Chapter XII.

"Extend to them the hand of pardon: They have sinned, but heaven forgives!" Lamartine.

Our young hero, wishing to have a view from the highest point of the mountain, was pushing on to reach the spot from where he thought it would be most extensive. When he had almost attained it, his foot slipped and for a moment he lost his balance, and it was this appearance of danger that kept the other traveller watching him, and led to his fall. But Robert was light and active, and raised himself by holding on to the rugged sides of the mountain and getting on a kind of plateau, when the cries, first of the man, then the lady, and then the guide attracted his attention and made him turn quickly. Then at great risk he leaned almost his whole body over the side of the precipice, and saw that imminent and terrible death menaced the man for whom his heart had conceived so much affection. The lady and the guide were both afraid to descend, for there was nothing to hold on to but some loose stones projecting out of the earth. The gentleman's position is both critical and perilous, but Robert descends cautiously to his side and assists him to climb up; and indeed it is almost a miracle that he is saved; and with a face radiant with joy Robert receives the thanks of the lady and the traveller, who, remarking a medallion Robert always wore, and of which he had obtained glimpses in the vivacity of his movements, said to him, in a trembling voice: "Where did you get that medallion, speak quickly!" And as if the reply he would receive was a sentence of life and death, he waited in horrible anxiety, as if his soul was suspended on the lips of Robert. Though surprised at this question, he was too polite not to answer without hesitation when he saw the agitation of the stranger. "This portrait," said he, "comes from my mother; it represents--" "Oh! pardon--the name of your mother?" eagerly interrupted the stranger. "Stephanie Dormeuil." "But what was her other name?" Robert hesitated a moment, then replied, "She was called Madame de Verceuil." At this answer a dazzling fire burned in the eyes of the stranger, and he made such a quick, impetuous movement that the cord which held the medallion was broken, and it fell to the ground. Robert stooped to pick it up, and heard these words, which overwhelmed him with astonishment: "O my God, the remorse I have suffered for twenty-five years!" and fainted, but the care of the lady and Robert soon brought back consciousness, and when he opened his eyes be caught Robert in his arms, and cried, "Oh! thou art my son, my own Robert! and I am thy father. Wilt thou pardon me, my son, my dear child, wilt thou pardon me?" "What! you are my father!" cried the artist, delirious with joy. "If you are, I must press you to my heart, which has so long called for you and needed you. I curse you?--for what? My saintly mother did not teach me this, but the contrary. O my God!" he said on bended knee, "you have fulfilled my prayers, you have given me my father." It is in vain that we can find words to express this touching scene. Robert was folded in his father's arms, repeating in a tender voice, "My father, my father!" He covered him with caresses and kisses, and calls his name with a joy so expressive, and a love so profound, that the count wept bitterly, and cried, raising his eyes to heaven, "O Stephanie, what noble vengeance thou hast given me!" Then gazing on his son, he was filled with pride at seeing the child whom he had lost when an infant, and found when a young man of splendid genius and glorious intellect. He said to him, with some embarrassment but with a lively interest, "My son, where is thy mother? What does she now?"

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"Alas!" said Robert, pointing to heaven, "she is there! She sees us, and her noble soul rejoices in our happiness."

The count understood it, his head was cast down, overwhelmed by the bitterness of his remembrances and his remorse. Robert had seized his hand and was pressing it affectionately, when he took the young woman and presented her to Robert, saying: "This is thy cousin, Julia de Moranges, who has been to me the best and most indulgent of nieces. I know you will love each other." They shook hands with frank cordiality, but here both filled with emotion at this strange meeting, and as this was not a favorable place for more extended explanations, and the guides were already impatient of so long a delay, they concluded to go on, and God knows the most tender sentiments filled Robert's mind. Filial love had ever been his first and strongest sentiment, and it burned in his heart with a passionate energy that charmed the count, and made him stop each moment to embrace his son, who had been the constant object of his regrets, for whom he had wept so much, and whose loss was the cause of the sorrow which had brought on premature old age.

