 2 — FLEURANGE. BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.” TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.

PART SECOND THE TRIAL.

XXVIII.

More than twenty-four hours had elapsed. Fleurange was already far away, and the incidents of the preceding days only seemed like a succession of troubled dreams. The conversation she heard on the terrace between the count and his mother, that which she herself had with the latter, her interview with George at San Miniato, the mysterious bouquet in the evening, and the sudden reappearance of Felix the next day—all these remembrances came back, one by one, but were all effaced by that of the farewell which succeeded them.

Yes, she had bidden him adieu for ever; whereas he smilingly said, “A rivederla!” and his mother, giving her hand graciously to her young protégée, continued to the last to play her part in this drama of two characters, which she and Fleurange alone understood.

The young girl also sustained hers without exhibiting any weakness; but in kissing the princess’ hand she gave to the words “Addio, principéssa!” an accent the latter fully comprehended the meaning of. She embraced her in return with involuntary tenderness, and even with an emotion that might have been considered surprising for so short an absence. George observed it, and felt more reassured than ever. Therefore, after Fleurange’s departure, what he felt was not so much sadness, as the need of some distraction powerful enough to relieve the insupportable ennui caused by her absence.

As to her, alone with Julian in the coupé of the vetturino, while Clara, her child, and a young Italian waiting-maid occupied the interior, she could not give herself up to the thoughts that were suffocating her. She must still continue the effort of concealment, and assume a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, which was more antipathic to her nature than anything else. She was to turn off to Santa Maria at the small village of Passignano, where they expected to arrive on the morning of the third day, and she did not intend announcing to the Steinbergs her intention of accompanying them to Germany till they stopped at the monastery on their way back from Perugia. By that time all her plans for the future would be more definitely arranged. There were some vague intentions floating in her mind as well as some irresolution, which she scarcely comprehended herself. She wished for the penetrating eye of her maternal friend to aid her in deciphering the confused condition of her mind and soul. Until then she was resolved to remain silent.

Her conversation with Julian dwelt principally on their unexpected meeting with their unhappy cousin.

“After serious reflection,” said Steinberg, “it seems to me impossible to do anything without running the risk of injuring the unfortunate man.”

“It appears he is now leading a respectable life,” said Fleurange.

“Yes; and for that very reason it is important to him that the past should not be made public. As Count George avails himself of his services, he must, I suppose, have had good recommendations.”

Fleurange made no reply. She did not venture to say she had often heard George reproached for his indifference to the position or reputation of many he employed in his collections, or the researches in which he was interested. “What have I to do with their private lives,” he would sometimes say, “in the kind of work I require of them? If they are intelligent and capable, that is sufficient. When I have an inscription to be copied, or a passage in a manuscript to be transcribed, I rather employ a capable rogue than an honest blockhead.”

Without knowing precisely why, this connection between Felix and George inspired Fleurange with involuntary terror, and, much as she wished it, she could not put the latter on his guard without betraying Felix’s real name and position. In short, the fatal remembrances connected with the cousin were now changed into a painful presentiment which added a darker shade to the sadness she sought to conceal.

After a long silence she resumed: “The Marquis Adelardi seemed to know the person who was with Felix the evening we met him?”

“Yes; and to have a poor opinion of him.”

“Did you question him afterwards on the subject?”

“I was desirous of doing so, and in the course of that evening at the princess’ I tried to introduce the subject. But he appeared to answer with repugnance. I was also cautious in my questions, so I was able to obtain very little information.”

Julian stopped, but after a moment’s reflection continued:

“The Marquis Adelardi, from what I learned at Bologna, was once connected with a conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy!”—exclaimed Fleurange with alarm. “The excellent and agreeable marquis? What are you saying, Julian?”

Julian smiled. “Come, Gabrielle, you need not be so frightened. I do not mean to imply he is a criminal, but I think that during one period of his life he was connected with some revolutionary agitation in Italy, and was brought in contact with more than one suspicious character, and Felix’s companion was probably one of them.”

The conversation was not prolonged, and Fleurange remained silent for a time. Julian’s last words added a new fear to all the painful impressions—some definite and others vague—which already weighed on her mind and heart. She pitied Felix, but she was more afraid of him. She now regarded his strange billet as a bold attempt to frighten her or excite her interest—an irresistible temptation to aim at effect, which he yielded to at the risk of being discovered. George’s connection with this bold and restless spirit filled her with greater anxiety than ever. It seemed at last as if so many things at once had never weighed upon her young heart, and that clouds were gathering on all sides around her.

