A SACRED MISSION.
M. de Maillefort, much impressed by what Madame de la Rochaigue had told
him about the young musician who had been so unjustly treated, as she
averred, by Madame de Beaumesnil, had again questioned Madame Dupont, a
confidential attendant of the deceased countess.
This examination, which the marquis had conducted with great prudence
and skill, revealed many new details concerning the relations which had
existed between the countess and that young girl, and though Madame
Dupont seemed to have no suspicion of the truth, M. de Maillefort felt
almost certain that Herminie must be Madame de Beaumesnil's illegitimate
child.
In spite of this firm conviction on his part, the marquis resolved to
approach Herminie with the greatest reserve, not only because any
revelation of his suspicions would dishonour Madame de Beaumesnil's
memory, but, also, because the countess had never revealed her secret to
M. de Maillefort, who had mistrusted rather than discovered it.
Herminie, utterly unable to imagine the object of this stranger's visit,
was standing by the mantel, pale and agitated when the marquis returned
to her side after M. Bouffard's summary expulsion.
A single quick glance around the abode of the duchess had satisfied the
marquis of the perfect order, refined taste, and exquisite neatness of
the girl's home, and this, together with what Madame de la Rochaigue had
told him of her noble disinterestedness, gave him a very high opinion
of Herminie, and, almost sure that he saw in her the person he was so
anxious to find, he studied her charming features in the hope of
discovering a resemblance to Madame de Beaumesnil, and fancied that he
had succeeded.
Though she did not exactly resemble her mother, Herminie, like Madame de
Beaumesnil, was a blonde. Like her, she had blue eyes, and though the
contour of the two faces was not alike, there was certainly a family
likeness that could not fail to strike a close observer like M. de
Maillefort; so it was with an emotion that he found it difficult to
conceal that he approached Herminie, who was becoming more and more
embarrassed by the long silence, and by the searching though almost
affectionate gaze of her strange visitor.
"Mademoiselle," he said, at last, in an almost fatherly tone, "I must
beg you to excuse my delay, but I experience a sort of embarrassment in
expressing the great interest I feel in you."
M. de Maillefort's voice, as he uttered these words, was so full of
feeling that the young girl looked at him wonderingly, then, more and
more surprised, she ventured, timidly:
"But this interest, monsieur--"
"You cannot imagine what has aroused it. Very well, I will tell you, my
dear child,--for let me call you that," the hunchback continued, as if
in answer to a hasty movement on the part of Herminie; "my age and the
interest I feel in you certainly give me a right to call you my dear
child, if you will permit such a familiarity."
"It might serve to prove my gratitude for the kind and consoling words
you have just uttered, monsieur, though the humiliating position in
which you just saw me placed--"
"Oh, do not trouble yourself in the least about that," interrupted the
marquis, "I--"
"I am not trying to justify myself," said Herminie, proudly,
interrupting the marquis in her turn. "I have nothing to blush for, and
though, for some inexplicable reason, you are kind enough to evince an
interest in me, it is only my duty to tell you, or to try to prove to
you, that it was neither mismanagement, extravagance, nor idleness that
placed me in such a humiliating position for the first time in my life.
Ill for nearly two months past, I have been unable to give lessons as
usual. I resumed them only a few days ago, so I have been obliged to
spend the small amount of money I had saved. This is the truth,
monsieur. If I am a little in debt, it is only in consequence of my
illness."
"Strange," thought the marquis, mentally comparing the date of the
countess's death with that of the beginning of Herminie's illness, "it
was about the time of Madame de Beaumesnil's death that this poor child
must have been taken ill. Can grief have been the cause?"
And in tones of touching sympathy, the marquis asked aloud:
"And was this attack of illness severe, my dear child? You were
overworked, perhaps."
Herminie blushed deeply. Her embarrassment was great, for she felt that
it would be necessary to utter an untruth to conceal the real cause of
her illness, and it was with considerable hesitation that she finally
replied:
"I think I must have been overfatigued, monsieur, for the attack was
followed by a sort of mental prostration, but now, thank Heaven, I am
well again."
The girl's embarrassment and hesitation did not escape the marquis, who
had already noted the expression of profound melancholy on Herminie's
features.
"There isn't the slightest doubt of it," he mentally exclaimed. "She
became ill with grief after Madame de Beaumesnil's death. She knows,
then, that the countess was her mother. But in that case, why didn't the
countess, in the frequent opportunities she must have had to be alone
with her daughter, give her this money she entrusted to me?"