Arriving at the top of this mountain, which is more than 2000 feet above the level of the sea, our travellers are on a plateau four leagues in circumference and covered with green pasture that charms the eyes, and in the middle of it was a large lake about thirty feet deep, filled with several varieties of fish.

The count was a man of extensive and varied information, and it was a pleasure for Robert to hear him talk, so charming and attractive was his conversation; and questioned by his son, the count related many things concerning Mont Cenis. "There is a certain celebrity," said he, "attached to the mountain we are crossing. Some authors pretend that Hannibal crossed here to enter Italy, and it is certain that Augustus opened a route, that was enlarged by Charlemagne. Thou hast before thee," added he, "the still more recent traces of the work that Napoleon commenced, and which is truly worthy of the great man who brought it thus far to perfection." It was not until they were descending the mountain that the count commenced to relate his life to his son, which we already know from his mother, but we cannot pass over in silence his poignant regrets at the loss of such saintly and sweet intercourse. When he looked at his son, left an orphan at twelve years of age, with no resources but his perseverance and good conduct, and reflected that he had come out of obscurity and made friends and a name, he blessed the wife whom he had so cruelly injured and who had given him a son, the glory of his white hairs and the love of his old age. But his remorse for his treatment of his wife was nothing to the fear that his son would refuse him his esteem and tenderness and would not consent to live with him. But these dread thoughts could not remain long in his mind; the respectful manner and caressing words of his son effaced them. The more he studied the character of Robert the more he felt the need of his love and of pleasing him, and the stronger was his desire to win the heart on which he set so high a price. To obtain this he gave him his entire confidence, and let him read his heart as he would an open book, and Robert saw the remorse his guilty conduct toward his mother had caused him. It was a painful avowal to make his son, but he had the courage; and the next day, after Robert had related to him the principal events of his life, he drew him to him, saying:

"I owe to thee, my child, a history of the years I have passed far from thee and thy mother, but it is not that I wish to make a parade of my regrets and my sufferings, but simply to tell thee in what way God called me to himself and to virtue."

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"My father," said Robert, "if the recital gives you pain, if it recalls too vividly your sorrows, do not tell me, I pray you, for I would rather you should chase away all sadness and smile yourself to life. I know I shall love you, and I want you to forget what you have suffered. It is not for me to judge you, and believe me, that, no matter what you say, my respect and love for you will always be the same."

The count took the hand of his son, but could not reply for some moments, then commenced thus: "If thy mother has not spoken to thee of my cruelty and injustice toward her, and, still more, if she has rather exculpated than accused me to thee, I owe it to her memory to avow that I alone was the guilty one, and that she was to me, to the last moment, a model of goodness, patience, and gentleness. She was right to leave me, for I was then so blinded by my passions that the threat which decided her to go I would without doubt have executed, if she had not taken the desperate part which has turned so happily to thy advantage. I say it to my shame, I was barbarous, wicked, and ungrateful to thy mother, and what is more frightful is that I was so with premeditation. Incapable of controlling my temper, and my pride wounded by the reproaches of my family, and by the railleries of the young fools I called my friends, I carried my treatment to blows and insults to her who gave thee birth. I know I make thee shudder and fill thee with horror, but I have cruelly expiated these moments of passion, for at heart I loved thy mother, and, when I reflected, I cursed my feebleness and self-love. Unfortunately these moments were of short duration, and the world and its attractions acted in a fatal manner on my heart, filled with the deplorable maxims of a corrupt, irreligious, frivolous, and mocking society. What, then, could stop me in the mad career which would soon bring me to the abyss already yawning under my feet? Nothing, for I hardly believed there was a God, and had none of the faith which thy mother has planted in thy heart. I was as blind and insensate as a drunken man, who knows neither where he is nor what he says. No curb could be put to my passions, for I was like the brute that obeys his instincts, only more miserable, as I had the voice of conscience to enlighten me while he is deprived of the soul, which is the divine essence. See, then, what I was when thy mother took thee far from me; and I was in a perfect transport of fury when on my return to the house I leaned from the servants that thy mother had gone, taking thee with her. At first, rage was the only passion that possessed my soul, and it was perfectly incomprehensible to me that a being as gentle as thy mother had ever proved herself should have the courage to take such a step; but maternal love was stronger than all things else to her, and when I found thy empty cradle, I wept and tore my hair in despair. It was the first time I had really felt as if I was a father; for when I kissed thy fresh young face, it was more from pride than from paternal tenderness; but when I knew thou wert gone forever, my heart was broken. I awoke at once, under the shock of this most agonizing, torturing sorrow, and from that moment my life of expiation commenced. But I do not date my return to God from that day, for it was a long time before my lips uttered a prayer. I suffered more than tongue can tell in the delirious life into which I was plunged, and which soon destroyed my health and left me with a sickness which was long and dangerous. In my hours of suffering and anguish you were always present to my mind, and I knew no one to whom I could confide my sorrow, and feared to die without seeing you. Days succeeded each other, until they became years; my despair increased and my loneliness was horrible. {203} The sign of a reprobate was marked like the curse of Cain upon my brow, and I was consuming myself in useless regrets, without having recourse to the love and compassion of God, when a providential accident brought near me one of those angels of charity who consecrate their lives to the care of the sick and sorrowing.