At Passignano she left her travelling companions, and took a small vehicle for the monastery. All the dresses and ornaments the princess had added to her modest wardrobe were left in Barbara’s care during her supposed short absence, and the only luggage she brought with her from Florence was a small valise. This was at once deposited beside the driver, and, as soon as the young girl was seated, the calèche immediately started off.

The road gradually ascended, but this was only perceptible from the increasing beauty of the prospect which became more and more extensive. Afar off lay Lake Thrasimene, gleaming in the sun like a brilliant sheet of silver; nearer, a small stream, whose name, after twenty-two centuries, still recalls the memorable battle that ensanguined its waters, wound through the plain where it was fought.[199] It is stated in history that, during that famous day, neither the Romans nor Hannibal’s soldiers noticed the earthquake which rocked the ground beneath their feet. It might have trembled anew, and our poor Fleurange would perhaps have been equally insensible, so greatly absorbed was she in a struggle of another kind—between her will to do right and the violent inclinations of her heart.

She was now completely alone for the first time for a long period, and seemed to have regained her liberty of thought. Freed from the necessity of struggling against the softening emotions that would have enfeebled her courage, she could now yield without restraint to the pleasure of living over the past six months of her life. She leaned her weary head back, closed her eyes, and allowed her memory to recall all those dear but vain remembrances. She saw him once more whom she never expected to behold again; she listened anew to the voice she would hear no more; she allowed herself to tell him all she had so often repressed. It was a prolonged and dangerous dream, followed by a sorrowful awakening. And it profoundly troubled the peace of her soul, which, with her firmness, she had preserved only by a constant effort during the period of trial her youth had just passed through. “And it is ended!—ended!” she exclaimed, with a cry almost of despair, hiding her face in her hands. “I shall never behold him again!”

Suddenly she heard the mellow sound of a distant bell which revived a whole world of past impressions. She hastily raised her head and looked around. She was passing through a grove of acacias that shaded the winding road. Beyond were some large pines and a few rustic dwellings. Passing by one of them, she heard a voice exclaim, “Evviva la Signorina!”—and further on: “La Madonna vi accompagna!” Shortly after she passed under a half-ruined arcade which looked like a vestige of antiquity. The bell was still ringing, but its sound was more distinct, for they were approaching the chapel.

“What, so soon!” she cried, clasping her hands. “Have we arrived?”

At the end of the avenue the carriage turned to the left, passed by the chapel, and at length stopped before a small gate-way of sculptured stone, surmounted by a statue of our Saviour, at whose feet the following words in relief were distinctly legible: Venite ad me omnes qui laboratis et onerati estis, et ego reficiam vos.

Fleurange sprang from the carriage and eagerly rang. The gate opened: a soft expression of surprise and welcome greeted her. She replied with a smile, but did not stop, for at the farther end of the cloister she perceived her whom she sought.

It was noon: the children were just being dismissed from school, and Madre Maddalena stood looking at them as they went out, now and then saying some kind word. Fleurange, suddenly appearing in their midst, threw the little procession into disorder. Mother Maddalena, astonished, looked reprovingly towards the person who had unexpectedly disturbed the order of the time and place. She looked again—again hesitated—then at length her arms opened with an exclamation of joy:

“Fior angela mia!—Dear lamb returned to the fold!”

And the returned wanderer, falling into the arms of her mother, forgot in a moment all the fatigue, the dangers, the sufferings she had endured on the way, and all the thorns that had left their traces on her wounded feet.

XXIX.

The chapel was dim, cool, and filled with the odor of the fresh flowers on the altar and the incense used at the morning service. The nun and the young girl knelt for a few moments to offer up thanks to God as the preliminary obligation of their reunion, and invoke the Friend above all others who is not only the great I am, but Love itself. Fleurange soon rose up at a sign from the mother, and followed her into a well-known apartment on the ground floor called the garden parlor.

Like all convent parlors, it had no other furniture but a square table in the middle of the room, some straw-bottomed chairs ranged around, a book-case with a large crucifix on the top, and a statue of the holy Madonna on the other side, at the foot of which stood a vase full of flowers. What distinguished this parlor from all others of the kind was the view through the broad arched window on one side, and on the other through the open garden door. The beautiful landscape we have already described, bounded on the distant horizon by the sublime but graceful outline of the mountains, had in the foreground an abundance of flowers more carefully cultivated than is usually the case in convent gardens. At the right, the eye caught a glimpse of the arches of the cloister, and on the left the dense shade of a small grove of orange-trees now in bloom, beyond which was an orchard with vines interlacing the fruit-trees, and a carefully cultivated vegetable garden—the principal resource of the convent larder. Some doves were flying between the cloister and the garden, and during the hours of conventual silence there was no other sound within the peaceful enclosure but the noise of their cooing. But at recreation time the cloister, as well as the garden, resounded with the voices and laughter of the children, and Mother Maddalena’s parlor was not always as quiet as when she ushered Fleurange into it.

