Murphy felt that grief such as Rodolph's admitted of no ordinary consolation. He did not therefore attempt to interrupt its violence by any hackneyed phrases or promises of comfort he well knew could never be realised.
After a long silence, Rodolph resumed, in an agitated voice:
"I cannot stay here after what has happened. Paris is hateful to me; I will quit it to-morrow."
"You are quite right in so doing, my lord."
"We will go by a circuitous route, and I will stop at Bouqueval as I pass, that I may spend some few hours alone with my sad thoughts, in the chamber where my poor child enjoyed the only peaceful days she was ever permitted to taste. All that was hers shall be carefully collected together, – the books from which she studied, her writings, clothes, even the very articles of furniture and hangings of the chamber; I will make a careful sketch of the whole, and when I return to Gerolstein I will construct a small building containing the fac-simile of my poor child's apartment, with all that it contained, to be erected in the private ground in which stands the monument built by me in memory of my outraged parent; there I will go and bewail my daughter. These two funeral mementos will for ever remind me of my crime towards my father, and the punishment inflicted on me through my own child."
After a fresh silence, Rodolph said, "Let all be got ready for my departure to-morrow."
Anxious, if possible, to create if but a momentary change of ideas in the prince's mind, Murphy said, "All shall be prepared, my lord, according to your desire; only you appear to have forgotten that to-morrow is fixed for the celebration of the marriage of Rigolette with the son of Madame Georges, and that the ceremony was to take place at Bouqueval. Not contented with providing for Germain as long as he lives, and liberally endowing his bride, you also promised to be present to bestow the hand of your young protégée on her lover."
"True, true, – I did engage to do so; but I confess I have not sufficient courage to venture in a scene of gaiety. I cannot, therefore, visit the farm to-morrow, for to join in the wedding festivities is impossible."
"Perhaps the scene might serve to calm your wounded feelings, with the thought that, if miserable yourself, you have made others happy."
"No, my friend, no! Grief is ever selfish, and loves to indulge itself in solitude. You shall supply my place to-morrow; and beg of Madame Georges to collect together all my poor child's possessions; then when the room is fitly arranged, you will have an exact copy taken of it, and cause it to be sent to me in Germany."
"And will you not even see Madame d'Harville, my lord, ere you set out on your journey?"
At the recollection of Clémence, Rodolph started; his affection for her burned as steadfastly and sincerely as ever, but, for the moment, it seemed buried beneath the overwhelming grief which oppressed him. The tender sympathy of Madame d'Harville appeared to him the only source of consolation; but, the next instant, he rejected the idea of seeking consolation in the love of another as unworthy his paternal sorrow.
"No, my kind friend, I shall not see Madame d'Harville previously to quitting Paris. I wrote to her a few days since, telling her of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, and the pain it had caused me. When she learns that the ill-fated girl was my long-lost daughter, she will readily understand that there are some griefs, or rather fatal punishments, it is requisite to endure alone."
A gentle knock was heard at the door at this minute. Rodolph, with displeasure at the interruption, signed for Murphy to ascertain who it was. The faithful squire immediately rose, and, partly opening the door, perceived one of the prince's aides-de-camp, who said a few words in a low tone, to which Murphy replied by a motion of the head, and, returning to Rodolph, said, "Have the goodness, my lord, to excuse me for an instant! A person wishes to see me directly on business that concerns your royal highness."
"Go!" replied the prince.
Scarcely had the door closed on Murphy, than Rodolph, covering his face with his hands, uttered a heavy groan.
"What horrible feelings possess me!" cried he. "My mind seems one vast ocean of gall and bitterness; the presence of my best and most faithful friend is painful to me; and the recollection of a love pure and elevated as mine distresses and embarrasses me. Last night, too, I was cowardly enough to learn the death of Sarah with savage joy. I felicitated myself on being free from an unnatural being like her, who had caused the destruction of my child; I promised myself the horrible satisfaction of witnessing the mortal agonies of the wretch who deprived my child of life. But I was baffled of my dear revenge. Another cruel punishment!" exclaimed he, starting with rage from his chair. "Yet although I knew yesterday as well as to-day that my child was dead, I did not experience such a whirlwind of despairing, self-accusing agony as now rends my soul; because I did not then recall to mind the one torturing fact that will for ever step in between me and consolation. I did not then recall the circumstance of my having seen and known my beloved child, and, moreover, discovered in her untold treasures of goodness and nobleness of character. Yet how little did I profit by her being at the farm! Merely saw her three times – yes, three times – no more! when I might have beheld her each day – nay, have kept her ever beside me. Oh, that will be my unceasing punishment, my never-ending reproach and torture, – to think I had my daughter near me, and actually sent her from me! Nor, though I felt how deserving she was of every fond care, did I even admit her into my presence but three poor distant times."
