-_¦_---_-¦__¦-¦¦-_! """""'"IPf'llll 44 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. good taste to turn their backs on the puerility of the giddy men of forty years, whose character offers no security, and whose features, of an insigniûcent juve- nility, are not sufficiently poetized by that majesty of expression which reveals the profound knowledge of life.' " ¦' Rodolphe oould not prevent himself from smiling at the ironical maimer with which Madame d'Harville traced the portrait of her stepmother. " There is one thing that I never pardon in foolish, ridiculous people," said he to the marquise. \ " What is that Monseigneur?" " It is to be wicked— that prevents one from laughing at them at one's ease.'1 *' It is, perhaps, a calculation on their part," said Clemenee. "I believe it, and it is a pity; for, by example, if I could forget that this Madame Roland necessarily has caused you much sorrow, I should be much amused at this invention of the real maturity, opposed to the lively follies of those conceited young puppies of forty, who, acccordinj* to this woman, seem hardly to have thrown off their dress of pages, as our grandfathers would have said." " My father is at least, I believe, happy in the illu- sions with which, even now, my stepmother surrounds him. Thus, Monseigneur, since my father is happy, I should not, perhaps, complain of Madame Roland; but her odious conduct towards my mother—the unfortu- nate part, too active, that she has taken respecting my marriage, cause my aversion towards her," said Madame d'Harville, after a moment's hesitation. Rodolphe regarded her with surprise. 11 M. d'Harville is your friend, Monseigneur," con- tinued Clemenee, in a firm tone. " I know the gravity of the words I have just uttered: directly you shall tell me if they are just. But I return to Madame Roland, installed as my instructress, notwithstanding her acknowledged,incapacity. My mother had, on this subject, a painful explanation with my father, and signified to him that, wishing, at least, to protest against the intolerable position of this woman, hence- forth she would not appear at the table if Madame Roland did not at once leave the house. My mother was sweetness, goodness itself; but she became of in- domitable firmness when her personal dignity was in question. My mother was inflexible—she kept her promise. Erom this moment we lived completely se- cluded in her apartment: my father from that time showed me as much coldness as he did to my mother, while Madame Roland did, almost openly, the honors of our house, yet still as my instructress." " Your mother must have suffered much." .. •* More on my account than on her own, Monseig- neur, for she thought of the future. Her health, al- ready very delicate, became still more feeble; fatality willed it, that our family physician, M. Sorbier, died. My mother placed every confidence in him; she bit- terly regretted him. Madame Roland had for physi- cian and friend an. Italian doctor of great merit, as she said: my father, imposed upon, consulted him some- , times, was pleased with him, and proposed him to my mother, who took him, alas! and it was he who took charge of her during her last illness." At these words the eyes of Madame d'Harville became filled with tears. "lam ashamed to acknowledge this weakness, Mon- seigneur," added she; " but, for the very reason that this doctor had been recommended by Madame Ro- land, I felt an aversion for him. I saw, with a kind of fear, my mother grant him her confidence; yet, as re- gards science, the doctor, Polidori-----" " What do you say, Madame?" cried Rodolphe. "What is the matter, Monseigneur?" said Clemenee, startled at the expression of Rodolphe. " But no," said the prince to himself. " I am doubt- less mistaken—this is five or six years ago—while they told me that Polidori has been in Par», under an as- sumed name, for not more than two years. It is certainly he who I saw yesterday—this quack Bradamante—yet—- two physicians of the same name; what a singular co- incidence! Madame, a word about Polidori; what age was this Italian?" "About fifty, I should think." " And his face; his countenance?" " Wicked. I shall never forget his green eyes; his nose hooked like the beak of an eagle," $ "It is he! It is certainly he!" cried Rodolphe. Chapter III.