The door was scarcely closed when the nun took the young girl’s face between her hands, and attentively examined it, as if she would read the depths of her soul.

Mother Maddalena was about fifty years of age at this time. She had been uncommonly beautiful in her youth, and there was still a regularity and nobleness in her time-worn features which were set off by the white bandeau and guimpe that encircled her face like a frame to a picture. A long black veil fell in deep folds nearly to the ground. Her black eyes were uncommonly large and mild, and had an extraordinary expression sometimes seen in eyes devoid of any other beauty, and is exclusively peculiar to those which reflect that mysterious and ineffable joy which Bossuet calls “incompatible,” and says, to be tasted, “il faut qu’elle soit goûté seule.” Such was the look, full of divine joy and superhuman peace, now fastened on Fleurange, whose limpid eyes did not avoid the scrutiny, but remained fastened on those of the Madre. Only her pale face flushed and then grew paler than before.

“Poor child! poor child!” said Mother Maddalena at length after a long and silent examination. “Alas! how much she has suffered.—But no evil has tarnished her heart.” With her right hand she made the sign of the cross on Fleurange’s pure brow, and then pressed her lips to the same spot, adding, with a smile of satisfaction: “The Angel Gabriel, to whom I confided her at parting, has restored her to me, like a faithful guardian whose inspirations have been obeyed.”

Whether Fleurange now lost her customary self-control, or did not try to conceal her feelings in Mother Maddalena’s presence, while the latter stood looking at her silently, she burst into tears.

“Yes, I understand,” said the mother—“a great effort was required to overcome the natural tendencies of the heart, to act and to speak without the relief of weeping!—But my poor child succeeded, and is weary from the exertion—” She continued in a softer tone: “But it is the weary and heavy laden that have the promise of finding rest, and it is in this house especially that this rest awaits those who ask it of him who has promised it, and who alone can give it!—Come,” continued she in a firmer tone, after allowing Fleurange to weep some time in silence—“come, my dear Gabrielle, lift up your heart—the heart so susceptible of pain! Try to rise a little above your sufferings—sufferings which enfold the germ of so great a joy!” murmured she to herself, “whereas the joys of the world contain the germ of so much suffering!—Come, my child, come with me.”

The last words were uttered in a tone of mild authority. Fleurange unhesitatingly rose, and followed her across the garden, now exposed to the ardor of the sun’s says, into the small grove where the foliage was so dense that it was cool at mid-day. A flight of steps led to a little oratory in this peaceful solitude, where the pupils assembled towards sunset for prayers; but now it was entirely empty.

Mother Maddalena seated herself on a bench in front of the oratory, and Fleurange took a place near her.

“Now tell me, not only what I already know, but what I am still ignorant of.”

It was hardly necessary to articulate these words, for Fleurange had not come with the intention of concealing a single thought. She therefore began her account, and, at the mother’s request, went back to the very day she left the monastery with her father. She gave an account of her travels in Italy, with all her first impressions: her residence at Paris, and all her sufferings there; her life in Germany, with all its pleasures: then the ruin of her family and their separation; and, finally, of Florence—Florence with all its emotions, its joys, its dangers, its acute pains, and its fearful temptations.

For the first time in her life she uttered Count George’s name without hesitating, and related without any reticence or circumlocution all his name revived—everything! from the wild dreams that preceded their first interview to the reverie of the present day from which the convent bell roused her. She related everything simply, clearly, firmly, and in a tone which, as she proceeded, revealed more and more clearly to the ear attentively listening that her rectitude of soul was not changed or its vigor enfeebled.

Clearness of perception and energy of action were the two germs, as we have already said, that induced Madre Maddalena to believe, if sown in the heart and watered by the dews of divine grace, without which all our perceptions become dim and all strength fails, would enable this child, in spite of her youth, her beauty, and all the tendencies of a tender heart and an ardent temperament, to walk with a firm and sure step in the path of life.

She now saw her hopes realized, and thanked God for it. But she looked, nevertheless, with inexpressible compassion at Fleurange’s youthful face. Life was still so long before her, and from the very beginning the combat had been so arduous! It is true, her courage had thereby been tempered, but the day of rest was yet so far off! so many storms might yet rise, so many perils gather around her! From the safe port that sheltered her own life, she looked off over the sea of the world, on which floated this frail bark, praying in her heart to Him who commandeth the ocean and ruleth the storm to snatch her from the threatening waves and land her safely on the shore.

