THE PRETTY MUSICIAN.
About seven o'clock on the evening of the same day on which M. de
Maillefort's duel took place, and just as the sun was beginning to
vanish from sight in a bank of dark clouds that indicated a stormy
night,--for occasional big drops of rain were already falling,--a young
girl was crossing the Place de la Concorde, in the direction of the
Faubourg Ste. Honore.
This girl carried under her left arm two large music books whose shabby
bindings attested to long and faithful service; in her right hand she
held a small umbrella. Her attire, which was modest in the extreme,
consisted of a plain black silk dress with a small mantle of the same
material, and, though the spring was already far advanced, she wore on
her head a gray felt hat tied under the chin with broad ribbons of the
same quiet hue. A few soft, curling tresses of golden hair, which the
wind had loosened from their confinement, caressed her low, broad
forehead, and made a lovely frame for her sweet, youthful face, which
wore an expression of profound sadness, but which was also instinct with
refinement, modesty, and quiet dignity. This same natural dignity
manifested itself in the thoughtful and rather proud expression of the
girl's large blue eyes. Her bearing was graceful and distinguished, and
though her mantle concealed her figure, one instinctively felt that it
was not only lithe, but perfect in contour, for her garments were worn
with such an air of distinction that one forgot their shabbiness.
As she lifted her dress slightly in crossing a gutter, a pretty foot,
clad in a neat, well-fitting, though rather thick-soled shoe, was
disclosed to view, and one also caught a glimpse of a petticoat of
dazzling whiteness, edged with a narrow lace-trimmed ruffle.
At the corner of the Rue des Champs Elysees, a beggar woman, with a
child in her arms, addressed a few words to her in an imploring voice,
whereupon the girl paused, and after a moment's embarrassment,--for
having both hands occupied, one with her music books and the other with
her umbrella, she could not get at her pocket,--she solved the
difficulty by confiding the music books temporarily to the poor woman's
care, and transferring her umbrella to her other hand. This done, the
girl drew out her purse, which contained barely four francs in small
change, and, taking from it a two sous piece, said hurriedly, but in
tones of entrancing sweetness:
"Forgive me, good mother, forgive me for being unable to offer you
more."
Then, with a compassionate glance at the pale face of the infant which
the woman was pressing to her breast, she added:
"Poor little thing! May God preserve it to you!" Then resuming
possession of her music books, and casting another glance of tender
commiseration on the poor creatures, she continued on her way down the
Champs Elysees.
We have dwelt upon the apparently trivial details of this act of
charity, merely because they seem to us so significant. The gift, though
trifling in value, had not been given haughtily or thoughtlessly; nor
was the young girl content with dropping a bit of money into the
outstretched hand. There was also another circumstance which, though
trivial, was highly significant: the young girl had removed her glove
before proffering her alms--as she would have done before touching the
hand of a friend and equal.
It so happened that M. de Ravil, who had just escorted his wounded
friend to his home on the Rue de Madeleine, met the young girl on the
pavement of the Rue des Champs Elysees, and, struck by her beauty and by
the distinguished bearing which contrasted so strongly with the
excessive plainness of her attire, he paused a moment directly in front
of her and eyed her cynically, then, as she walked quickly on, he turned
and followed her.
As she turned into the Rue de l'Arcade, a street little frequented at
that hour of the day, he quickened his pace, and, overtaking the fair
unknown, said, insolently:
"Mademoiselle gives music lessons, I judge? Will she be kind enough to
come and give me one--at my house?"
As he spoke he laid his hand upon the arm of the girl, who turned
quickly with a faint cry; then, though her cheeks were crimson with
terror and emotion, she cast such a look of withering scorn on Ravil
that, in spite of his natural impudence, his eyes fell, and bowing low
before the unknown with an air of ironical deference, he said:
"Pardon me, madame la princesse, I was mistaken in the person."
The girl continued on her way, forcing herself to walk quietly in spite
of her painful anxiety, for the house to which she going was only a
short distance off now.
"All the same, I intend to follow her and see who this shabbily dressed
girl who gives herself the airs of a duchess is," Ravil said to himself.
The comparison was an eminently just one, though he did not know it, for
Herminie--that was the girl's name; in fact, being a foundling, she had
no other--for Herminie was indeed a duchess, if one means by that word
a charming combination of beauty, grace, and natural refinement,
accompanied by that indomitable pride which is inherent in every
fastidious and sensitive nature.
It has been truly said that many duchesses, both as regards appearance
and instincts, were born _lorettes_; while, on the other hand, many poor
creatures of the most obscure origin were born duchesses.
Herminie herself was certainly a living example of the truth of this
assertion, for the friends she had made in her humble role of singing
and piano teacher always called her the duchess,--a few from jealousy,
for even the most generous and unassuming of people have their
detractors, others, on the contrary, because the term best expressed the
impression Herminie's manner and appearance made upon them. It is hardly
necessary to say that the young lady in question was no other than the
duchess of whom Olivier had made frequent mention during the dinner at
Commander Bernard's house.
Herminie, still closely followed by Ravil, soon left the Rue de l'Arcade
for the Rue d'Anjou, where she entered an imposing mansion, thus
escaping the annoying pursuit of that cynical personage.
"How strange!" he exclaimed, pausing a few yards off. "Why the devil is
that girl going into the Hotel de Beaumesnil with her music books under
her arm. She certainly cannot live there."
Then, after a moment's reflection, he added, "But now I think of it,
this must be the female David who is trying to assuage Madame de
Beaumesnil's sufferings by the charm of her music. That lady might well
be likened to good King Saul by reason of her great wealth, which will
all go to that young girl in whom my friend Mornand already feels such
an interest. As for me, that pretty musician who has just entered the
home of the countess suits my fancy. I mean to wait until she comes
out, for I must find out where she lives."
The expression of melancholy on Herminie's charming face deepened as she
crossed the threshold, and, passing the porter without speaking, as any
member of the household might have done, entered the magnificent hall of
this sumptuous abode.
It was still daylight, but the entire lower floor was brilliantly
lighted. As she noted this fact, her surprise changed to anguish, which
increased when she saw none of the footmen who were usually in
attendance.
A profound stillness pervaded the mansion as the young girl, with her
heart throbbing almost to bursting, mounted the handsome stairway to a
broad landing, which commanded a view of a long line of large and
magnificently furnished apartments.
These rooms, too, were brilliantly lighted but also deserted, and the
pale light of the candles, contending with the glowing rays of the
setting sun, produced a very strange and most unnatural effect.
Herminie, unable to account for the poignant anxiety to which she was a
prey, hurried breathlessly on through several rooms, then paused
suddenly.
It seemed to her that she could hear stifled sobs in the distance.
At last she reached a door leading into a long picture-gallery, and at
the farther end of this gallery Herminie saw all the inmates of the
mansion kneeling just outside the threshold of an open door.
A terrible presentiment seized the young girl. When she left Madame de
Beaumesnil the evening before, that lady was alarmingly, though not
hopelessly ill; but now, these lights, this lugubrious silence, broken
only by smothered sobs, indicated beyond a doubt that Madame de
Beaumesnil was receiving the last sacrament.
The young girl, overcome with grief and terror, felt that her strength
was deserting her, and instinctively clutched at one of the consoles
for support; then, endeavouring to conceal her emotion and her tears,
again hastened on with tottering steps towards the group of servants in
the open doorway of Madame de Beaumesnil's chamber, and knelt there in
the midst of them.