THE UNHAPPY SECRET.
Through the open doorway before which Herminie had just knelt, she could
see by the wan light of an alabaster lamp Madame de Beaumesnil, a woman
only about thirty-eight years of age, but frightfully pale and
emaciated. The countess, who was sitting up in bed, supported by
pillows, had her hands clasped devoutly. Her features, once of rare
beauty, were drawn and haggard, her large eyes, formerly of a clear,
bright blue, had lost their lustre, though they were riveted with
mingled anxiety and anguish upon the face of Abbe Ledoux, her parish
priest, who had just administered the last sacrament.
A minute before Herminie's arrival, Madame de Beaumesnil, lowering her
voice still more, though weakness and suffering had already reduced it
to little more than a faint whisper, had said to the priest:
"Ah, my father, forgive me, but even at this solemn hour I cannot help
thinking with even more bitterness of heart of that poor child,--my
other daughter,--the unhappy fruit of a sin which has burdened my life
with the most poignant remorse."
"Hush, madame," replied the priest, who, as he cast a furtive glance at
the kneeling servants, had just seen Herminie take her place in their
midst; "hush, madame, she is here."
"She is?"
"Yes, she came in a moment ago, and is now kneeling with your people."
As he spoke, the priest turned and walked towards the door to close it,
after having first intimated by a gesture that the sad ceremony was
over.
"I remember now--that yesterday--when Herminie left me--I begged her to
return to-day at this very hour. The physician was right,--the angelic
voice of the dear child, her tender melodies, have often assuaged my
sufferings."
"Take care, madame. Be more prudent, I beg of you," pleaded the priest,
alone now with the invalid.
"Oh, I am. My daughter suspects nothing," answered Madame de Beaumesnil,
with a bitter smile.
"That is quite probable," said the priest, "for it was only chance, or,
rather, the inscrutable will of Providence, that brought this young
woman to your notice a short time ago. Doubtless it is the Saviour's
will that you should be subjected to a still harder test."
"Hard, indeed, my father, since I shall be obliged to depart from this
life without ever having said 'my daughter' to this unfortunate girl.
Alas! I shall carry my wretched secret with me to the grave."
"Your vow imposes this sacrifice upon you, madame. It is a sacred
obligation," said the priest, severely. "To break your vow, to thus
perjure yourself, would be sacrilege."
"I have never thought of perjuring myself, my father," replied Madame de
Beaumesnil, despondently; "but God is punishing me cruelly. I am dying,
and yet I am forced to treat as a stranger my own child,--who is
there--only a few feet from me, kneeling among my people, and who must
never know that I am her mother."
"Your sin was great, madame. The expiation must be correspondingly
great."
"But how long it has lasted for me, my father. Faithful to my vow, I
never even tried to discover what had become of my unfortunate child.
Alas! but for the chance which brought her to my notice a few days ago,
I should have died without having seen her for seventeen years."
"These thoughts are very sinful, my daughter," said the priest, sternly.
"They caused you to take a most imprudent step yesterday."
"Have no fears, my father. It is impossible that the woman I sent for
yesterday, openly, in order to avert any suspicion, should suspect my
motive in asking for information which she alone could give."
"And this information?"
"Confirmed--as I anticipated--in the most irrefutable manner--what I
already knew--that Herminie is my daughter."
"But why do you feel so sure of this woman's discretion?"
"Because she lost all trace of my daughter after their separation
sixteen years ago."
"But are you sure this woman did not recognise you?"
"I confessed to you, my father, that I had a mask on my face when I
brought Herminie into the world with this woman's aid, and yesterday, in
my interview with her, I found it easy to convince her that the mother
of the child I was inquiring about had been dead for several years."
"It is necessary that I should grant you absolution for this act of
deception," answered Abbe Ledoux, with great severity. "You can see now
the fatal consequences of your criminal solicitude for a person who,
after your vow, should always have remained a stranger to you."
"Ah, that oath which remorse and gratitude for the most generous
forgiveness extorted from me! I have often cursed it,--but I have always
kept it, my father."
"And yet, my sister, even at such an hour as this, your every thought is
given to that young girl."
"No, not my every thought, my father, for I have another child. But
alas! I cannot prevent my heart from throbbing faster at the approach of
Herminie, who is also my daughter. Can I prevent my heart from going out
to her? I may have courage to control my lips, to guard my eyes, and to
conceal my feelings when Herminie is with me, but I cannot prevent
myself from feeling a mother's tenderness for her."
"Then you must forbid the girl the house," said the priest, sternly.
"You can easily invent a plausible pretext for that, I am sure. Thank
her for her services, and--"
"No, no, I should never have the courage to do that," said the countess,
quickly. "Is it not hard enough for me that my other daughter, whose
affection would have been so consoling in this trying hour, is in a
foreign land, mourning the loss of the father of whom she was so
suddenly bereft? And who knows, perhaps Ernestine, too, is dying as I
am. Poor child! She was so weak and frail when she went away! Oh, was
there ever a mother as much to be pitied as I am?"