While the unhappy prince thus continued to torment himself with these and similar reflections, the door of the apartment suddenly opened and Murphy entered, looking so pale and agitated that even Rodolph could not help remarking it; and rising hastily, he exclaimed:
"For heaven's sake, Murphy, what has happened to you?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"Yet you are pale!"
"'Tis with astonishment."
"Astonishment at what?"
"Madame d'Harville."
"Madame d'Harville! Gracious heaven! Some fresh misfortune?"
"No, no, my lord – indeed, nothing unfortunate has occurred. Pray compose yourself! She is – in the drawing-room – "
"Here – in my house? Madame d'Harville here? Impossible!"
"My lord, I told you the surprise had quite overpowered me!"
"Tell me what has induced her to take such a step! Speak, I conjure you! In heaven's name, explain the reason for her acting so contrary to her usually rigid notions!"
"Indeed, my lord, I know nothing. But I cannot even account to myself for the strange feelings that come over me."
"You are concealing something from me!"
"No, indeed, my lord; on the honour of a man, I know only what the marquise said to me."
"And what did she say?"
"'Sir Walter,' said she, with an unsteady voice, though her countenance shone with joy, 'no doubt you are surprised at my presence here; but there are some circumstances so imperative as to leave no time to consider the strict rules of etiquette. Beg of his royal highness to grant me an immediate interview of a few minutes only in your presence, for I know well that the prince has not a better friend than yourself. I might certainly have requested him to call on me, but that would have caused at least an hour's delay; and when the prince has learned the occasion of my coming, I am sure he will feel grateful to me for not delaying the interview I seek for a single instant.' And as she uttered these words, her countenance wore an expression that made me tremble all over."
"But," returned Rodolph, in an agitated tone, and, spite of all his attempts at retaining his composure, being even paler than Murphy himself, "I cannot guess what caused your emotion; there must be something beyond those words of Madame d'Harville's to occasion it."
"I pledge you my honour if there be I am wholly ignorant of it; but I confess those few words from Madame la Marquise seemed quite to bewilder me. But even you, my lord, are paler than you were."
"Am I?" said Rodolph, supporting himself on the back of his chair, for he felt his knees tremble under him.
"Nay, but, my lord, you are quite as much overcome as I was. What ails you?"
"Though I die in making the effort," exclaimed the prince, "it shall be done. Beg of Madame d'Harville to do me the honour to walk in."
By a singular and sympathetic feeling this extraordinary and wholly unexpected visit of Madame d'Harville had awakened in the breasts of Murphy and Rodolph the same vague and groundless hope, but so senseless did it seem that neither was willing to confess it to the other.
Madame d'Harville, conducted by Murphy, entered the apartment in which was the prince.
CHAPTER VI
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER
Ignorant of Fleur-de-Marie's being the prince's daughter, Madame d'Harville, in the fullness of her delight at restoring to him his protégée, had not reckoned upon its being necessary to observe any particular precaution in presenting her young companion, whom she merely left in the carriage until she had ascertained whether Rodolph chose to make known his real name and rank to the object of his bounty, and to receive her at his own house; but perceiving the deep alteration in his features, and struck with the visible gloom which overspread them, as well as the marks of recent tears so evident in his sunken eye, Clémence became alarmed with the idea that some fresh misfortune, greater than the loss of La Goualeuse would be considered, had suddenly occurred. Wholly losing sight, therefore, of the original cause of her visit, she anxiously exclaimed:
"For heaven's sake, my lord, what has happened?"
"Do you not know, madame? Then all hope is at an end! Alas! your earnest manner, the interview so unexpectedly sought by you, all made me believe – "
"Let me entreat of you not to think for a moment of the cause of my visit; but, in the name of that parent whose life you have preserved, I adjure you to explain to me the cause of the deep affliction in which I find you plunged. Your paleness, your dejection, terrify me. Oh, be generous, my lord, and relieve the cruel anxiety I suffer."
