THE PURSE OF MONEY.
M. de Maillefort was waiting alone in one of the drawing-rooms when
Madame Dupont came to conduct him into Madame de Beaumesnil's presence.
The hunchback's countenance had lost its usual expression of cynical
raillery. Profound sadness, mingled with an intense anxiety and
surprise, could be easily discerned upon his features.
Standing with one elbow resting on the mantel, and his head supported on
his hand, the marquis seemed lost in thought. One might almost have
fancied that he was seeking the solution of some difficult enigma; but
now and then he would wake from his reverie and gaze around him with
eyes glittering with tears, then hurriedly passing his hand across his
forehead, as if to drive away painful thoughts, he began to pace the
room with hasty strides.
Only a few minutes had elapsed, however, when Madame Dupont came to say:
"If M. le marquis will be kind enough to follow me, madame la comtesse
will see him now."
Stepping in front of the marquis, Madame Dupont opened the door leading
into Madame de Beaumesnil's apartment and announced:
"M. le Marquis de Maillefort!"
The countess had made an invalid's toilet. Her blonde hair, somewhat
dishevelled by the passionate embraces bestowed upon her daughter, had
been smoothed afresh, a dainty cap of Valenciennes lace surmounted the
pale face, from which every tinge of colour had now fled. Her eyes, so
brilliant with maternal tenderness a few moments before, had lost their
lustre, and the hands that burned so feverishly when they pressed
Herminie's were fast growing cold.
Noting the appalling change in the features of the countess, whom he had
seen but a comparatively short time before radiant with youth and
beauty, M. de Maillefort started violently, then paused a moment in
spite of himself.
"You find me greatly changed, do you not, M. de Maillefort?" asked
Madame de Beaumesnil, with a sad smile.
The hunchback made no reply. His head drooped, and when he raised it
again, after a minute or two, he was as pale as death.
Madame de Beaumesnil motioned the marquis to seat himself in an armchair
near the bedside, saying as she did so, in a grave but affectionate
voice:
"I fear my moments even are numbered, M. de Maillefort, and I shall
therefore endeavour to make this interview as brief as possible."
The marquis silently took the seat designated by the countess, who
added:
"My note must have surprised you."
"Yes, madame."
"But kind and generous as ever, you hastened to comply with my request."
The marquis bowed, and, in a voice full of emotion, the countess went
on:
"M. de Maillefort, you have loved me devotedly," she said.
The hunchback started visibly, and gazed at the countess with mingled
dismay and astonishment.
"Do not be surprised that I should have discovered a secret that no one
else has even suspected," continued the countess, "for love, true love,
always betrays itself to the person loved."
"So you knew," stammered the hunchback.
"I knew all," replied the countess, extending her ice-cold hand to M. de
Maillefort, who pressed it reverently, while tears which he could no
longer repress streamed down his cheeks.
"Yes, I knew all," continued the countess, "your noble, though carefully
concealed, devotion, and the suffering so heroically endured."
"You knew all?" repeated M. de Maillefort, hesitatingly; "you knew all,
and yet your greeting was always kind and gracious when we chanced to
meet. You knew all, and yet I never detected a mocking smile upon your
lips or a gleam of disdainful pity in your eye."
"M. de Maillefort," the countess answered, with touching dignity, "it is
in the name of the love you have borne me, it is in the name of the
affectionate esteem with which your character has always inspired me,
that I now, at the hour of death, beg that you will allow me to entrust
to your keeping the interests I hold most dear."
"Forgive me, madame, forgive me," said the marquis, with even greater
emotion, "for having even for an instant fancied that a heart like yours
could scorn or ridicule an unconquerable but carefully concealed love.
Speak on, madame, I believe I am worthy of the confidence you show in
me."
"M. de Maillefort, this night will be my last."
"Madame!"
"I am not deceiving myself. It is only by a strong effort of will and a
powerful stimulant that I have managed to hold death at bay for several
hours past. Listen, then, for, as I just told you, my moments are
numbered."
The hunchback dried his tears and listened with breathless attention.