And two burning tears fell from Madame de Beaumesnil's eyes.
"Calm yourself, my sister," said the abbe, soothingly; "do not grieve
so. Put your trust in Heaven. Our Saviour's mercy is great. He has
sustained you through this solemn ceremony, which was, as I told you,
merely a precaution, for, God be praised! your condition, though
alarming, is by no means hopeless."
Madame de Beaumesnil shook her head sadly, as she replied:
"I am growing weaker fast, my father, but now that my last duties are
performed I feel much calmer. Ah, if I did not have my children to think
of, I could die in peace."
"I understand you, my sister," said the priest, soothingly. Then
watching Madame de Beaumesnil's face closely all the while, he
continued:
"I understand you, my sister. The future of your child, your legitimate
child,--I cannot and must not speak of the other,--her future excites
your liveliest apprehensions--and you are right--an orphan--and so
young, poor child!"
"Alas! yes, a mother's place can never be filled."
"Then why do you hesitate, my sister?" said the abbe, slowly and
impressively, "why do you hesitate to assure this beloved daughter's
future happiness? Why have you never permitted me--though I have long
desired the favour--to introduce to you that good and devout young man,
that model of wisdom and virtue, of whom I have so often spoken. Your
mother's heart would long since have appreciated this paragon of
Christian virtues; and sure, in advance, of your daughter's obedience to
your last wishes, you could have recommended him to her by a few lines,
which I myself would have delivered to the poor child. You could easily
have advised her to take for her husband M. Celestin de Macreuse. Your
daughter would then be sure of a most estimable and devout husband,
for--"
"My father," interrupted Madame de Beaumesnil, without making any effort
to conceal the painful feelings that this conversation was awakening. "I
have told you that I do not doubt the great worth of this gentleman you
have so often mentioned to me, but my daughter Ernestine is not sixteen
yet, and I am not willing to insist upon her marrying a man she does not
even know, for the dear child has so much affection for me that she
would be quite capable of sacrificing herself to please me."
"We will say no more about it, then, my dear sister," said the abbe,
with a contrite air. "In calling your attention to M. Celestin de
Macreuse, I had but one object in view. That was to save you from the
slightest anxiety concerning your dear Ernestine's future. You speak of
sacrifices, my sister, but permit me to say that the great danger is
that your poor child will be sacrificed some day to some man who is
unworthy of her,--to some irreligious, dissipated spendthrift. You are
unwilling to influence your daughter in her choice of a husband, you
say. But alas! who will guide her in her choice if she has the
misfortune to lose you? Will it be her selfish, worldly relatives, or
will your too artless and credulous child blindly yield to the
promptings of her heart. Ah, my sister, think of the dangers and the
deception to which she will inevitably be exposed! Think of the crowd of
suitors which her immense fortune is sure to attract! Ah, believe me, my
sister, it would be wiser to save her from these perils in advance by a
prudent and sensible choice."
"Forgive me, my father," said Madame de Beaumesnil, greatly agitated,
and evidently desirous of putting an end to this painful conversation;
"but I am feeling very weak and tired. I appreciate and am truly
grateful for the interest you take in my daughter. I shall do my duty
faithfully by her so long as I am spared. Your words will not be
forgotten, I assure you, my father, and may Heaven give me the strength
and the time to act."
Too shrewd and crafty to press the claims of his protege further, Abbe
Ledoux said, benignly:
"May Heaven inspire you, my sister. I doubt not that our gracious Lord
will make your duty as a mother clear to you. Courage, my sister,
courage. And now farewell until to-morrow."
"The morrow belongs to God."
"I can at least implore him to prolong your days, my sister," answered
the priest, bowing low.
He left the room.
The door had scarcely closed behind him before the countess rang for one
of her attendants.
"Is Mlle. Herminie here?" she asked.
"Yes, madame la comtesse."
"Ask her to come in. I wish to see her."
"Yes, madame la comtesse," replied the maid, hastening off to fulfil her
employer's instructions.
* * * * *
A few minutes afterwards, Herminie, pale and sad, though apparently
calm, entered Madame de Beaumesnil's chamber, with her music books in
her hand.
"I was told that madame la comtesse wished to see me," she said, with
marked deference.
"Yes, mademoiselle. I have--I have a favour to ask of you," replied
Madame de Beaumesnil, who was racking her brain to devise some way of
bringing her daughter closer to her.
"I am entirely at madame's service," Herminie answered, promptly but
quietly.
"I have a letter to write, mademoiselle,--only a few lines, but I am not
sure that I shall have the strength to write it. There is no one here
that I can ask to do it in my stead. Should it be necessary, would you
be willing to act as my secretary?"
"With the greatest pleasure, madame," was the ready response.
"I thank you for your willingness to oblige me."