"Wherefore should I burden your kind heart with the relation of woes that admit of no relief?"
"Your words, your hesitation, but increase my apprehensions. Oh, my lord, I beseech you tell me all! Sir Walter, will you not take pity on my fears? For the love of heaven explain the meaning of all this! What has befallen the prince?"
"Nay," interrupted Rodolph, in a voice that vainly struggled for firmness, "since you desire it, madame, learn that since I acquainted you with the death of Fleur-de-Marie I have learned she was my own daughter."
"Your daughter!" exclaimed Clémence, in a tone impossible to describe. "Fleur-de-Marie your daughter!"
"And when just now you desired to see me, to communicate tidings that would fill me with joy, – pardon and pity the weakness of a parent half distracted at the loss of his newly-found treasure! – I ventured to hope – But no, – no, – I see too plainly I was mistaken! Forgive me, my brain seems wandering, and I scarce know what I say or do."
And then sinking under the failure of this last fond imagination of his heart, and unable longer to struggle with his black despair, Rodolph threw himself back in his chair and covered his face with his hands, while Madame d'Harville, astonished at what she had just heard, remained motionless and silent, scarcely able to breathe amid the conflicting emotions which took possession of her mind; at one instant glowing with delight at the thoughts of the joy she had it in her power to impart, then trembling for the consequences her explanation might produce on the overexcited mind of the prince.
Both these reflections were, however, swallowed up in the enthusiastic gratitude which she felt in the consideration that to her had been deputed the happiness not only of announcing to the grief-stricken father that his child still lived, but that the unspeakable rapture of placing that daughter in her parent's arms was likewise vouchsafed to her.
Carried away by a burst of pious thankfulness, and wholly forgetting the presence of Rodolph and Murphy, Madame d'Harville threw herself on her knees, and, clasping her hands, exclaimed, in a tone of fervent piety and ineffable gratitude:
"Thanks, thanks, my God, for this exceeding goodness! Ever blessed be thy gracious name for having permitted me to be the happy bearer of such joyful tidings, – to wipe away a father's tears by telling him his child lives to reward his tenderness!"
Although these words, pronounced with the sincerest fervour and holy ecstasy, were uttered almost in a whisper, yet they reached the listening ears of Rodolph and his faithful squire; and as Clémence rose from her knees, the prince gazed on her lovely countenance, irradiated as it was with celestial happiness and beaming with more than earthly beauty, with an expression almost amounting to adoration.
Supporting herself with one hand, while with the other she sought to still the rapid beating of her heart, Madame d'Harville replied by a sweet smile and an affirmative inclination of the head to the eager, soul-searching look of Rodolph, a look wholly beyond our poor powers to describe.
"And where is she?" exclaimed the prince, trembling like a leaf.
"In my carriage."
But for the intervention of Murphy, who threw himself before Rodolph with the quickness of lightning, the latter would have rushed to the vehicle.
"Would you kill her, my lord?" exclaimed the squire, forcibly retaining the prince.
"She was merely pronounced convalescent yesterday," added Clémence; "therefore, as you value her safety, do not venture to try the poor girl's strength too far."
"You are right," said Rodolph, scarcely able to restrain himself sufficiently to follow this prudent advice, "you are quite right. Yes, I will be calm, – I will not see her at present; I will wait until her first emotions have subsided. Oh, 'tis too much to endure in so short a space of time!" Then addressing Madame d'Harville, he said, in an agitated tone, while he extended to her his hand, "I feel that I am pardoned, and that you are the angel of forgiveness who brings me the glad tidings of my remission."
"Nay, my lord, we do but mutually requite our several obligations. You preserved to me my father, and Heaven permits me to restore your daughter at a time you bewailed her as lost. But I, too, must beg to be excused for the weakness which resists all my endeavours to control it; the sudden and unexpected news you have communicated to me has quite overcome me, and I confess I should not have sufficient command over myself to go in quest of Fleur-de-Marie, – my emotion would terrify her."
"And by what means was she preserved?" exclaimed Rodolph; "and whose hand snatched her from death? I am most ungrateful not to have put these questions to you earlier."
"She was rescued from drowning by a courageous female, who snatched her from a watery grave just as she was sinking."
"Do you know who this female was?"