“I was not deceived,” said she, when the account was ended. “No, my child, you have not mistaken the path of duty, but have courageously followed its leadings. I could not be otherwise than satisfied with you. Fleurange, I give you my blessing, and God will bless you also.”

Saying these simple words, she softly laid her hand on the young girl’s head. This act, and the words accompanying it, increased the sensation of inexpressible comfort and solace, which was the natural effect of the complete unburdening of her mind. A divine peace, as it were, descended upon her, and enveloped her as a garment.

“Oh! madre mia!” she exclaimed, “let me abide here with you—never leave you again, nor this peaceful asylum!”

Mother Maddalena smiled, and was about to reply when the bell gave four strokes.

“We will talk about this another time,” said she. “The bell calls me away now, and I must leave you. We shall see each other again at the evening hour of recreation. I suppose you have not forgotten the way to your room. And you still remember the rule, I hope, and how the day here is divided. The bell rings at the same hours as before. Nothing is changed here.”

XXX.

It would not be easy for those who have never had this sweet experience, to realize the effect of being suddenly transported from the affairs and pleasures of the world, with all its cares and sorrows, to such an atmosphere as now surrounded Fleurange.

But if every one does not feel the need of pausing thus on the way through life, we cannot understand the astonishment and ironical disdain with which some, unwilling to make the trial, speak of these temporary retreats from the world, so customary in former times, and somewhat so in ours. Do they find life, then, always so pleasant and easy to bear? Does joy succeed so surely to joy in the happy succession of their days? and have these days so assured a duration that it would be useless to regulate their course or reflect on their end? Or have these persons such perfect control over their thoughts that no distraction ever disturbs their equilibrium, and the need of pausing for reflection and rest is never felt? We do not know. But what seems indubitable to us is that, for a great number, this rest is as refreshing as pure water and a shady spot of repose to the weary and thirsty traveller. And there is no doubt that our poor heroine belonged to this number. And this is why, in leaving Madre Maddalena, she returned to the chapel instead of going up to her room, and there, in the profound silence of the sanctuary, passed a whole hour in tasting the sweetness of an unburdened heart, and the sense of divine security which does not depend solely on the temporary shelter of the body, but on that deeper feeling of a permanent shelter of the soul which nothing earthly can affect.

If we consider all the sufferings this young girl had so recently passed through—if we remember that the enthralling influences of love had surrounded without tarnishing her, but still not without lending a disenchantment to every other but the object of her love, we shall not find it very surprising that in this spot, at this hour, she should have thought of cutting short her worldly life, and, without going any further in search of happiness, henceforth impossible, or a destiny that must ever remain imperfect, of devoting herself to the highest of all aims—that whose object is God alone, and the welfare of those whom he loved most while on earth—children and the poor.

Even at Florence, during the period of so much anguish, the cloister of Santa Maria appeared like a refuge, and more than once the idea of never leaving it had occurred to her then, as well as while listening to Madre Maddalena. But now the idea became more decided, and took possession of her imagination with an intensity stronger than ever before. She welcomed it, and gave herself up to it with a kind of pious intoxication. She tasted beforehand the bitter pleasure of sacrifice; she accepted with interior transport the perspective of absolute renunciation of all the joys of life; and when at length she brought her long meditation to an end, and prepared to leave the chapel, it seemed to her as if she had just received a supernatural inspiration.

She would have sought an interview with Mother Maddalena at once, but she knew it was a time when she was occupied in the school-room, after which she devoted a whole hour, towards the close of the day, to the poor who from far and near came to consult her about their affairs or relate their sorrows. The morning was given to the distribution of food, medicine, and assistance of all kinds of material wants, and the evening was consecrated to the exercise of charity under another form, the recipients of which were often more numerous than the others.

Fleurange was not unaware of this, and she decided to remain quietly in her room without attempting to see the superior again till after supper. But when, at the close of school, she saw two nuns taking the children to the oratory in the grove of orange-trees, she went down to join in the prayers that ended their day. The vine blossoms in the orchard united their sweet and delicate odor to that of the orange-trees, and, when this little perfumed grove resounded with the hymns of the children, it seemed as if all nature united with them in offering heaven the incense of praise. Prayers over, Fleurange joined the nuns and their pupils, and for awhile it seemed as if the peaceful days of her childhood had returned. Then came the silence of the refectory. But when supper at length was ended, she went in pursuit of Madre Maddalena. She knew she should not find her in her parlor, but on the terrace over the cloister which commanded a view of the country around. It was there she loved to remain in fine weather till the very close of day.