A prey to these perplexities, the hunchback, after another silence, said
to Herminie:
"My dear child, I came here with the intention of maintaining the utmost
reserve. Distrusting my own judgment, and greatly in doubt as to the
course I ought to pursue, I had resolved to approach the subject that
brought me here with infinite caution, for it is a delicate, yes, a
sacred mission, that I have to fulfil."
"What do you mean, monsieur?"
"Will you be kind enough to listen to me, my dear child. What I have
heard about you, and what I have just seen, or rather divined,
perhaps,--in short, the confidence you inspire,--had changed this
determination on my part, and I am going to talk to you freely and
frankly, sure that I am speaking to an honest, true-hearted woman. You
know Madame de Beaumesnil,--you loved her--"
Herminie could not repress a movement of astonishment, mingled with
anxiety.
"Yes, I know," continued the hunchback. "You loved Madame de Beaumesnil
devotedly. Your grief at her death was the sole cause of your illness."
"Monsieur," cried Herminie, terrified to see her secret, or rather that
of her mother, almost at the mercy of a stranger, "I do not know what
you mean. I conceived for Madame de Beaumesnil, during the brief time we
were together, the respectful affection she deserved. Like all who knew
her, I deeply deplored her death, but--"
"It is only right and natural that you should answer me thus, my dear
child," said the marquis, interrupting Herminie. "You cannot have much
confidence in me, not knowing who I am, not knowing even my name. I am
M. de Maillefort."
"M. de Maillefort!" exclaimed the young girl, remembering that she had
written a letter addressed to the marquis for her mother.
"You have heard my name before, then!"
"Yes, monsieur. Madame la Comtesse de Beaumesnil, not feeling strong
enough to write herself, asked me to do it in her stead, and the letter
you received on the night of her death--"
"Was written by you?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Then you must feel, my dear child, that you owe me your entire
confidence. Madame de Beaumesnil had no more devoted friend than
myself,--and it was upon the strength of this friendship of more than
thirty years' standing, that she felt she could rely upon me
sufficiently to entrust me with a sacred mission."
"Can he mean that my mother confided the secret of my birth to him?"
thought Herminie.
The marquis, noticing Herminie's increasing agitation, and confident
that he had at last found Madame de Beaumesnil's illegitimate daughter,
continued:
"The letter you wrote for Madame de Beaumesnil requested me to come to
her even at that late hour of the night. You remember this fact, do you
not?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"I obeyed the summons as soon as I received it. The countess felt that
her end was fast approaching," continued the hunchback, in a voice that
trembled with suppressed emotion. "After commending her daughter
Ernestine to my care, Madame de Beaumesnil implored me to--to do her a
last service. She entreated me to--to divide my care and interest
between her daughter and--and another young girl no less dear to her--"
"He knows all," Herminie said to herself, with a sinking heart. "My poor
mother's sin is no secret to him."
"This other young girl," continued the hunchback, more and more
overcome, "was an angel, the countess told me. Yes, those were her very
words,--an angel of virtue and courage, a brave and noble-hearted girl,"
added the marquis, his eyes wet with tears. "A poor, lonely orphan, who,
though destitute alike of friends and resources, had struggled bravely
on against a most adverse fate. Ah, if you could have heard the accents
of despairing tenderness in which that most unhappy woman and
unfortunate mother spoke of that young girl; for I divined--though she
made no such admission, deterred, doubtless, by the shame of such an
avowal--that only a mother could speak thus and suffer thus on thinking
of her daughter's fate. No, no, it was not a stranger that the countess
commended to my care with so much earnestness on her death-bed."
The marquis, overcome by emotion, paused an instant and wiped his
tear-dimmed eyes.
"Oh, my mother," Herminie said to herself, making a brave effort at
self-control, "then your last thoughts were indeed of your unhappy
daughter!"
"I made the dying woman a solemn promise that I would fulfil her last
request, and divide my solicitude between Ernestine de Beaumesnil and
the young girl the countess implored me so earnestly to protect. Then
she gave me this purse," continued the hunchback, drawing it from his
pocket, "which contains, she assured me, a small competence which she
charged me to deliver to the young girl whose future would thus be
assured. But, unfortunately, Madame de Beaumesnil breathed her last
without having told me the orphan's name."
