By a strange
contradiction, the prince felt that the tender affection of Lady d'Harville
would alone have aided him to support the grief which overwhelmed him, and
he reproached this thought as unworthy the fervency of his paternal grief.
"I shall go without seeing the lady," answered Rudolph. "A few days since I
wrote her how much I sorrowed for the death of Fleur-de-Marie. When she
knows that Fleur-de-Marie was my daughter, she will comprehend the grief
that seeks to be alone--yes, alone, so that it may be expiatory; and it is
terrible, that expiation which fate imposes on me--terrible! for it
commences, for me, at the time when the decline of life also commences."
Some one knocked lightly and discreetly at the door; Rudolph started in
impatience; Murphy rose and went to see who was there. Through the
half-open door an aid-de-camp of the prince said a few words to the knight,
in a low tone. He answered by a sign, and, turning toward Rudolph, said,
"Will your highness permit me to be absent for a moment? Some one wishes to
speak to me on business of importance."
"Go," answered the prince.
Hardly had Murphy departed, than Rudolph, uttering a heavy sigh concealed
his face in his hands.
"Oh!" cried he, "that which I feel alarms me. My heart overflows with
hatred; the presence of my best friend weighs me down; the memory of a pure
and noble love importunes and troubles me, and then--it is cowardly and
unworthy.
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