What Fleurange was so eager to say we know already. To think aloud was natural to her, and required no effort with Madre Maddalena especially. Besides, she only wished to resume the conversation interrupted in the morning, and make known all she had thought, and felt, and resolved upon during the time she passed in the chapel.

Mother Maddalena stood with her arms folded, and listened this time without interrupting her. Standing thus motionless in this place, at this evening hour, the noble outlines of her countenance and the long folds of her robe clearly defined against the blue mountains in the distance, and the violet heavens above, she might easily have been taken for one of the visions of that country which have been depicted for us and all generations. The illusion would not have been dispelled by the aspect of her who, seated on the low wall of the terrace, was talking with her eyes raised, and with an expression and attitude perfectly adapted to one of those young saints often represented by the inspired artist before the divine and majestic form of the Mother of God.

“Well, my dear mother, what do you say?” asked Fleurange, after waiting a long time, and seeing the Madre looking at her and gently shaking her head without any other reply.

“Before answering you,” replied she at last, “let me ask this question: Do you think it allowable to consecrate one’s self to God in the religious life without a vocation?”

“Assuredly not.”

“And do you know what a vocation is?” said she very slowly.

Fleurange hesitated. “I thought I knew, but you ask in such a way as to make me feel now I do not.”

“I am going to tell you: a vocation,” said the Madre, as her eyes lit up with an expression Fleurange had never seen before—“a vocation to the religious life is to love God more than we love any creature in the world, however dear; it is to be unable to give anything or any person on earth a love comparable to that; to feel the tendency of all our faculties incline us towards him alone; finally,” pursued she, while her eyes seemed looking beyond the visible heavens on which they were fastened, “it is the full persuasion, even in this life, that he is all—our all—in the past, the present, and the future; in this world and in another, for ever, and to the exclusion of everything besides!—”

Fleurange, accustomed to Madre Maddalena’s habitual simplicity of language, looked at her with surprise, and was speechless for a moment, struck by her tone and her unusual expression, no less than the words she had just uttered. A deep blush suffused the young girl’s cheeks and mounted to her forehead.

“My dear mother,” said she at length, casting down her eyes, “doubtless it is not given to all to feel such love for God; especially to love him thus to the utter exclusion of all else here below; but,” she continued with emotion, “is not the voluntary sacrifice of all the affections and joys of the world a holocaust likewise worthy of being offered him?”

Mother Maddalena’s eyes resumed their usual expression of mildness: “Yes, assuredly, my poor child. I did not wish to insinuate a doubt as to that. How could I, in this house, open to all who suffer, and where among our sisters—and not the least holy—are several who have brought hearts crushed by the sorrows of life? But still, that is not the irresistible call of God which we consider a genuine vocation. And what I wish you to understand, my dear Gabrielle, is this: if I know you—and who knows you as well?—you are one of those whom God would have called thus, had it been his will your life should be consecrated to him in the cloister. It is not for one like you to vow yourself to him through discouragement or disgust of the world, or because its happiness has lost its enchantment. The struggle has been severe, I know, but on that account would you have it ended? No. Gabrielle, on the contrary, you must resume your strength to continue the contest.”

Tears came into Fleurange’s eyes, and she bent down her head with an expression of sadness.

“Oh! my poor child,” resumed the mother, “it would be much easier for me to tell you to remain and never leave us again! It would be sweeter for me to preserve you thus from all the sufferings that yet await you. But believe me, the day will come when you will rejoice you were not spared these sufferings; and you will acknowledge that she who is now speaking to you knew you better than you knew yourself.”

The stars were now beginning to appear in the dim azure of the heavens, and the last gleams of daylight were fading away. It was the hour of the Ave Maria. The bell soon announced it, and they said the familiar prayer together before going down to the cloister.

XXXI.

After this conversation, Fleurange resolved not to reconsider the subject, but to renounce for ever the thought she had clung to for a moment with so much ardor. This submission, the effect of her simplicity and decision of character, did not prevent her from feeling it would require a great effort to begin a new life once more. And life would seem new to her, even in the Old Mansion, for she was no longer the same. An abyss separated her from the peaceful, happy days she passed there. But the Old Mansion was now like a dream that had vanished, and it was to an unknown place she was to direct her steps. The friends who would welcome her were certainly dear, and sometimes the thought of seeing them again made her heart beat with joy; but this feeling was frequently overpowered by stronger and more recent remembrances, and, in spite of all her efforts, regret—a continual, poignant regret—made her indifferent to everything except this great sacrifice, which would have been a sublime consolation, but which henceforth she was forbidden to think of.

The days did not pass, however, one by one, without infusing into her soul the benefit of retirement. It seemed to her as if the past and the future were suspended.