"A good sister of the order of St. Vincent de Paul came one day to excite my interest in favor of the poor, and her angelic face and her tender and persuasive voice touched me deeply. I was strangely attracted to her, and could not help contrasting her manner with the means used by women of the world to obtain what they desire. It was with pleasure, I might even say joy, that I gave her my purse, and we became engaged in conversation. She had read in my face the ravages of passion and the storms of the heart; and, as all sorrows were familiar to her, she easily guessed those of my soul, and forced me by her winning manner to confess to her the cause of my sufferings. Then when she knew all, she spoke to me in a language so filled with faith and charity that my frozen soul thawed under the warmth of her burning words. The name of God was so eloquent in her pure mouth that before she left me I pronounced it with faith and confidence. From this moment I prayed, and the saintly woman came several times to finish her work of grace. By her cares my body regained some strength, and my soul felt all the hopes of a Christian, all the salutary truths of our sublime religion. My repentance took the character of resignation, which gave some calmness and tranquillity to my desolate days. I bade adieu to the world, putting far from me its perfidious and deceitful charms, which I had before so eagerly sought, and all the illusions which had appeared seductive and worthy of my homage were dispelled. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and I loved now what I had hated. Thy mother appeared to me with her virtues and her touching simplicity and her charming candor and purity, and, now that I was in a state to appreciate her, I could behold her no more. At this time I lost my sister Helena, of whom thy mother has spoken to thee, and she left a daughter, thy cousin Julia. I took her to my home and heart, but still she did not console me for thy loss; for, good and amiable as she was, she was not my son, and the lost happiness is what we always sigh for, and which can never be replaced. My niece married and soon became a widow, when she returned to me, and, finding all her efforts to diminish my sadness without effect, she proposed our traveling. We have been all over Europe, and everywhere I looked for you and enquired for you, for a secret voice said to me always, 'Go on! go on! thou wilt find him.' I had already explored Italy from one end to the other, had visited cold England, crossed the German States, been through Spain and Portugal, when the fiery inquietude which kept me always moving made me turn my steps a second time toward Italy. It was doubtless a presentiment, since it was on this earth, a thousand times blessed, that I found thee--that we met! I feel that God as pardoned me, and my sorrows are at an end. Thou art the conciliating angel, the treasure and consolation and the last happiness of a penitent old man who has lost and suffered much. Oh! may thy love be the sign of the forgiveness thy mother has sent me, and a bond of peace and felicity. But," said the count, in a suppliant tone, in terminating this long and painful confession, "thou wilt not leave me, Robert? thou wilt live with me, my son? It would be too cruel to deprive me of thy presence, and, after having found my earthly heaven, thou wilt not plunge me into the depths of hell; for if I lose thy tenderness, I lose all."

"My father," replied Robert, "I could not leave you. I am too happy to possess your love to deprive myself of so sweet a joy. God has reunited us, and we will never again separate!"

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