"Does madame la comtesse wish me to get the necessary writing materials
for her?"
"A thousand thanks, mademoiselle," replied the poor mother, though she
longed to accept her daughter's offer so she might keep her with her as
long as possible. "I will ring for some one. I am loath to give you so
much trouble."
"It is no trouble to me, madame. I will gladly get the necessary
materials if you will tell me where to find them."
"Over there, on that table near the piano, mademoiselle. I must also ask
you to have the goodness to light a candle,--the light from the lamp is
not enough. But really I am trespassing entirely too much upon your good
nature," added Madame de Beaumesnil, as her daughter lighted a candle
and brought the necessary writing materials to the bedside.
The countess having taken a sheet of paper and laid it upon a
blotting-case placed upon her knees, accepted a pen from the hand of
Herminie, who was holding the candle in the other.
Madame de Beaumesnil tried to write a few words, but her extreme
weakness, together with her failing sight, compelled her to desist from
her efforts; the pen dropped from her trembling fingers, and, sinking
back upon her pillows, the countess said to Herminie, with a forced
smile:
"I am not as strong as I thought, so I shall be obliged to accept your
kind offer, mademoiselle."
"Madame la comtesse has been in bed so long that she should not be
surprised to find herself a little weak," responded Herminie, anxious to
reassure Madame de Beaumesnil and herself as well.
"You are right, mademoiselle. It was very foolish in me to try to write.
I will dictate to you, if you have no objections."
Herminie had not felt at liberty to remove her hat, and the countess,
from whom the brim concealed a part of her child's face, said, with some
embarrassment:
"If you would take off your hat, mademoiselle, you would find it more
convenient to write, I think."
Herminie removed her hat, and the countess, who was fairly devouring the
girl with her eyes, had an opportunity to admire at her ease, with true
maternal pride, the charming face and golden tresses of her child.
"I am at your service now, madame la comtesse," said Herminie, seating
herself at a table.
"Then will you kindly write this." And the countess proceeded to dictate
as follows:
"Madame de Beaumesnil would be greatly obliged to M. le Marquis de
Maillefort if he would come to her house as soon as possible, even
should that be at a late hour of the night.
"Madame de Beaumesnil, being very weak, is obliged to have recourse to
the hand of another person in order to write to M. de Maillefort, to
whom she reiterates the assurance of her very highest regard."
As Madame de Beaumesnil dictated this note she was assailed by one of
those puerile, but no less poignant, fears that only a mother can
understand.
Delighted by the refinement of manner and language she noticed in her
daughter, and aware that she was a musical artiste of a high order, the
countess asked herself, with a mother's jealous solicitude, if
Herminie's education was all it should be, and if her child's great
musical talent might not have been cultivated at the expense of other
and less showy accomplishments.
And strange as it may seem,--so important are the merest trifles to a
mother's pride,--at that moment, and in spite of all her grave
anxieties, Madame de Beaumesnil was saying to herself:
"What if my daughter did not spell well? What if her handwriting should
prove execrable?"
This fear was so keen that for a minute or two the countess dared not
ask Herminie to show her the letter she had written, but, finally,
unable to endure the suspense any longer, she asked:
"Have you finished, mademoiselle?"
"Yes, madame la comtesse."
"Then will you have the goodness to hand me the letter so--so I can see
if M. de Maillefort's name is spelled correctly. I neglected to tell you
how it was spelled," added the countess, unable to invent any better
excuse for her curiosity.
Herminie placed the letter in Madame de Beaumesnil's hand. And how proud
and delighted that lady was when she saw that the spelling was not only
absolutely perfect, but that the chirography was both graceful and
distinguished.
"Wonderful! I never saw more beautiful writing!" exclaimed Madame de
Beaumesnil, hastily.
Then, fearing her companion would notice her emotion, she added, more
calmly:
"Will you kindly address the letter now, mademoiselle, to--
"_M. le Marquis de Maillefort,_
_"No. 45 Rue des Martyrs._"
Madame de Beaumesnil then summoned a trusty maid who waited upon her
exclusively, and as soon as she came in, said to her:
"Madame Dupont, you will take a carriage and deliver this letter
yourself to the person to whom it is addressed. In case M. de Maillefort
is not at home, you are to wait for him."
"But what if madame la comtesse should need anything during my absence?"
said the maid, evidently much surprised at this order.
"Attend to my commission," replied Madame de Beaumesnil. "Mademoiselle
here will, I am sure, be kind enough to perform any service I may
require."
Herminie bowed her assent.
The countess proceeded to repeat her instructions to her attendant, and
while she was thus engaged, Herminie feeling comparatively safe from
observation, gazed at Madame de Beaumesnil with a world of love and
anxiety in her eyes, saying to herself the while, with touching
resignation:
"I dare not gaze at her except by stealth, and yet she is my mother. Ah,
may she never suspect that I know the unhappy secret of my birth."