AN APOLOGY ACCEPTED.
On seeing the Duc de Senneterre, who was an entire stranger to her,
Herminie coloured with surprise, and said to M. Bouffard, with much
embarrassment:
"I did not expect to have the pleasure of seeing you again so soon,
monsieur."
"No more did I, mademoiselle. No more did I! It was this gentleman who
forced me to return."
"But I do not know the gentleman," Herminie answered, more and more
astonished.
"No; I have not the honour of being known to you, mademoiselle," said
Gerald, with an expression of the deepest anxiety on his handsome
features, "and yet, I have come to ask a favour of you. I beseech you
not to refuse it."
Gerald's handsome face showed so much frankness, his emotion seemed so
sincere, his voice was so earnest, his manner so respectful, and his
appearance so elegant and _distingue_, that it never once occurred to
Herminie that this could be the stranger she was so bitterly
reproaching.
Besides, reassured by M. Bouffard's presence, and unable to imagine what
favour the stranger could have come to ask, the duchess, turning to her
landlord, said, timidly:
"Will you have the goodness to come in, monsieur?"
And as she spoke, she led the way into her own room.
The young duke had never seen a woman who compared with Herminie in
beauty, and this beauty alike of form and feature was greatly enhanced
by the dignified modesty of her demeanour.
But when Gerald followed the girl into her room and saw the countless
indications of refined habits and exquisite taste everywhere apparent,
he felt more and more confused, and in his profound embarrassment he
could not utter a word.
Amazed at the stranger's silence, Herminie turned inquiringly to M.
Bouffard, who said:
"It will be best to begin at the beginning, my dear young lady. I will
explain why this gentleman--"
"Allow me," said Gerald, interrupting M. Bouffard. Then, turning to
Herminie, he continued, with a charming mixture of frankness and
deference:
"I may as well confess that it is not a favour I have come to ask, but
forgiveness."
"Of me, monsieur--and why?" asked Herminie, ingenuously.
"My dear mademoiselle," said M. Bouffard, with a meaning gesture, "this
is the young man who paid me that money, you know. I met him just now,
and--"
"It was you, monsieur?" cried Herminie, superb in her indignation. And
looking Gerald full in the face, she repeated, witheringly:
"It was you?"
"Yes, mademoiselle, but listen, I beg of you."
"Enough, monsieur, enough!" said Herminie. "Such audacity seems
inconceivable! You have at least the courage to insult, monsieur," added
Herminie, with crushing contempt.
"But, mademoiselle, do not suppose for one moment--" pleaded Gerald.
"Monsieur," said the young girl, again interrupting him, but in a voice
that trembled violently, for she could feel tears of grief and
humiliation rising to her eyes, "I can only beg that you will leave my
house. I am a woman,--and I am alone."
These last words were uttered in such tones of intense sadness that
Gerald was moved to tears in spite of himself, and when the young girl
raised her head after a violent effort to conquer her emotion, she saw
two big tears gleaming in the eyes of the stranger, who, after bowing
low without a word, started towards the door.
But M. Bouffard, seizing Gerald by the arm, exclaimed:
"Why, stop a second! You surely are not going like that!"
And we must admit that M. Bouffard added mentally:
"And my little apartment on the third floor, am I to lose my chance of
renting that?"
"Monsieur," interposed Herminie, seeing her landlord attempt to detain
the offender; "monsieur, I must insist--"
"But, my dear young lady, you certainly ought to know why I brought this
young man here," exclaimed M. Bouffard. "You surely cannot suppose that
it was with the intention of annoying you. The fact is, I met the young
fellow near the _barriere_, and as soon as I laid eyes on him, I called
out, 'Ah, my generous youth, a nice scrape you got me into with your
yellow boys. Here they are; take them, and don't let me see any more of
them, if you please.' And then I told him how you had felt about the
service he had rendered you, and how you had cried and taken on, until
monsieur turned red, and then pale, and then green, and finally said to
me, apparently quite miserable about what I had told him, 'Ah, monsieur,
I have unintentionally insulted a person whose unprotected position
renders her all the more worthy of respect. I owe her an apology, and I
will make it in your presence, as you were my involuntary accomplice.
