EPILOGUE
CHAPTER I
GEROLSTEIN
Prince Henry of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal to the Count Maximilian Kaminetz
Oldenzaal, 25th August, 1840.
I am just arrived from Gerolstein, where I have passed three months with the grand duke and his family. I expected to find a letter announcing your arrival at Oldenzaal, my dear Maximilian. Judge of my surprise – of my regret, on hearing that you will be detained in Hungary for several weeks.
For more than four months I have been unable to write to you, not knowing where to direct my letters, thanks to your original and adventurous manner of travelling. You had, however, formally promised me at Vienna that you would be at Oldenzaal the first of August; I must then give up the pleasure of seeing you, and yet I have never had greater need of pouring forth my sorrows to you, Maximilian, my oldest friend, for although we are both of us still very young, our friendship is of long standing, as it dates from our childhood.
What shall I say to you? During the last three months a complete revolution has taken place in me. I am at one of those moments that decide the existence of a man. Judge, then, how necessary your presence and your advice are to me. But you will not long be wanting, whatever motives you have for remaining in Hungary. Come! Come! I entreat of you, Maximilian, for I stand in need of you to console me, and I cannot go to seek you. My father, whose health is daily declining, has summoned me from Gerolstein. Each day makes so great an alteration in him that it is impossible for me to leave him.
I have so much to say that I shall become tedious, but I must relate to you the most important – the most romantic incident of my life. Why were you not there, my friend? Why were you not there? For three months my heart has been a prey to emotions equally sweet and sorrowful, and I was alone – I was alone. Sympathise with me, you who know the sensibility of my heart, you who have seen my eyes filled with tears at the simple recital of a noble or generous action, at the simple sight of a splendid sunset – of the sky studded with bright stars.
Do you recollect last year, on our excursion to the ruins of Oppenfeld, on the shore of the vast lake, our reveries during that evening, so full of calm, of poesy, and of peace? Strange contrast! It was three days before that bloody duel, in which I would not accept you for my second, for I should have suffered too much for you had I been wounded before your eyes, – the duel in which, for a dispute at play, my second unhappily killed the young Frenchman, the Comte de Saint-Remy.
Apropos, do you know what has become of the dangerous siren whom M. de Saint-Remy brought with him to Oppenfeld, and whose name was, I think, Cecily David?
You will doubtless, my friend, smile with pity at seeing me thus losing myself amongst idle recollections of the past, instead of coming at once to the grave disclosures that I have announced my intention of making; but, in spite of myself, I delay the time from moment to moment. I know how severe you are, and I am fearful of being blamed. Yes, blamed; because, instead of acting with reflection and prudence (prudence of one and twenty, alas!), I have acted foolishly, or, rather, I have not acted at all as – I have suffered myself to be carried away by the stream that urged me on, and it is only since my return from Gerolstein that I have been awakened from the enchanting vision that has lulled me to sleep for the last three months, and this awaking has been a sorrowful one.
Now, my friend, my dear Maximilian, I take courage. Hear me indulgently; I begin with fear and trembling – I dare not look at you, for when you read these lines, how grave and stern will your face become, stoic that you are!
After having obtained leave of absence for six months, I left Vienna, and remained some time with my father. His health was then good, and he advised me to visit my aunt, the Princess Juliana, superior of the abbey of Gerolstein. I think I have already told you that my grandfather was cousin-german to the present duke's grandfather, and the Duke Gustavus Rodolph, thanks to this relationship, had always treated my father and myself as his cousins.
You also know, I think, that during a long stay the prince made recently in France my father was left at the head of the affairs of the duchy. It is not any feeling of ostentatious pride, as you well know, Maximilian, that makes me recapitulate all these circumstances, but to explain to you the causes of the extreme intimacy that existed between the grand duke and myself during my stay at Gerolstein.
Do you recollect that last year, after our voyage on the banks of the Rhine, we heard that the prince had found and married, in extremis, the Countess Macgregor, in order to legitimise the daughter he had had by her by a previous and secret marriage, afterwards annulled, because it had been contracted against the consent of the late grand duke?