"I do; and to-morrow she will be at my house."
"The debt is immense!" rejoined the prince; "but I will endeavour to repay it."
"Heaven must have inspired me with the idea of leaving Fleur-de-Marie in the carriage," said the marquise. "Had I brought her in with me the shock must have killed her."
"Now, then," said the prince, who had been for some minutes occupied in endeavouring to subdue his extreme agitation, "I can promise you, my kind friends, that I have my feelings sufficiently under control to venture to meet my – my – daughter. Go, Murphy, and fetch her to my longing arms."
Rodolph pronounced the word daughter with a tenderness of voice and manner impossible to describe.
"Are you quite sure you are equal to the trying scene, my lord?" inquired Clémence; "for we must run no risks with one in Fleur-de-Marie's delicate state."
"Oh, yes, – yes! Be under no alarm! I am too well aware of the dangerous consequences any undue emotion would occasion my child; be assured I will not expose her to anything of the sort. But go – go – my good Murphy; I beseech you hasten to bring her hither."
"Don't be alarmed, madame," said the squire, who had attentively scrutinised the countenance of the prince; "she may come now without danger. I am quite sure that his royal highness will sufficiently command himself."
"Then go – go – my faithful friend; you are keeping me in torments."
"Just give me one minute, my lord," said the excellent creature, drying the moisture from his eyes; "I must not let the poor thing see I have been crying. There, there – that will do! I should not like to cross the antechamber looking like a weeping Magdalen." So saying, the squire proceeded towards the door, but suddenly turning back, he said, "But, my lord, what am I to say to her?"
"Yes, what had he better say?" inquired the prince of Clémence.
"That M. Rodolph wishes to see her, – nothing more."
"Oh, to be sure! How stupid of me not to think of that! M. Rodolph wishes to see her, – capital, excellent!" repeated the squire, who evidently partook of Madame d'Harville's nervousness, and sought to defer the moment of his embassy by one little pretext and the other. "That will not give her the least suspicion, not the shadow of a notion what she is wanted for. Nothing better could have been suggested."
But still Murphy stirred not.
"Sir Walter," said Clémence, smiling, "you are afraid!"
"Well, I won't deny it!" said the squire. "And, spite of my standing six feet high, I feel and know I am trembling like a child."
"Then take care, my good fellow!" said Rodolph. "You had better wait a little longer if you do not feel quite sure of yourself."
"No, no, my lord; I have got the upper hand of my fears this time!" replied Murphy, pressing his two herculean fists to his eyes. "I know very well that at my time of life it is ridiculous for me to show such weakness! I'm going, my lord, don't you be uneasy!" So saying, Murphy left the room with a firm step and composed countenance.
A momentary silence followed his departure, and then, for the first time, Clémence remembered she was alone with the prince, and under his roof. Rodolph drew near to her, and said, with an almost timid voice and manner:
"If I select this day – this hour – to divulge to you the dearest secret of my heart, it is that the solemnity of the present moment may give greater weight to that I would impart, and persuade you to believe me sincere, when I assure you I have loved you almost from the hour I first beheld you. While obstacles stood in the way of my love I studiously concealed it; but you are now free to hear me declare my affection, and to ask you to become a mother to the daughter you restore to me."
"My lord," cried Madame d'Harville, "what words are these?"
"Oh, refuse me not," said Rodolph, tenderly; "let this day decide the happiness of my future life."
Clémence had also nourished a deep and sincere passion for the prince; and his open, manly avowal of a similar feeling towards herself, made under such peculiar circumstances, transported her with joy, and she could but falter out in a hesitating voice:
"My lord, 'tis for me to remind you of the difference of our stations, and the interests of your sovereignty."
"Permit me first to consider the interest of my own heart, and that of my beloved child. Oh, make us both happy by consenting to be mine! So that I who, but a short time since, owned no blessed tie, may now proudly indulge in the idea of having both a wife and daughter; and give to the sorrowing child who is just restored to my arms the delight of saying, 'My father – my mother – my sister!' – for your sweet girl would become mine also."
"Ah, my lord," exclaimed Clémence, "my grateful tears alone can speak my sense of such noble conduct!" Then suddenly checking herself, she added, "I hear persons approaching, my lord; your daughter comes."