Recollections and anticipations ceased to preoccupy her, and, as if in a bark equally remote from these two shores—too far off to hear a sound from either side—she allowed herself to be rocked on the waves as on the ocean in serene weather, giving herself up to the calmness and silence of her present life, with no other feeling but the infinite peace that surrounded her, and seeing nothing above her but the ever smiling heavens! Such days cannot last, but they do not pass away without leaving some trace, were it only a remembrance full, not of regret, but of encouragement. The momentary sense of exquisite sweetness soon evaporates; but its strengthening influences remain, and develop in the soul that has tasted it once—even for an instant in life!

It was necessary, however, to begin to think of her departure, and of some pretext to offer the princess which would not appear like an arrangement. For this she awaited the return of the Steinbergs. Though it would be painful to reveal to them the real motive of her decision, she preferred to do it rather than give them also an imaginary reason.

But a sad, unforeseen event occurred which spared her any concealment or such an act of frankness. She had been at the convent about ten days when she was informed that the travellers had arrived an hour before at a neighboring inn, and her cousin was waiting in the garden parlor to see her. The sight of Clara’s charming face always afforded her pleasure, and it was now increased by the satisfaction of presenting to Madre Maddalena one of the daughters of Ludwig Dornthal, whose opportune appearance in her life was regarded by the mother as a striking proof of the intervention of the glorious archangel whom she had given her as a protector, and Clara Steinberg’s arrival at the convent had been anticipated as a festa.

But this festival was destined to be saddened. Fleurange was to learn sad news from the letters awaiting her cousin at Santa Maria. The young girl’s friend—so faithful and ready to aid her—the excellent Dr. Leblanc, was no more! He had sunk under the effects of an accident met with while taking a drive with Professor Dornthal in the environs of Heidelberg.

When Madre Maddalena appeared, she found the two cousins in tears, and her sweet smile of welcome was changed into anxious inquiries. Some moments were necessary for the explanations she asked for, and it was only after her soothing words and the peace that emanated from her presence had somewhat calmed Fleurange’s agitation that she had courage enough to open a letter from Clement containing the details of the cruel accident that had cost her old friend his life—the friend to whom her thoughts had so often turned during her recent perplexities, and who was taken from her in the very hour of her life when his aid and advice seemed most essential.

Clement wrote: “In returning from a drive to Stift-Neuburg, the carriage was upset and broken, and they were thrown violently to the ground. At first my father seemed the more injured of the two. He was entirely unconscious, and did not recover his senses for some hours. We are now, however, relieved from nearly all anxiety concerning him. His friend, whose senses never left him for a moment, declared from the first he had received some grave, internal injury from which he could not recover. Nevertheless, he prescribed all the necessary remedies himself, but at the same time made all his arrangements with admirable firmness: wrote to his sister, sent for a priest, and this at a time when we did not think him in danger. But on the third day his anticipations were verified—his case grew more serious. His poor sister had just arrived the day before yesterday, when he died in her arms.—

“Dear cousin,” Clement continued, “I have one request to make before I close, and this not in my own name, but on the part of my mother: Return, Gabrielle; if possible, return at once; at all events come soon. The sacrifice you imposed on yourself is no longer necessary, and your presence here is indispensable. My poor father is continually asking for you, and cannot be made to understand your absence. No wish to convince you, my dear cousin, would make me think deception excusable. You may believe me, then, when I repeat that the aid you so generously afforded us is now superfluous. You can without any scruple return home—your home, unless, which God forbid! your own choice leads you to prefer another. Poor Mademoiselle Josephine has but one wish—to see you again. She says it is the only consolation she looks forward to. Hilda is now with us; it is unnecessary to say she desires your return, and equally so to tell you your brothers beg and expect it.—”

Fleurange no longer needed a pretext. She would neither be obliged to reveal nor conceal anything—everything was arranged for her by the overruling force of circumstances, and her letter to the Princess Catherine became all at once easy to write. It was despatched that very day, and as soon as the sun began to gild the mountain-tops the next day but one, Madre Maddalena for the second time saw the child she so truly loved cross the threshold of her convent home to encounter once more the dangers of the world.

Would she again return?—return like the dove, beaten by the tempest, who has found no rest for the sole of her foot, to take refuge once more in this asylum of peace? Or was she gone to return no more? and would she now find the world smiling, and its freshness renewed, and her pathway smoothed before her and strewn with flowers? She did not seek to know. Mother Maddalena, as we are aware, did not consider such anticipations very important. She only hoped her feet might be guided by light from on high, and her courage in pursuing life’s journey unfaltering. She asked no more.