"You have heard of the frightful accident of which M. de Beaumesnil was
the victim. By reason of his death--and mine--my daughter Ernestine will
soon be an orphan in a strange land, with no one to care for her but a
governess. Nor is this all. Ernestine is an angel of goodness and
ingenuousness, but she is exceedingly timid. Tenderly guarded both by
her father and myself, she is as ignorant of the world as only a
sixteen-year-old girl who has been jealously watched over by her
parents, and who naturally prefers quiet and simplicity, can be. On some
accounts one might suppose that I need feel no anxiety in regard to her
future, for she will be the richest heiress in France, but I cannot
overcome my uneasiness when I think of the persons who will probably
have charge of my daughter when I am gone, for it is M. and Madame de la
Rochaigue who, as her nearest relatives, will doubtless be selected as
her guardians. This being the case, you can easily understand my
apprehensions, I think."
"It would, indeed, be desirable that your daughter should have more
judicious guardians, but Mlle. de Beaumesnil is sixteen. Her minority
will not last long; besides, the persons to whom you allude are erratic
and ridiculous rather than dangerous."
"I know that, still, Ernestine's hand will be so strongly coveted--I
have already had convincing proofs of that"--added Madame de Beaumesnil,
remembering her confessor's persistent efforts in M. de Macreuse's
behalf, "the poor child will be the victim of such persecution that I
shall not feel entirely reassured unless she has a faithful and devoted
friend of superior character, willing and capable of guiding her in her
choice. Will you be this faithful friend to my child, M. de Maillefort?
Consent, I beseech you, and I shall leave the world satisfied that my
daughter's lot in life will be as happy as it will be brilliant."
"I will endeavour to be such a friend to your daughter, madame.
Everything that I can do for her, I will do."
"Ah, I can breath freely now, I no longer feel any anxiety in regard to
Ernestine. I know what such a promise means from you, M. de Maillefort,"
exclaimed the countess, her face beaming with hope and serenity.
But almost immediately a consciousness of increasing weakness, together
with other unfavourable symptoms, convinced Madame de Beaumesnil that
her end was fast approaching. Her countenance, which had beamed for a
moment with the hope and serenity M. de Maillefort's promise had
inspired, became troubled again, and in a hurried, almost entreating
voice, she continued:
"But this is not all, M. de Maillefort, I have a still greater favour to
ask of you. Aided by your counsels, my daughter Ernestine will be as
happy as she is rich. Her future is as bright and as well assured as any
person's can be, but it is very different concerning the future of a
poor but noble-hearted creature, whom--I--I wish that you--"
Madame de Beaumesnil paused. Say more she dared not--could not.
Though she had resolved to tell M. de Maillefort the secret of
Herminie's birth, in the hope of ensuring her child the protection of
this generous man, she shrank from the shame of such a confession,--a
confession which would also have been a violation of the solemn oath she
had taken years before, and faithfully kept.
The marquis, seeing her hesitate, said, gently:
"What is it, madame? Will you not be kind enough to tell me what other
service I can render you? Do you not know that you can depend upon me as
one of the most devoted of your friends?"
"I know that! I know that!" gasped Madame de Beaumesnil, "but I dare
not--I am afraid--"
The marquis, deeply touched by her distress, endeavoured to make it
easier for her to prefer her request by saying:
"When you checked yourself just now, madame, you were speaking, I think,
of the uncertain future of a poor but noble-hearted creature. Who is
she? And in what way can I be of service to her?"
Overcome with grief and increasing weakness, Madame de Beaumesnil buried
her face in her hands, and burst into tears; then, after a brief
silence, riveting her weeping eyes on the marquis, and endeavouring to
appear more calm, she said, brokenly:
"Yes, you might be of the greatest possible service to a poor
girl--worthy in every respect--of your interest, for she, too, is an
orphan--a most unfortunate orphan,--for she is both friendless and
penniless, but, oh, so brave, and so proud! In short, she is an angel,"
cried the countess, with a vehemence at which M. de Maillefort marvelled
greatly. "Yes," continued Madame de Beaumesnil, sobbing violently, "Yes,
she is an angel of courage and of virtue, and it is for this angel that
I ask the same fatherly interest I asked for my daughter Ernestine. Oh,
M. de Maillefort, do not refuse my request, I beseech you!"
The excitement and embarrassment Madame de Beaumesnil manifested in
speaking of this orphan, together with the almost frenzied appeal in her
behalf, excited the Marquis de Maillefort's profound astonishment.
For a moment he was too amazed to speak; then, all of a sudden, he
started violently, for a terrible suspicion darted through his mind. He
recollected some of the scandalous (up to this time he had always styled
them infamous) reports, which had been rife in former years, concerning
Madame de Beaumesnil, and which he had avenged by challenging M. de
Mornand that very day.