"Thank Heaven! He only has his suspicions, then!" Herminie said to
herself, rapturously. "I shall not have to bear the anguish of seeing a
stranger know my mother's fault. Her memory will remain untarnished."
"You can judge of my anxiety and chagrin, my dear child," continued the
marquis. "How was I to comply with Madame de Beaumesnil's last request,
ignorant of the young girl's name? Nevertheless, I began my search,
and, at last, after many fruitless attempts, I have found that orphan
girl, beautiful, courageous, generous, as her poor mother said, and that
girl is--is you--my child--my dear child," cried the hunchback, seizing
both Herminie's hands.
Then, in a transport of joy and ineffable tenderness, he exclaimed:
"You see I have indeed the right to call you my child. No, never was
there any father prouder of his daughter!"
"Monsieur," answered Herminie, in a voice she tried hard to make calm
and firm, "though it costs me a great deal to destroy this illusion on
your part, it is my duty to do it."
"What!" cried the hunchback.
"I am not the person you are seeking, monsieur," replied Herminie,
firmly.
The marquis recoiled a step or two and gazed at the young girl without
being able to utter a word.
To resist the influence of the revelation M. de Maillefort had just made
to her, Herminie needed a heroic courage born of all that was purest and
noblest in her character,--filial pride.
The young girl's heart revolted at the mere thought of confessing her
mother's disgrace to a stranger by acknowledging herself to be Madame de
Beaumesnil's daughter.
For what right had Herminie to confirm this stranger's suspicions by
revealing a secret the countess herself had been unwilling to confess to
her most devoted friend, a secret, too, which her mother had had the
strength to conceal from her when clasped to her bosom, her child's
heart-throbs mingled with her own.
While these generous thoughts were passing swiftly through Herminie's
mind, the marquis, astounded by this refusal on the part of a young girl
whose identity he could not doubt, tried in vain to discover the reason
of this strange determination on her part.
At last he said to Herminie:
"Some motive, which it is impossible for me to fathom, prevents you from
telling me the truth, my dear child. This motive, whatever it may be, is
certainly noble and generous; then, why conceal it from me, your
mother's friend, a friend who feels that he is obeying your mother's
last wishes in coming to you?"
"This conversation is as painful to me as it is to you, M. le marquis,"
Herminie replied, sadly, "for it brings to mind a person who treated me
with the greatest kindness during the brief time I was called upon to
minister to her as a musician, and in no other capacity, I give you my
word. I think that this declaration should be sufficient, and that you
should spare me further entreaties on this subject. I repeat that I am
not the person you are seeking."
On hearing this assurance again repeated, some of M. de Maillefort's
doubts returned; but unwilling to abandon all hope, he exclaimed:
"No, no, I cannot be mistaken. Never shall I forget Madame de
Beaumesnil's anxiety, nor her prayers for--"
"Permit me to interrupt you, M. le marquis, and to say to you that,
under the painful influence of a scene that must have been particularly
trying to you, you doubtless mistook the nature of the interest Madame
de Beaumesnil felt in the orphan of whom you speak. To defend Madame de
Beaumesnil's memory against such a mistake, I have no other right than
that of gratitude, but the respectful regard I and every one else felt
for Madame la comtesse convinces me that this is an error on your part."
This manner of looking at the matter accorded too well with M. de
Maillefort's own secret hopes for him to turn an entirely deaf ear to
this argument. Still, remembering the terrible anguish of the countess
when she commended the orphan to his protection, he said:
"This much is certain: no one would speak in such terms of a stranger."
"How do you know that, M. le marquis?" retorted Herminie, gaining ground
inch by inch. "I have heard many instances cited of Madame de
Beaumesnil's boundless generosity. Her affection for some persons she
assisted was, I have heard, as great as that she manifested for the
orphan she asked you to protect, and as this girl, you say, is as
deserving as she is unfortunate, it seems to me a sufficient explanation
of the great interest the countess took in her. Possibly, too, she felt
her protection to be a duty. Possibly some friend had confided the girl
to Madame de Beaumesnil's care, as that lady in turn confided her to
yours."
"But in that case, why should she have laid such stress upon concealing
the name of the donor from the person to whom I was to deliver this
money?"
"Because Madame de Beaumesnil, in this case, perhaps, as in many others,
wished to conceal her benevolence."