This young girl, thus formally recognised, this charming Princess Amelie, of whom Lord Dudley, who had seen her at Gerolstein about a year ago, spoke to us with an enthusiasm that we suspected of exaggeration, strange chance! who would have said then —
But although you have doubtless penetrated my secret, let me pursue the progress of events.
The convent of Ste. Hermangeld, of which my aunt is abbess, is scarcely a quarter of a league from Gerolstein, for the gardens of the abbey touch the outskirts of the town. A charming house, perfectly isolated from the cloisters, had been placed at my disposal by my aunt, who has, as you know, the affection of a mother for me. The day of my arrival she informed me a grand drawing-room would be held the next day, as the grand duke was going formally to announce his intended marriage with La Marquise d'Harville, who had just arrived at Gerolstein with her father, the Comte d'Orbigny.
The duke was blamed by some for not having sought an alliance with some royal house, but others, and amongst them my aunt, congratulated him on having chosen, instead of a marriage of ambition, a young and lovely woman to whom he was deeply attached, and who belonged to one of the first families in France. You know, too, that my aunt has always had the greatest regard for the grand duke, and has always appreciated his fine qualities.
"My dear child," said she to me, speaking of the drawing-room, to which I was going the next day, – "my dear child, the most astonishing sight you will see to-morrow will be the pearl of Gerolstein."
"Of whom are you talking, my dear aunt?"
"Of the Princess Amelie."
"The grand duke's daughter? Lord Dudley spoke of her at Vienna with warmth we suspected of exaggeration."
"At my age and in my position," replied my aunt, "people do not exaggerate, so you can trust to my judgment, and I assure you I never knew any one more enchanting than the Princess Amelie. I would speak of her beauty were it not for an indefinable charm she possesses, superior even to her beauty. From the first day that the grand duke presented me to her, I felt myself irresistibly drawn towards her; and I am not the only person. The Archduchess Sophia is at Gerolstein, and is the most proud and haughty princess I know."
"Very true, aunt; her irony is terrible, very few persons escape from her sarcasms; at Vienna every one dreaded her. Can the Princess Amelie have found favour in her eyes?"
"The other day she came here after visiting the asylum placed under the princess's direction. 'Do you know,' said this redoubtable archduchess to me, 'that if I resided long with the grand duke's daughter I should become quite harmless, so contagious is her goodness!'"
"Why, my cousin must be an enchantress!" said I, laughing, to my aunt.
"Her most powerful charm, at least in my eyes," replied my aunt, "is the mixture of sweetness, modesty, and dignity that I have told you of, and which gives a most touching expression to her face."
"Indeed, aunt, modesty is a rare quality in a princess so young, so beautiful, and so happy."
"Reflect that the princess is still more deserving of praise for her modesty, as her elevation is so very recent."
"In her interview with you, aunt, did the princess make any reference to her early life?"
"No; but when, notwithstanding my advanced age, I addressed her with the respect due to her rank, since her royal highness is the grand duke's daughter, her ingenuous confusion, mingled with gratitude and veneration for me, quite overpowered me; for her reserve, full of dignity and affability, proved to me that her present elevation did not make her forget her past life, and that she accorded to my age what I accorded to her rank."
"It must require," said I, "the most perfect tact to observe those nice differences."
"My dear boy, the more I see of the princess, the more I congratulate myself on my first impression. Since she has been here the number of charitable acts she has done is incredible, and that with a reflection and a judgment that in a person of her age quite surprises me. Judge yourself. At her request the grand duke has founded at Gerolstein an establishment for orphans of five or six years, and for young girls (who are either orphans or abandoned by their parents) of the age of sixteen, that age so fatal to those who are not protected against the temptations of vice or the pressure of want.
"The good sisters of my convent teach and direct the children of this asylum. During my visits there I have had ample opportunities of judging of the adoration that these poor, unfortunate creatures have for the princess. Every day she spends several hours at this place, which is placed under her protection, and I repeat that it is not merely gratitude and respect that the children and nuns feel towards the princess, it almost amounts to fanaticism."
"The princess must be an angel," said I to my aunt.