"Refuse me not, I conjure you!" responded Rodolph, in an agitated and suppliant tone. "By the love I bear you, I beseech you to make me happy by saying, 'Our daughter comes!'"
"Then be it our daughter, if such is your sincere wish," murmured Clémence, as Murphy, throwing open the door, introduced Fleur-de-Marie into the salon.
The astonished girl had, upon entering the immense hôtel from the spacious portico under which she alighted from the marquise's carriage, first crossed an anteroom filled with servants dressed in rich liveries; then a waiting-room, in which were other domestics belonging to the establishment, also wearing the magnificent livery of the house of Gerolstein; and lastly, the apartment in which the chamberlain and aides-de-camp of the prince attended his orders.
The surprise and wonder of the poor Goualeuse, whose ideas of splendour were based on the recollection of the farm at Bouqueval, as she traversed those princely chambers glittering with gold, silver, paintings, and mirrors, may easily be imagined.
Directly she appeared, Madame d'Harville ran towards her, kindly took her hand, and throwing her arm around her waist, as though to support her, led her towards Rodolph, who remained supporting himself by leaning one arm on the chimneypiece, wholly incapable of advancing a single step.
Having consigned Fleur-de-Marie to the care of Madame d'Harville, Murphy hastily retreated behind one of the large window curtains, not feeling too sure of his own self-command.
At the sight of him who was, in the eyes of Fleur-de-Marie, not only her benefactor but the worshipped idol of her heart, the poor girl, whose delicate frame had been so severely tried by illness, became seized with a universal trembling.
"Compose yourself, my child!" said Madame d'Harville. "See, there is your kind M. Rodolph, who has been extremely uneasy on your account, and is most anxious to see you."
"Oh, yes – uneasy, indeed!" stammered forth Rodolph, whose breast was wrung with anguish at the sight of his child's pale, suffering looks, and, spite of his previous resolution, the prince found himself compelled to turn away his head to conceal his deep emotion.
"My poor child!" said Madame d'Harville, striving to divert the attention of Fleur-de-Marie, "you are still very weak!" and, leading her to a large gilded armchair, she made her sit down, while the astonished Goualeuse seemed almost to shrink from touching the elegant cushions with which it was lined. But she did not recover herself; on the contrary, she seemed oppressed. She strove to speak, but her voice failed her, and her heart reproached her with not having said one word to her venerated benefactor of the deep gratitude which filled her whole soul.
At length, at a sign from Madame d'Harville, who, leaning over Fleur-de-Marie, held one of the poor girl's thin, wasted hands in hers, the prince gently approached the side of the chair, and now, more collected, he said to Fleur-de-Marie, as she turned her sweet face to welcome him:
"At last, my child, your friends have recovered you, and be sure it is not their intention ever to part with you again. One thing you must endeavour to do, and that is to banish for ever from your mind all your past sufferings."
"Yes, my dear girl," said Clémence, "you can in no way so effectually prove your affection for your friends as by forgetting the past."
"Ah, M. Rodolph, and you, too, madame, pray believe that if, spite of myself, my thoughts do revert to the past, it will be but to remind me that but for you that wretched past would still be my lot."
"But we shall take pains to prevent such mournful reminiscences ever crossing your mind. Our tenderness will not allow you time to look back, my dear Marie," said Rodolph; "you know I gave you that name at the farm."
"Oh, yes, M. Rodolph, I well remember you did. And Madame Georges, who was so good as even to permit me to call her mother, is she quite well?"
"Perfectly so, my child; but I have some most important news for you. Since I last saw you some great discoveries have been made respecting your birth. We have found out who were your parents, and your father is known to us."
The voice of Rodolph trembled so much while pronouncing these words that Fleur-de-Marie, herself deeply affected, turned quickly towards him, but, fortunately, he managed to conceal his countenance from her.
A somewhat ridiculous occurrence also served at this instant to call off the attention of the Goualeuse from too closely observing the prince's emotion, – the worthy squire, who still remained behind the curtain, feigning to be very busily occupied in gazing upon the garden belonging to the hôtel, suddenly blew his nose with a twanging sound that reëchoed through the salon; for, in truth, the worthy man was crying like a child.
"Yes, my dear Marie," said Clémence, hastily, "your father is known to us – he is still living."
"My father!" cried La Goualeuse, in a tone of tender delight, that subjected the firmness of Rodolph to another difficult test.
