"Indeed I do; but on one condition: that directly after your marriage has been celebrated here, without pomp or parade, you shall depart with your husband for some tranquil retreat in Italy or Switzerland, where you may live unknown, and merely pass for opulent persons of middle rank. And my reason for attaching this proviso to my consent is because I feel assured that, in the bosom of simple and unostentatious happiness, you would by degrees forget the hateful past, which is now only more painfully contrasted with the pomp and ceremony by which you are surrounded." "Rodolph is right," said Clemence. "With Henry for your companion, and happy in each other's affection, past sorrows will soon be forgotten." "And as I could not wholly part with you, Clemence and I would pay you a visit each year. Then when time shall have healed your wounded spirit, my poor child, and present felicity shall have effaced all recollections of the past, you will return to dwell among us, never more to part." "Forget the past in present happiness!" murmured Fleur-de-Marie. "Even so, my child," replied Rodolph, scarcely able to restrain his emotion at seeing his daughter's scruples thus shaken. "Can it be possible," cried Fleur-de-Marie, "that such unspeakable felicity is reserved for me? The wife of Henry. And one day to pass my life between him--yourself--and my second mother!" continued she, more subdued by the ineffable delight such a picture created in her mind. "All--all that happiness shall be yours, my precious child!" exclaimed Rodolph, fondly embracing Fleur-de-Marie. "I will reply at once to Henry's father that I consent to the marriage. Comfort yourself with the certainty that our separation will be but short; the fresh duties you will take upon yourself in a wedded life will serve to drive away all past retrospections and painful reminiscences; and should you yourself be a mother, you will know and feel how readily a parent sacrifices her own regrets and griefs to promote the happiness of her child." "A mother! I a mother!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, with bitter despair, awakening at that word from the sweet illusion in which her memory seemed temporarily lulled. "Oh, no! I am unworthy to bear that sacred name! I should expire of shame in the presence of my own child, if indeed I could survive the horrible disclosures I must necessarily make to its father of my past life! Oh, never--never!" "My child, for pity's sake, listen to me!" Pale and beautiful amidst her deep distress, Fleur-de-Marie arose with all the majesty of incurable sorrow, and, looking earnestly at Rodolph, she said, "We forget that, ere Prince Henry made me his wife, he should be acquainted with the past!" "No, no, my daughter," replied Rodolph, "I had by no means forgotten what he both ought to know and shall learn of the melancholy tale." "Think you not that I should die, were I thus degraded in his eyes?"