"An angel, indeed!" replied she, "for you cannot conceive with what touching kindness she treats her young protégées. I have never seen the susceptibility of misfortune meet with more delicate sympathy. You would think some irresistible attraction drew the princess towards this class of unfortunates. Will you believe it? she, the daughter of a sovereign, only addresses these poor children as 'my sisters!'"
At these last words of my aunt I confess I felt my eyes fill with tears. Do you not also admire the admirable and pious conduct of this young princess?
"Since the princess," said I, "is so marvellously gifted, I shall be greatly embarrassed when I am presented to her to-morrow. You know how timid I am; you know, also, that elevation of character imposes upon me more than high birth, so that I am certain to appear both stupid and embarrassed to-morrow; so I make up my mind to that beforehand."
"Come, come!" said my aunt, smiling, "she will take pity upon you, the more readily as you are not quite a stranger to her."
"I am not a stranger to her, aunt?"
"Certainly not."
"How so?"
"You recollect that when at the age of sixteen you left Oldenzaal, to travel with your father through Russia and England, I had your portrait painted in the costume you wore at the first bal costumé the late duchess gave?"
"Yes, aunt, the costume of a German page of the sixteenth century."
"Our famous painter, Fritz Mocker, whilst he painted a faithful likeness of you, not only produced a page of that century, but even the style of the pictures of that time.
"Some days after her arrival at Gerolstein, the Princess Amelie, who had come with her father to visit me, remarked your portrait, and asked what was that charming picture of olden times. Her father smiled, and said, 'This is the portrait of a cousin of ours, who would be, were he now alive (as you see by his dress), some three hundred years old, but who, although very young, made himself remarkable for his courage and goodness of heart; has he not bravery in his eyes and goodness in his smile?'"
Do not, I entreat you, Maximilian, shrug your shoulders with disdain at seeing me write these puerile details of myself, which are, alas, necessary to my story.
"The Princess Amelie," continued my aunt, "deceived by this innocent pleasantry, after a long examination of your portrait, joined with her father in praising the amiable and determined expression of your face. Some time after, when I went to Gerolstein, she questioned me playfully about 'her cousin of the olden time.'
"I then explained the trick to her, and told her that the handsome page of the sixteenth century was really the Prince Henry d'Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal, a young man of one and twenty, captain in the guards of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, and in every other respect than the costume very like his picture. At these words the princess," continued my aunt, "blushed and became serious, and has never since spoken of the picture. However, you see that you are not quite a stranger to your cousin; so take courage, and maintain the reputation of your portrait."
This conversation took place, as I have already told you, the evening previous to the day on which I was to be presented to the princess my cousin. I left my aunt, and returned to my own apartments.
You have often told me, my dear Maximilian, that I was totally free from vanity; I must therefore trust to that to prevent my appearing vain during this recital.
As soon as I was alone I reflected with a secret satisfaction that the Princess Amelie, after seeing my portrait, painted five or six years ago, had inquired after "her cousin of the olden time."
Nothing could be more absurd than to build the slightest hope on so trivial a circumstance, I acknowledge; but I always treat you with the most perfect confidence, and I acknowledge that this trifling circumstance delighted me.
No doubt the praise I had just heard bestowed on the princess by so grave and austere a person as my aunt, by raising her in my estimation, rendered this circumstance more agreeable.
Why should I tell you? The hopes I conceived from this trifling event were so mad that, now that I look back more calmly on the past, I ask myself how I could have indulged in ideas that must have ended in my destruction.
Although related to the grand duke, and always treated by him with the greatest kindness, yet it was impossible to entertain the slightest hope of a marriage with the princess; even had she returned my affection it would still have been impossible. Our family holds an honourable position, but it is poor when compared with the grand duke, the richest prince of the German confederation; and besides, I was only one and twenty, a simple captain in the guards, without any reputation or any position. Never could the grand duke think of me as a suitor for his daughter.
All these reflections ought to have saved me from a passion I did not as yet feel, but of which I had a strange presentiment.
Alas! I rather gave way to fresh puerilities; I wore on my finger a ring that Thecla (the countess of whom I have so often spoken) had given me, although this souvenir of a boyish love could not have much embarrassed me. I sacrificed it to my new flame, and, opening the window, I cast the ring into the waves of the river that flowed beneath.