—Continuation of the Story. " And do you think, Madame, that Br. Polidori dwelt then in Paris?" asked Rodolphe of Madame d' Harville. "I do not know, Monseigneur. About a year after the marriage of my father, he left Paris; one of my friends, whose physician this Italian was at this time, Madame de Lucenay-----" "The Duchess of Lucenay?" said Rodolphe. " Yes, Monseigneur." " But why this surprise?" "Allow me to be silent on this head. But at this time, what did Madame de Lucenay say about this man?" " That she received from him often, since his de- parture from Paris, letters very amusing, descriptive of the countries he visited. Now, remember, that about a month since, asking Madame de Lucenay if she still received news from M. Polidori, she answered with an embarrassed air, that for a long time she had not heard of*him, that none knew what had become of him, and that many persons thought he was dead." "It is singular," said Rodolphe, remembering tho visit of Madame de Lucenajr to the quack Bradamante. " You know this man, theu, Monseigueur?" "Yes, unfortunately for me. But, pray continue your story; I will tell you directly who is this Polidori." "How! this physician?" "Rather say this man, stained with the most odious crimes." " Crimes!" re- plied Madame d'Harville, with affright. " He has com- mitted crimes—this man ? the friend of Madame Roland, and the physician of my mother! My mother died under his hands after a few days' illness I Ahl Monseigneur, you alarm mel you tell me too much, or not enough." "Without accusing this man of one crime the more —without accusiug your stepmother of being an ac- complice, I uay that you ought to thank God that your father, after his marriage with Madame Roland, had no need of the services or Polidori." "Oh! Mon Dieul" cried Madame d'Harville, in a touching accent. " My presentiments, then, did not deceive me." "Your presentiments?" "Yes; just now I spoke to you of the aversion I felt for this man, because he had been introduced to us by Madame Roland. I did not tell you all, Monseigneur." "How?" " I feared to accuse an innocent person ; to listen too much to tbe bitterness of my sorrows. ButJ am going to tell you all. Monseigneur. The illness of my mother lasted five days; I had always nursed her. One even- ing I went to breathe the fresh air on tho terrace of our house: at the end of a quarter of an hour I re-entered S by a long, obsenro corridor. At tho feeble gleam of ' light which escapedrfrom tho door of the apartment of Madame Roland, I saw M. Polidori go'out; .this woman accompanied him. I was in tho shade ; they did not see me. Madame Roland said some words to him in a low voice that I could not hear; the physician answered in a louder tone these words, ' After io-morrowy And as Madame Roland spoke to him again, he answered in a singular tone, 'After to-morrow. I tell you, after to- morrow.' " " What did these words signify?" "They signified, Monseigneur, the evening of Wednesday. M. Polidori said, 'after to-morrow'—the Friday my mother was dead!" "Ohl this is frightful." "When I re- flected on these words, after to-morrow, which seemed to have predicted the death of vay mother, I thought that M. Polodori, knowing from his medical science, how long my mother had to live, had hastened to in- form Madame Roland—this woman, who had so many reasons to be rejoiced at her death. But never would I have dared to suppose—oh] no, no, even at this hour, I cannot believe in such a crin1*1" "Was Polidori the only physician who attendra your unfortunate inother'?" The evening previous to her death he brought in con- sultation one of his associates. According to what my father told me afterward, this doctor found my mother in a very dangerous state. After this fatal event I was taken to one of my old relations. She had tenderly loved my mother. Forgetting the reserve due to my age she taught me how much reason I had to hate'Madame Roland. She enlightened me as to the ambitious hopes this woman would thence entertain. "This information overwhelmed me; I then compre- hended all my mother must have suffered. When I saw my father, my heart was almost broken; he came to take me with him to Normandy; there we were to pass the time of our first mourning. During the jour- ney he wept much, and said he had no o'ne but me to aid him to support this terrible blow. I answered that he, alone also, remained to me, since the loss of my adored mother. After pme words oh* the embar- rassment he should experience if at any time he might be obliged to be absent, he told me, as if it was tho most natural thing inthe world, that out of kinçlness for him and me, Madame Roland had consented to take the charge of his house, and serve me as guide and friend. "Astonishment, grief, indignation, rendered me dumb. I wept in silence—my father asked me the cause of my tears. I replied, perhaps with too much bitterness, that I would never live in the same house with Madame Roland; for I despised this woman as much as I hated her on account of the grief she had caused my mother. He remained calm; combated what he called my childishness, and said to me, coldly, that his resolution was