"And some day," continued Clémence, – "perhaps very shortly, you will see him. But what will, no doubt, greatly astonish you, is that he is of high rank and noble birth."
"And my mother, shall I not see her, too, madame?"
"That is a question your father will answer, my dear child. But tell me, shall you not be delighted to see him?"
"Oh, yes, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes.
"How much you will love him when you know him!" said Clémence.
"A new existence will commence for you from that very day, will it not, Marie?" asked the prince.
"Oh, no, M. Rodolph," replied Fleur-de-Marie, artlessly; "my new existence began when you took pity on me, and sent me to the farm."
"But your father loves you fondly – dearly!" said the prince.
"I know nothing of my father, M. Rodolph; but to you I owe everything in this world and the next."
"Then you love me better, perhaps, than you would your father?"
"Oh, M. Rodolph, I revere and bless you with all my heart! For you have been a saviour and preserver to me both of body and soul," replied La Goualeuse, with a degree of fervour and enthusiasm that overcame her natural diffidence.
"When this kind lady was so good as to visit me in prison, I said to her, as I did to every one else, 'Oh, if you have any trouble, only let M. Rodolph know it, and he will be sure to relieve you.' And when I saw any person hesitating between good and evil, I used to advise them to try and be virtuous, telling them M. Rodolph always found a way to punish the wicked. And to such as were far gone in sin, I said, 'Take care, M. Rodolph will recompense you as you deserve.' And even when I thought myself dying, I felt comfort in persuading myself that God would pity and pardon me, since M. Rodolph had deigned to do so."
Carried away by her intense feelings of gratitude and reverence for her benefactor, Fleur-de-Marie broke through her habitual timidity; while thus expressing herself a bright flush coloured her pale cheeks, while her soft blue eyes, raised towards heaven as though in earnest prayer, shone with unusual brilliancy.
A silence of some seconds succeeded to this burst of enthusiasm, while the spectators of the scene were too deeply affected to attempt a reply.
"It seems, then, my dear child," said Rodolph, at length, "that I have almost usurped your parent's place in your affections?"
"Indeed, M. Rodolph, I cannot help it! Perhaps it is very wrong in me to prefer you as I do, but I know you, and my father is a stranger to me." Then letting her head fall on her bosom, she added, in a low, confused manner, "And besides, M. Rodolph, though you are acquainted with the past, you have loaded me with kindness; while my father is ignorant of – of – my shame, – and may, probably, regret, when he does know, having found an unfortunate creature like myself. And then, too," continued the poor girl, with a shudder, "madame tells me he is of high birth; how, then, can he look upon me without shame and aversion?"
"Shame!" exclaimed Rodolph, drawing himself up with proud dignity; "no, no, my poor child, your grateful, happy father will raise you to a position so great, so brilliant, that the richest and highest in the land shall behold you with respect. Despise and blush for you! – never! You shall take your place among the first princesses of Europe, and prove yourself worthy of the blood of queens which flows in your veins."
"My lord! My lord!" cried Clémence and Murphy at the same time, equally alarmed at the excited manner of Rodolph, and the increasing paleness of Fleur-de-Marie, who gazed on her father in silent amazement.
"Ashamed of you!" continued he. "Oh, if ever I rejoiced in my princely rank it is now that it affords me the means of raising you from the depths to which the wickedness of others consigned you. Yes, my child! My long-lost, idolised child! In me behold your father!" And utterly unable longer to repress his feelings, the prince threw himself at the feet of Fleur-de-Marie, and covered her hand with tears and caresses.
"Thanks, my God," exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, passionately clasping her hands, "for permitting me to indulge that love for my benefactor with which my heart was filled. My father! Oh, blessed title, that enables me to love him even as I – " And unable to bear up against the suddenness of the disclosure, Fleur-de-Marie fell fainting in the prince's arms.
Murphy rushed to the waiting-room, and shouted vehemently:
"Send for Doctor David directly! Directly, do you hear? For his royal highness, – no – no, for some one who is suddenly taken ill here."
"Wretch that I am!" exclaimed Rodolph, sobbing almost hysterically at his daughter's feet, "I have killed her! Marie, my child, look up! It is your father calls you! Forgive – oh, forgive my precipitancy – my want of caution in disclosing to you this happy news! She is dead! God of heaven! Have I then but found her to see her torn from me for ever?"