I have no need to tell you what a night I passed, you can imagine; I knew the princess was very beautiful; I sought to picture to myself her features, her air, her manner, her figure, the sound of her voice; and thinking of my portrait which she had noticed I recollected that the artist had flattered me excessively, and I contrasted the picturesque dress of a page of the sixteenth century with the simple uniform of a captain of the Austrian guards.
But amidst all these absurd ideas some generous thoughts crossed my mind, and I was overcome, – yes, overcome by the recollection of the tenderness of the princess for those poor girls whom she always terms "my sisters."
The next day the hour for the reception came. I tried on several uniforms one after another, found them all to fit me very ill, and departed very dissatisfied with myself.
Although Gerolstein is only a quarter of a league from Ste. Hermangeld, during the short journey all the childish ideas that had so occupied me during the night had given place to one sad and grave thought.
An invincible presentiment told me I was approaching one of the crises of my life. A magical inspiration revealed to me that I was about to love, to love as a man loves but once in his life; and, as if to complete my misfortunes, this love, as loftily as deservedly bestowed, was doomed to be unhappy.
You do not know the grand ducal palace of Gerolstein. In the opinion of every one who has visited the capitals of Europe, there is, with the exception of Versailles, no royal residence that has a more regal and imposing appearance.
If at this time I speak of this, it is because, thinking over them, I wonder how they did not recall me to myself; for the Princess Amelie was the daughter of the sovereign of this palace, these guards, and of these riches.
You arrived at the palace by the marble court; so called, because, with the exception of a drive for the carriages, it is paved with variegated marble, forming the most magnificent mosaics, in the centre of which is a basin of breccia antique, into which a stream of water flows from a porphyry vase.
This court of honour is surrounded by a row of beautiful marble statues, holding candelabras of gilt bronze, from which sprung brilliant jets of gas. Alternately with these statues are the Medicean vases, raised on richly sculptured pedestals, and filled with rose laurels, whose leaves shine in the lights with a metallic lustre.
The carriages stopped at the foot of the double staircase leading to the peristyle of the palace. At the foot of this staircase were stationed on guard, mounted on their black horses, two soldiers of the regiment of the guards of the grand duke. You would have been struck with the stern and warlike appearance of these two giants, whose cuirasses and helmets, made like those of the ancients, without crest or plume, sparkled in the sun.
These soldiers wore blue coats with yellow collars, buckskin breeches, and jack-boots. To please you who are so fond of military details, I add, that at the top landing of the staircase were stationed, as sentinels, two grenadiers of the foot-guards of the duke. Their uniform, with the exception of the colour of the coat and facings, resembles, I am told, that of Napoleon's grenadiers.
After traversing the vestibule, where the porters of the duke were stationed, halberd in hand, I ascended a splendid staircase of white marble, which opened upon a portico, ornamented with jasper columns, and surmounted by a painted and gilt cupola. There were two long files of domestics.
I then entered the guard-room, at the door of which I found a chamberlain and an aide-de-camp, whose duty it was to present to his royal highness those persons who were entitled to this honour. My relationship, though distant, procured me a special presentation. An aide-de-camp preceded me into a long gallery, filled with gentlemen in full court dress or uniform, and splendidly attired ladies.
Whilst I passed through this brilliant assembly, I heard here and there remarks that augmented my embarrassment. Every one admired the angelic beauty of the Princess Amelie, the charming appearance of the Marquise d'Harville, and the imperial air of the Archduchess Sophia, who, recently arrived from Munich with the Archduke Stanislaus, was about to depart for Warsaw; but whilst rendering their just tribute of admiration to the lofty bearing of the duchess and to the charms of the Marquise d'Harville, every one agreed that nothing could exceed the loveliness of the Princess Amelie.
As I approached the spot where the grand duke and the princess were I felt my heart beat more and more violently. At the moment that I entered the salon (I forgot to tell you there was a concert and ball at court) the famous Liszt sat down to the piano, and instantly the most profound silence succeeded to the conversation that was going on. I waited in the embrasure of a door until Liszt had finished the piece he was playing with his accustomed taste.