unconquerable, and that I should submit. " I begged him to allow me to retire to the Sacre Coeur, where I had some friends; I would remain there till he thought proper to marry me. He observed to me that the time was passed when people were married at the grate of a convent; that my readiness to leave him would affect him very much, if he did not see in my words an independence which he could excuse, though he thought it not very sensible, and which would necessarily calm down; then he kissed my fore- head, and called me a little vixen. "Alas! in effect, it was necessary to submit. Judge, Monseigneur, of my grief—to live every day with a woman whom I almost reproached as the cause of my mother's death. I foresaw the most cruel scenes be- tween my father and me, no consideration preventing me from showing my aversion to Madame Roland. It seemed tome that thus I avenged m^ mother, while the smallest word of affection said to this woman, would appear to me a sacrilege." "Mqji Dieu, how painful this existence must have been to- you. I was far from thinking that you had already suffered so much, when I had the pleasure to see you oftenerl Never did a word from you make me suspect-----" "Then, Monseigneur, I had not to exculpate myself from an unpardonable weakness. If I speak to you so much at length on this part of my life, it is to make you understand in what a position I was placed when I married; and why, notwithstanding a warning which ought to have enlightened me, I married M. d'Harville. On arriving at Aubiers (the name of my father's coun- try-place), the first person who came to meet us was Madame Roland. She had been here since the death of my mother. In spite of her humble manner, she cast a glance of triumphant joy, illy concealed. I shall never forget the look, at once ironical and wicked, she gave me on our arrival; she seemed to say, ' I am here at home, you are the stranger.' A new sorrow was re- served for me; either from want of discreet action or barefaced impudence, this woman occupied the apart- ments of my mother. In my indignation, I complained to my father of such proceedings; he answered me se- verely, that this should astonish me less, as it was necessary I should habituate myself to consider and respect Madame Roland as a second mother. I told him this would be a profanation of the sacred name; and, to his great indignation, I lost no occasion to show my aversion to Madame Roland ; several times he rep- rimanded me before her. He reproached me for my ingratitude, my coldness towards this angel of consola- tion that Heaven had sent us. ' I beg, my father,1 said I, one day,'speak for yourself.' He treated me cru- elly. Madame Roland in her honeyed tones, interced- ed for me with profound hypocrisy. ' Be indulgent to Clémence,'said she; 'the regrets with which the ex- cellent person we mourn inspires her are so natural, so praiseworthy, that we must respect her grief, and pity her even in her anger.' 'Well!'said my father, pointing to Madame Roland with admiration, ' did you hear her! is she not too generous? too good? It is by throwing yourself in her arms you ought to answer'.' ' It is useless, my father; madame hates me, and I hate ¦her.' 'Ah! Clemenee you give me much pain, but I pardon you,' added Madame Roland, lifting her eyes towards heaven. 'Myfriend! 'my noble friend!'cried my father, in a faltering voice, 'calm yourself, I con- jure you; for my sake have pity on a fool who needs it for despising you thus!' Then turning on me his angry looks. Tremble,'cried he—'if you dare to outrage again the most charming being there is in the universe —make your apologies to her this moment.' 'My mother sees and h^ars me; she will never pardon such an action,' gjaid I to my father, and I went out, leaving him occupies in consoling Madame Roland, and drying her hypocritical tears. Pardon me, Monseigneur, fop dwelling on these incidents, but they can alone giv©- you an idea of tho life I then led." "I can almost imagine myself present at scenes so- sadly true. In how many families have they before occurred, and how many times will they be repeated?' Nothing can be more vulgar, and yet nothing can be more cunning, than the conduct of Madame 'Roland;.. butin what manner did he present her to the neigh- borhood?" "As my instructress and his friend; and she was received as such. With the exception of some rare visits, caused by business, or some relations with ' the neighborhood, we saw no one; my father, com- pletely governed by his passion, ceding, without doubt,. to the instances of Madame Roland, left off, at the end' of three months, his mourning, under the pretext that mourning affected him too much. His coldness to- wards me augmented daily; his indifference reached