Besides, the ardor of the sun has its dangers as well as the storm, and the clearness of the soul’s heaven may be obscured in pleasant as well as in tempestuous weather. Let us, therefore, leave to God the appointment of every incident of our lives, and be solely solicitous of fulfilling our course well, without being anxious as to the way.

“And then—the way is short, however long it may seem, and it leads to that true life where we shall for ever live together, dear Gabrielle—where all your poor heart has vainly wished, sought, and hoped for here below will be given in full measure, pressed down, and running over; where all it has suffered here will bear no comparison with the radiant joys of eternal life! God is faithful. Let us wait. And what is it to wait—to wait thus, with sure faith in his promises for eternal reunion with God?”

Such were the last words of Mother Maddalena. She gave her blessing to Fleurange, who knelt to receive it, closed the convent gate behind her, and ascended to the terrace to follow her as long as she could with her eyes. Then she went down to the chapel, and there on her knees tenderly wept and prayed for her. For there is no affection equal to that of such large hearts expanded and filled with the love of God. And we shall be convinced of this if we recall the excessive devotedness of which they are capable—and they alone—through love for the most unknown of their brethren. Then we shall see what such hearts are to the objects of their affection, that they are kindled with a flame which purifies and tempers all that is noble and worthy of being developed, but prompt to extinguish and consume all that is frail, frivolous, impure, and of no permanent value.

XXXIII.

The Princess Catherine, in an elegant morning négligé, was alone with the Marquis Adelardi in her small salon when a letter was brought her on a silver salver. She glanced at the address.

“Ah! from Gabrielle,” she exclaimed. “The very letter I was expecting to-day.”

She opened it and hastily ran over its contents. “Very well done, very,” she said. “Nothing could be more natural. She hit upon the very best thing to say. It would be impossible for me to refuse without cruelty, as George himself would acknowledge. Here, Adelardi,” continued she, throwing him the letter, “read it. It must be owned that this Gabrielle is reliable and true to her word. Moreover, she has a good deal of wit.”

Adelardi attentively read the letter.

“What you have just remarked, princess, is very true, but this time circumstances have favored you. This letter was not written for the occasion; it is sincere from beginning to end. This young girl can keep a secret, but is incapable of prevarication. This is not the kind of a letter she would have written, if the contents were not absolutely true.”

“Do you think so?” said the princess. “It is of no consequence, however, as to that, though it would simplify everything still more. But in that case—Ah! ciel! let me look at the letter again.”

She now read it entirely through, instead of merely glancing at the contents.

“But in that case I have lost my physician—and the only one who ever understood my case. This, par exemple! is a real misfortune. If he had had time, at least, to answer my last letter, and tell me what springs I should go to this year! Whom shall I consult now? May is nearly gone, and next month I ought to be there. Really, I am unlucky!”

“What do you expect, princess?” said the marquis in a tone imperceptibly ironical. “One cannot always have good luck. On the other hand, you have just had your very wish!”

“I acknowledge it, and, to come back to Gabrielle, I must confess I have no reason to be otherwise than satisfied with her. Yes, we have had a lucky escape, Adelardi. But I can hardly forgive her for the fears she caused me, and the anxiety I still have.—What of George since yesterday? What humor will he be in for the news I have for him?—But what are you brooding over, Adelardi? You make me uneasy with your look of anxiety. I hope you do not think he is in danger of any new folly?”

“What kind of folly?”

“You know very well—the only one to be dreaded at present. Are we to have another of the scenes we have already witnessed?—Will he elude us, and follow her?—Or—how shall I express it?—will he, by way of diversion, do worse, and go from Scylla into Charybdis? One never knows what to expect from him.”

“Well, princess, I acknowledge I wish I were sure this young girl, in sacrificing herself—for you do not imagine, I suppose, that she is indifferent to George’s attractions—”

“It does not seem very probable,” said the princess; “but I hope you do not imagine I take into consideration the effect George would naturally produce when he takes pains to captivate a young girl of twenty, and especially one in Gabrielle’s position.”

Adelardi made no reply, but his face, already grave, grew still darker.

“Once more, Adelardi, what is the matter? One would really think you in love with her yourself.”