It was then that I saw the Princess Amelie for the first time.
I must tell you all that passed, for I feel an indescribable pleasure in writing it.
Picture to yourself a large salon furnished with regal splendour, brilliantly lighted up, and hung with crimson silk, embroidered with wreaths of flowers in gold. In the first row, on large gilt chairs, sat the Archduchess Sophia with Madame d'Harville on her left, and the Princess Amelie on her right. Behind them stood the duke in the uniform of colonel of the guards. He seemed scarcely thirty, and the military uniform set off his fine figure and noble features. Beside him was the Archduke Stanislaus in the uniform of a field-marshal; then came the princess's maids of honour, the ladies of the grand dignitaries of the court, and then the dignitaries themselves.
I need scarcely tell you that the Princess Amelie was less conspicuous by her rank than by her extraordinary beauty. Do not condemn me without reading this description of her. Although it falls far short of the reality, you will understand my adoration. You will understand that as soon as I saw her I loved her; and that the suddenness of my passion can only be equalled by its violence and its eternity.
The Princess Amelie was dressed in a plain white watered silk dress, and wore, like the archduchess, the riband of the imperial order of St. Nepomucenus recently sent to her by the empress. A diadem of pearls surrounded her head, and harmonised admirably with two splendid braids of fair hair that shaded her delicate cheeks. Her arms, whiter than the lace that ornamented them, were half hidden in long gloves, reaching nearly to her elbow.
Nothing could be more perfect than her figure, nothing more charming than her foot in its satin slipper. At the moment when I saw her her beaming blue eyes wore a pensive expression. I do not know whether some serious thought came over her, or whether she was impressed with the grave melody of the piece Liszt was playing; but the expression of her countenance seemed to me full of sweetness and melancholy.
Never can I express my feelings at that moment. All that my aunt had related of her goodness crossed my mind.
Smile if you will, but my eyes became full of tears when I saw this young girl, so beautiful and so idolised by such a father, seem so melancholy and pensive.
You know how scrupulously etiquette and the privileges of rank are observed by us. Thanks to my title and my relationship to the grand duke, the crowd in the midst of which I stood gradually fell back, and I found myself left almost alone in the embrasure of the door. It was, no doubt, owing to this circumstance that the princess, awaking from her reverie, perceived, and no doubt recognised me, for she started and blushed.
She had seen my portrait at my aunt's, and recognised me; nothing could be more simple. The princess's eyes did not rest upon me an instant, but that look threw me into the most violent confusion. I felt my cheeks glow, I cast down my eyes, and did not venture to raise them for some time. When I dared at last to steal a glance at the princess she was speaking in a low tone to the archduchess, who seemed to listen to her with the most affectionate interest.
Liszt having paused for a few moments between the pieces he was playing, the grand duke took the opportunity of expressing his admiration. On returning to his place he perceived me, nodded kindly to me, and said something to the archduchess, fixing his eyes on me at the same time. The duchess, after looking at me a moment, turned to the duke, who smiled and said something to his daughter that seemed to embarrass her, for she blushed again. I was on thorns; but, unfortunately, etiquette forbade my leaving my place until the concert was over.
As soon as the concert was finished I followed the aide-de-camp; he conducted me to the grand duke, who deigned to advance a few steps towards me, took me by the arm, and said to the Archduchess Sophia:
"Permit me to present to your royal highness my cousin, Prince Henry of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal."
"I have seen the prince at Vienna, and meet him here with pleasure," replied the duchess, before whom I inclined myself respectfully.
"My dear Amelie," continued the prince, addressing his daughter, "this is Prince Henry, your cousin, the son of one of my most valued friends, Prince Paul, whom I greatly lament not seeing here to-day."
"Pray, monseigneur, inform the prince that I equally regret his absence, for I am always delighted to know any of my father's friends."
I had not until then heard the princess's voice, and I was struck with its intense sweetness.
"I hope, my dear Henry, you will stay some time with your aunt," said the grand duke. "Come and see us often about three o'clock en famille; and if we ride out you must accompany us. You know how great an affection I have always felt for you, for your noble qualities."