such a point, that he left me a liberty quite unusual for a young person of my age. I saw him at break- fast; he afterward retired to his rooms with Madam© Roland, who served him as secretary for his corres- pondence or business ; then he went out with her in the carriage or on foot, and did not return until an hour before dinner. Madame Roland then dressed herself with great taste, and my father followed her example with a recherche very singular at his age; sometimes, after dinner, he received those persons whom he waa obliged to see; afterward he made a party of backgam- mon until ten o'clock with Madame Roland, then h©> offered her his arm to conduct her to the chamber oÊ my mother, kissed her hand respectfully, and retired. as for me, I could dispose of my day as I pleased, rido on horseback, followed by a groom, or take long walka in the woods which surrounded the chateau, some- times overwhelmed with sorrow. I did not appear aS breakfast; my fathergave himself no trouble even-----* " What singular conduct 1 what abandonment!" " Having several times met one of our neighbors ia' the woods where I ordinarily rode, I gave up these ex- cursions, and I entered the park no more." "But what was the conduct of this woman towards you when. you were alone with her?" "Weboth avoided, as much as possible, these ren- counters. Once only in making allusions to some hanf words which I had addressed to her the evening pre* vious, she said to me coldly, ' Take care, you wish to quarrel with me: you will be defeated.' 'Like m^ mother?' said I; 'it is a pity, Madame, thatM. Polidori is not hereto advise yon what will happen—after io morrow."1 These words produced a great impression^ which, however, she soon overcame. Now that f know, thanks to you, Monseigneur, who this Dr. Pote- doiùis, and of what he is capable, the kind of fi%h_ that Madame Roland showed on hearing me utter thesd mysterious words, would confirm, perhaps, horribla suspicions. But no, no; I do not wish to believe that. I should be too much alarmed to think that my fathef is at this moment almost at tbe mercy of my step- mother." "And what reply did she make when yoiB uttered these words of Dr. Polidori?" "She blui at first; then, overcoming her emotion, she asked me coldly what I meant. " When you are alone, Madame,. interrogate yourself; you can answer.1 A short time after this, a scene took place which decided my fate. Among a great number of family pictures, ornament* ing a saloon where we assembled every evening, was the portrait of my mother. One day I found it gone. Two of our neighbors had dined with us ; one of them, M. Dorral, a notary, had always shown for my mother the most profound veneration. On arriving in the s'y loon, * Where is the portrait of my mother?'said I to my father. 'The sight of this picture caused mo too much sorrow,' he answered in an embarrassed ma ;. with a glance of his eye directing mo to tho strangers who witnessed the scene. * And where is this portrait now, my father?' Turning towards Madame Roland,,, and interrogating her with a look and movement o£ impatience, 'Where have they put the portrait?'he asked her, 'In the storeroom,' she answered, casting, at me a look of defiance, believing that the presence or our neighbors would prevent a reply, 'I conceive, Madame,' said I, coldly, ' that tho sight of my mother must be disagreeable to you; but this is no reason why you should send to the garret the potrait of the woman who, when you were wretched, charitably allowed you to live in her house.' " "Very well!" cried Rodolphe. "This cold disdaihs was most cutting. ' 'Mademoiselle!' cried my father* 'You will acknowledge, however,' said I, interrupting him, ' that a person who meanly insults the memory c£ a woman who gave her alms, merits but disdain audi aversion.' My father for a moment was confounded; Madame Roland became purple with shame and rages the neighbors, very much embarrassed, cast down their eyes and remained silent. 'Mademoiselle!' continued my father, ' you forget that madame was the friend of" your mother; you forget that madame has watched and. still watches over your education with maternal solicitude. You forget, also, that I profess for her the most respectful esteem. And since you allow yourself such proceedings before these gentlemen, I will say to you, that the ungrateful and cowardly are those who* forgetting .the most tender cares, dare to reproach a noble unfortunate who merits interest and respect.' ' I will not allow myself to discuss this question with you, ray father,' said I, in a submissive tone. 'Per- haps, Mademoiselle, T shall be more fortunate!' cried Madame Roland, carried this time by anger beyond the bounds of her habitual prudence. -'Perhaps y