Could it be that there had really been a foundation for these rumours?
Was this orphan, in whom Madame de Beaumesnil seemed to take such a
profound interest, bound to the countess by a secret tie? Was she,
indeed, the child of her shame?
But almost immediately the marquis, full of confidence in Madame de
Beaumesnil's virtue, drove away these odious suspicions, and bitterly
reproached himself for having entertained them even for a moment.
The countess, terrified by the hunchback's silence, said to him, in
trembling tones:
"Forgive me, M. de Maillefort. I see that I have presumed too much upon
your generous kindness. Not content with having secured your fatherly
protection for my daughter, Ernestine, I must needs seek to interest you
in an unfortunate stranger. Pardon me, I beseech you."
The tone in which Madame de Beaumesnil uttered these words was so
heart-broken and full of despair that M. de Maillefort's suspicions
revived. One of his dearest illusions was being ruthlessly destroyed.
Madame de Beaumesnil was no longer the ideal woman he had so long
adored.
But taking pity on this unhappy mother, and understanding how terribly
she must suffer, M. de Maillefort felt his eyes fill with tears, and it
was in an agitated voice that he replied:
"You need have no fears, madame, I shall keep my promise, and the orphan
girl you commend to my care will be as dear to me as Mlle. de
Beaumesnil. I shall have two daughters instead of one."
And he pressed the hand of Madame de Beaumesnil affectionately, as if to
seal his promise.
"Now I can die in peace!" exclaimed the countess. And before the marquis
could prevent it, she had pressed her cold lips upon the hand he had
offered her; and, from this manifestation of ineffable gratitude, M. de
Maillefort was convinced that the person in question was indeed Madame
de Beaumesnil's illegitimate child.
All at once, either because so much violent emotion had exhausted the
invalid's strength, or because her malady--concealed for a time by an
apparent improvement in the sufferer's condition--had attained its
height, Madame de Beaumesnil made a sudden movement, at the same time
uttering a cry of agony.
"Good God, madame, what is it?" cried the marquis, terrified at the
sudden alteration in Madame de Beaumesnil's features.
"It is nothing," she answered, heroically, "a slight pain, that is all.
But here, take this key,--quick, I beg of you," she added, drawing out a
key from under her pillow and handing it to him.
"Open--that--secretary," she gasped.
The marquis obeyed.
"There is a purse in the middle drawer. Do you see it?"
"Yes, here it is."
"Keep it, I beg of you. It contains a sum of money which I have a
perfect right to dispose of. It will at least save the young girl I
commended to your care from want. Only promise me," continued the poor
mother, her voice becoming more and more feeble each moment,--"promise
me that you will never mention my name to--to this orphan--nor tell her
who it was that asked you to place this money in her hands. But tell
her, oh, tell this unfortunate child that she was tenderly loved until
the last, and that--that it was absolutely necessary--"
The countess was so weak now that the conclusion of the sentence was
inaudible.
"But this purse--to whom am I to give it, madame? Where shall I find
this young girl, and what is her name?" exclaimed M. de Maillefort,
alarmed by the sudden change in Madame de Beaumesnil's condition, and by
her laboured breathing.
But instead of answering M. de Maillefort's question Madame de
Beaumesnil sank back on her pillows with a despairing moan, and clasped
her hands upon her breast.
"Speak to me, madame," cried the marquis, bending over the countess in
the utmost terror and alarm. "This young girl, tell me where I can find
her, and who she is."
"I am dying--dying--" murmured Madame de Beaumesnil, lifting her eyes
heavenward.
Then with a last supreme effort, she faltered:
"Don't forget--your promise--my child--the orphan!"
In another moment the countess was no more; and M. de Maillefort,
overcome with grief and chagrin, could no longer doubt that this orphan,
whose name and place of abode were alike unknown to him, was Madame de
Beaumesnil's illegitimate child.
* * * * *
The funeral rites of Madame de Beaumesnil were conducted with great
splendour.
The Baron de la Rochaigue acted as chief mourner. M. de Maillefort,
invited by letter to take part in the ceremonial, joined the funeral
cortege.
In an obscure corner of the church, kneeling as if crushed by the weight
of her despair, a young girl prayed and sobbed, unheeded by any one.
It was Herminie.