"I cannot express my gratitude for your royal highness's kindness."
"Well, to prove it," said the grand duke, smiling, "engage your cousin for the second quadrille; the first belongs to the archduke."
"Will your royal highness do me the honour?" said I to my cousin.
"Oh, call each other cousin, as in the good old times," replied the duke, laughing. "There should be no ceremony between relations."
"Will you dance with me, cousin?"
"Yes, cousin," replied the princess.
I cannot tell how much I felt the touching kindness of the grand duke, and how bitterly I reproached myself for yielding to an affection the prince would never authorise.
I vowed inwardly that nothing should induce me to acquaint my cousin with my affection, but I feared my emotion would betray me.
I had leisure for these reflections whilst my cousin danced the first quadrille with the Archduke Stanislaus. Nothing was more suited to display the graces of the princess's person than the slow movements of the dance. I anxiously awaited my turn; and I succeeded in concealing my emotion when I led her to the quadrille.
"Does your royal highness sanction my calling you cousin?" said I.
"Oh, yes, cousin, I am always delighted to obey my father."
"I rejoice in this familiarity, since I have learnt from my aunt to know you."
"My father has often spoken of you, cousin; and what may, perhaps, astonish you," added she, timidly, "I also knew you by sight; for one day the Abbess of Ste. Hermangeld, your aunt, for whom I have the greatest respect, showed me your picture."
"As a page of the sixteenth century?"
"Yes, cousin; and my father was malicious enough to tell me that it was an ancestor of ours, and spoke so highly of his courage and his other qualities that our family ought to be proud of their descent from him."
"Alas, cousin, I fear my resemblance to my portrait is not great!"
"You are mistaken, cousin," said the princess. "For at the end of the concert I recognised you immediately, in spite of the difference of costume." Then, wishing to change the conversation, she added, "How charmingly M. Liszt plays! – does he not?"
"Yes. How attentively you listened to him!"
"Because there is to me a double charm in music without words. Not only you hear the execution, but you can adapt your thoughts to the melody. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly; your own thoughts become words to the air."
"Yes, you quite comprehend me," said she, with a gesture of satisfaction. "I feared I could not express what I felt just now."
"I thank God, cousin," said I, smiling, "you can have no words to set to so sad an air."
I know not whether my question was indiscreet or whether she had not heard me, but suddenly she exclaimed, pointing out to me the grand duke, who crossed the room with the archduchess on his arm, "Cousin, look at my father, how handsome he is! how noble! how good! Every one looks at him as if they loved him more than they feared him."
"Ah," cried I, "it is not only here he is beloved. If the blessing of his people be transmitted to their posterity, the name of Rodolph of Gerolstein will be immortal."
"To speak thus is to be, indeed, worthy of his attachment."
"I do but give utterance to the feelings of all present; see how they all hasten to pay their respects to Madame d'Harville!"
"No one in the world is more worthy of my father's affections than Madame d'Harville."
"You are more capable than any one of appreciating her, as you have been in France."
Scarcely had I pronounced these words than the princess cast down her eyes, and her features assumed an air of melancholy; and when I led her back to her seat the expression of them was still the same. I suppose that my allusion to her stay in France recalled the death of her mother.
In the course of the evening a circumstance occurred which you may think too trivial to mention, perhaps, but which evinces the extraordinary influence this young girl universally inspires. Her bandeau of pearls having become disarranged, the Archduchess Sophia, who was leaning on her arm, kindly readjusted the ornament upon her brow. Knowing, as we do, the hauteur of the archduchess, such condescension is almost inconceivable.
The next morning I was invited, together with a few other persons, to be present at the marriage of the grand duke with Madame la Marquise d'Harville. I had never seen the princess so radiant and happy.
Some days after the duke's marriage I had a long interview with him. He questioned me about my past life, my future career. He gave me the most admirable advice, the kindest encouragement. So much so that the idea crossed my mind that he had perceived my love and wished to bring me to confess it.