And Herminie having now entirely recovered her coolness and composure,
presented these arguments with such readiness that the marquis at last
began to think that he had been deceived, and that he had suspected
Madame de Beaumesnil unjustly.
Then a new idea occurred to him, and he exclaimed:
"But even admitting that the merit and the misfortunes of this orphan
are her only claim, do not these conditions seem especially applicable
in your own case? Why should it not be you the countess meant?" he
asked.
"I knew Madame de Beaumesnil too short a time for me to deserve any such
mark of her bounty, M. le marquis; besides, as the countess did not
designate me by name, how can I,--I appeal to your own delicacy of
feeling,--how can I accept a large sum of money on the mere supposition
that it may have been intended for me?"
"All that would be very true if you did not deserve the gift."
"And in what way have I deserved it, M. le marquis?"
"By your attentions to the countess, and the alleviation of suffering
she secured through you. Why is it at all unlikely that she should have
desired to compensate you as she did others?"
"I do not understand you, monsieur."
"The will of the countess contained several legacies. You seem to be the
only person who was forgotten, in fact."
"I had no right to expect any bequest, M. le marquis. I was paid for my
services."
"By Madame de Beaumesnil?"
"By Madame de Beaumesnil," answered Herminie, firmly.
"Yes, you said as much to Madame de la Rochaigue on so nobly
returning--"
"Money that did not belong to me, M. le marquis, that is all."
"No!" exclaimed M. de Maillefort, his former convictions suddenly
regaining the ascendency. "No, I was not mistaken,--instinct, reason,
conviction, all tell me that you are--"
"M. le marquis," said Herminie, interrupting the hunchback, for she was
anxious to put an end to this painful scene, "one word more, and only
one. You were Madame de Beaumesnil's most valued friend, for on her
death-bed she entrusted her daughter to your care. Would she not also
have told you in that supreme moment if she had another child?"
"Great Heaven, no!" exclaimed the marquis, involuntarily. "The unhappy
woman would have shrunk from the shame of such an avowal."
"Yes, I am sure of that," thought Herminie, bitterly. "And is it I who
will make the disgraceful confession from which my poor mother shrank?"
The conversation was here interrupted by M. Bouffard's entrance. The
emotion of the marquis and of the young girl was so great that they had
not noticed the opening of the hall door.
The once ferocious landlord seemed to be in a very different mood.
Something must have appeased his wrath, for his coarse and brutal manner
had vanished, and his rubicund visage was wreathed with a crafty smile.
"What do you want?" demanded the marquis, curtly. "What are you doing
here?"
"I came to make my excuses to mademoiselle."
"Your excuses?" said the young girl, greatly surprised.
"Yes, mademoiselle, and I wish to make them before monsieur, as I
reproached you for not paying me in his presence, so I now declare
before him,--I swear it in the presence of God and man,--I swear that I
have been paid all that mademoiselle owed me."
"You have been paid!" cried Herminie, in amazement; "and by whom,
monsieur?"
"Oh, you know very well, mademoiselle," responded M. Bouffard, with the
same coarse laugh. "You know very well! What a sly one you are!"
"I have no idea what you mean, monsieur," said Herminie, indignantly.
"Bah!" cried M. Bouffard, shrugging his shoulders, "I suppose you're not
going to try to make me believe that handsome young men pay the rent for
pretty blondes merely for the love of God!"
"Some one has paid my rent for me, monsieur?" demanded Herminie,
blushing scarlet.
"Yes, some one has paid it, and in shining yellow gold," replied M.
Bouffard, drawing several gleaming coins from his pocket and tossing
them up in the air. "Look at the yellow boys, ain't they pretty, eh?"
"And this gold, monsieur," said Herminie, unable to believe her own
ears,--"this gold--who gave it to you?"
"Oh, don't try to play innocent, my dear. The person who paid me is a
handsome fellow, tall, and dark complexioned, with a brown moustache.
That description would answer for his passport, if he wanted one."
The marquis had listened to M. Bouffard first with surprise, and then
with utter dismay.
This young girl, in whom he had taken so deep an interest, had suddenly
become hateful in his eyes; so coldly bowing to Herminie, he walked
silently to the door, with an expression of bitter disappointment on his
face.
"Ah," he thought, "still another lost illusion!"
"Remain, monsieur," cried the young girl, running after him, all of a
tremble, and overcome with shame, "I entreat you--I implore you to
remain!"