“By no means, though I fancy she might, in her turn, easily captivate anybody. Nevertheless, I have used all my efforts to withdraw George from the charm I fully saw the danger of before you. But to return to what I was saying: I wish I felt sure of never regretting the time when this noble girl’s influence seemed so formidable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, princess, I assure you I wish she were here to-day, that the charm of her presence might retain him every evening in this salon, from which, without speaking to her, or scarcely looking at her, he could not tear himself away when she was present. You see how different it is already, now she is gone; and why? Because these days, that seem so long, and the evenings so dreary and vacant, have revived a passion as dangerous to him as play or love. Pardon me, princess, I know his affection for you and his friendship for me; but we are both aware he cannot endure ennui, and should not be astonished that Gabrielle’s absence has left a void in his existence whose effect produces the greatest, the most intolerable ennui in the world. I feel it myself, and, were it not for the absorbing interests that preoccupy you, you yourself would endure with ill grace the sudden disappearance of this ravishing creature, the very sight of whom—”

“Come, come, Adelardi, be calm, or I shall again say—”

“No, princess, I am not in love with her, you may rest assured; but as for George, I doubt this moment if it were not better for him to be, and remain so, whatever might be the result, rather than—”

“Well, do finish; you terrify me to death.”

“Rather than be again seized with this mania for politics—a passion fatal to him, you know, and which may lead to the greatest imprudence.”

The princess became thoughtful.

“Yes, I am indeed aware of it. I know it but too well; but since his return I have found him so much calmer on this subject that it has not worried me.”

“It was because he was taken up with something else; but, owing to an encounter which unfortunately coincided with Gabrielle’s departure, and diverted his attention at the very moment he had absolute need of distraction, he is now so absorbed and led away that I truly regret, instead of her indefinite absence, we cannot announce the immediate return of her who, better than any one else—perhaps the only one in the world—could really save him from this new danger.”

“Thank you, my dear friend. That, par exemple, is a regret I can hardly sympathize in.”

“I venture to say, moreover,” said Adelardi, “that, sure of the future as he believes himself to be, thanks to your admirable diplomacy, we shall find him much more resigned to this news than might have been supposed.”

“I really hope so,” replied the princess, smiling, “especially as another fancy has taken possession of his mind, as to which, I must confess, I do not feel very anxious at present. ‘Un’ alla volta per Carità!’—We had to rally to the weakest point first; the enemy was at hand, and that enemy—love! Every means had to be used to rout him. Now the subject of politics is threatening to engross him. We will take that in hand later. The only thing that seems to me of real importance at present is to efface as fully as possible the remembrance of this beautiful Fleurange, for, among other discoveries, I find that to be Gabrielle’s real name. To this end I even welcome politics as an ally to be accepted for a time for certain reasons, but to be turned upon as an enemy the moment its services are no longer required.”

At this moment a servant appeared to ask the princess’ wishes respecting a picture just brought. She left the room a moment, and returned laughing.

“Guess what picture it was?” said she.

“Probably some new acquisition; some wonderful discovery you have made in your rounds, like that picture by Cigoli you got thrown into the bargain the other day when you bought the frame it was in.”

“By no means; this is a modern picture representing Cordelia at the feet of her father, and the original—”

“Come, princess, are you in earnest? Has George really given you that picture?”

“Given?” said the princess, her eyes twinkling as she played with her long necklace of pearls. “No; at least that was not his intention. But could he refuse to lend a picture that affords me so much pleasure during the absence of—Cordelia? It was the whim of an invalid suddenly deprived of her nurse! which, with some persistence on my part, could not be refused! and after giving, moreover, such a proof of indulgence to him and of condescension towards her!—”

“Ah! princess, what a consummate diplomatist you are!”

“To be serious,” said she, “do you know I had never noticed this resemblance at all, having seen the picture only once, then I did not examine it particularly, and I had never seen Gabrielle? You know George’s cabinet is a sanctuary I rarely invade, and, besides, the picture has had a curtain over it the past year.”

“And what inspired you with the idea of looking at it now?”

“He himself by the delightful tale he related to me the other evening.”

“And where have you hung it now?”

“In my dressing-room, where he never steps his foot,” replied the princess with a peal of laughter.

Marquis Adelardi, as we are aware, had deplored George’s infatuation as much as the princess herself, but he now felt dissatisfied with her and himself, and he soon left her to go in search of his friend. He felt anxious about him, for he knew he was tempted by a dangerous curiosity and was unwilling to lose sight of him. They had made arrangements to meet and dine together at a kind of casino then popular, and he hoped to retain him the remainder of the evening. But arriving at the place of rendezvous he did not find him as he expected. George was gone, but had left a note which drew from Adelardi an energetic exclamation of disappointment. The note ran thus: “Once is not a habit. I have accepted Lasko’s invitation for this evening. Dini will accompany me. But be easy, I am not going under my own name, and shall not be known by any one.”

“Lasko!” muttered the marquis, stamping his foot. “That is his name now! Confound him! why is he not still in the dungeons of Spielberg—the only place fit for him!”

TO BE CONTINUED.