But this idea was soon dispelled. The prince concluded by telling me that the great wars were over, that I ought to avail myself of my name, my connections, the education I had received, and my father's friendship with the Prince de M – , prime minister of the emperor, in order to follow a diplomatic instead of a military career. In a word, he offered me his sovereign protection to facilitate my entry in the career he proposed to me.
I thanked him for his offers with gratitude, and added that I felt the weight of his advice and would follow it.
I at first visited the palace very seldom; but, thanks to the duke's reiterated invitations, I was soon there almost every day. We lived in the peaceful retirement resembling that of some English mansions. When the weather permitted we rode out with the duke, the duchess, and the grand personages of the court.
When we were forced to remain at home we sang, and I accompanied the grand duchess and my cousin, who had the sweetest and most expressive voice I ever heard. At other times we inspected the magnificent picture galleries and museums, and the library of the prince, who is one of the most accomplished men in Europe. I often dined at the palace, and on the opera nights I accompanied the duke's family to the theatre.
Could this intimacy have lasted for ever I should have been happy, perhaps, but I reflected that I should be summoned to Vienna by my duties. I reflected, also, that the duke would soon think of finding a suitable alliance for his daughter.
My cousin remarked this change in me. The evening before I quitted Gerolstein she told me she had for several days remarked my abstracted manner. I endeavoured to evade this question, saying that my approaching departure was the cause.
"I can scarcely believe it," replied she. "My father treats you like a son; every one loves you. It would be ingratitude if you were unhappy."
"Alas!" said I, unable to restrain my emotion, "it is grief I am a prey to!"
"Why, what has happened?"
"Just now, cousin, you have told me your father treated me like a son, and that every one loved me; and yet, ere long, I must quit Gerolstein. It is this that grieves me."
"And are the recollections of those you have left as nothing?"
"Doubtless; but time brings so many changes."
"There are affections, at least, that are unchangeable; such as that of my father for you, such as that I feel for you. When you are once brother and sister you never forget each other," added she, looking up, her large blue eyes full of tears.
I was on the point of betraying myself; however, I controlled my feelings in time.
"Do you think then, cousin," said I, "that when I return in a few years this affection will continue?"
"Why should it not?"
"Because you will be probably married; you will have other duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother."
This was all that passed; I know not if she was offended at these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young Countess d'Oppenheim, one of her maids of honour.
The same evening I received a second letter from my father, urging me to return. The next morning I took leave of the grand duke. He told me my cousin was unwell, but that he would make my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of assistance, and added that, whenever I had leave of absence, nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at Gerolstein.
Happily, on my arrival, I found my father better; still confined to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. Now that you know all, Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?
Just as I finished this letter, my door opened, and, to my great surprise, my father, whom I believed to be in bed, entered; he saw the letter on the table.
"To whom are you writing so long a letter?" said he, smiling.
"To Maximilian, father."
"Oh," said he, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "he has all your confidence! He is very happy!"
He pronounced these last words in so sorrowful a tone that I held out the letter to him, almost without reflection, saying:
"Read it, father."
My friend, he has read all! After having remained musing some time he said to me:
"Henry, I shall write and inform the grand duke of all that passed during your stay at Gerolstein."
"Father, I entreat you not!"
"Is what you have written to Maximilian scrupulously true?"
"Yes."
"Do you love your cousin?"
"I adore her; but – "
My father interrupted me.
"Then, in that case, I shall write to the grand duke and demand her hand for you."
"But, father, such a demand will be madness on my part!"
"It is true; but still, in making this demand, I shall acquaint the prince with my reasons for making it. He has received you with the greatest kindness, and it would be unworthy of me to deceive him. He will be touched at the frankness of my demand, and, though he refuse it, as he certainly will, he will yet know that, should you ever again visit Gerolstein, you cannot be on the same familiar terms with the princess."
You know that, although so tenderly attached to me, my father is inflexible in whatever concerns his duty; judge, then, of my fears, of my anxiety.
I hastily terminate this long letter, but I will soon write again. Sympathise with me, for I fear I shall go mad if the fever that preys on me does not soon abate. Adieu, adieu! Ever yours,
Henry d'H. – O.
We will now conduct the reader to the palace of Gerolstein, inhabited by Fleur-de-Marie since her return from France.