Come, monsieur, come.' Upon my word of honour, mademoiselle, these were
the very words the young man said to me, and somehow what he said
touched me. I can't imagine what is the matter with me to-day, I'm as
chicken-hearted as a woman. I thought he was right to want to come and
apologise to you, so I brought him along, or, rather, he brought me
along, for he took me by the arm and dragged me along at the
double-quick. In fact, I never walked so fast in my life."
The sincerity of the words was unmistakable, and as Herminie was endowed
with a keen sense of justice, and she had been not a little touched by
the tears she had seen glittering in Gerald's eyes, she said to the
stranger, in a tone which indicated a strong desire to end this painful
scene as soon as possible:
"In that case, monsieur, the offence of which I complain was
unintentional, and it was not to aggravate the offence that you returned
here. I believe this, monsieur, and this should satisfy you, I think."
"If you desire it, mademoiselle, I will leave at once without saying a
word in my own defence."
"Do have a little pity, my dear young lady," pleaded M. Bouffard. "You
have allowed me to speak, now listen to the gentleman."
Whereupon the Duc de Senneterre, taking Herminie's silence for an
assent, said:
"Mademoiselle, this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. I was passing along the street, looking for lodgings, and
naturally paused in front of the house as I saw several notices of rooms
to rent. I asked permission to inspect the apartments, and going on in
advance of the portress, who promised to join me in a minute, I began to
ascend the stairs. As I reached the first landing my attention was
attracted by a timid, supplicating voice. This voice was yours,
mademoiselle, and you were pleading with this gentleman. I paused
involuntarily, not from any idle curiosity, but because I could not
listen to such a touching appeal unmoved. So I heard all, and my only
thought was that a woman was in trouble, and that I could save her,
without her even knowing it, so seeing a man come out of your room a few
minutes afterwards I called to him."
"Yes," continued M. Bouffard, "and said to me angrily, 'Here is money,
pay yourself, and cease to torment a woman, who is only too unhappy
already.' If I did not tell you this at first, my dear young lady, it
was only because I wanted to have my little joke, and afterwards I was
frightened to see how angry you were."
"That is my offence, mademoiselle," continued Gerald. "I yielded to a
thoughtless, though not ungenerous impulse, whose deplorable
consequences I did not foresee. I unfortunately forgot that the sacred
right to render certain services belongs only to tried and trusted
friends. I forgot, too, that, however spontaneous and disinterested
commiseration may be, it may nevertheless be a cruel insult under some
circumstances. When this gentleman told me of your just indignation,
mademoiselle, and told me the wrong I had unwittingly done you, I felt
it to be my duty as an honourable man to come and beg your pardon, and
tell you the simple truth. I had never had the honour of seeing you; I
did not even know your name, and I shall probably never see you again,
but I wish that I could convince you that I had not the slightest
intention of insulting you, and that I never realised the gravity of my
offence until now."
Gerald was speaking the truth, and his sincerity, emotion, and tact
convinced Herminie that such, indeed, was the case.
Another and entirely different idea also influenced the ingenuous girl,
or, rather, an apparently trivial but to her highly significant
circumstance, viz., that the stranger was seeking a modest lodging. This
convinced her that he was not rich, and that the generosity he had
manifested towards her must necessarily have been at the cost of no
little personal sacrifice.
These considerations, aided very considerably, perhaps,--and why not,
may we ask?--by the influence almost always exerted by a handsome,
frank, and expressive face, appeased Herminie's wrath wonderfully. In
fact, far from feeling the slightest indignation against Gerald now, she
was really touched by the generous impulse to which he had yielded, and
which he had just explained with such perfect frankness, and too honest
and ingenuous herself to conceal her thoughts, she said to Gerald, with
charming simplicity:
"My embarrassment is very great, monsieur, for I must reproach myself
for having entirely misinterpreted an act, the kindness of which I now
appreciate. I can only beg you to forget the intemperance of my first
remarks."
"Permit me to say, on the contrary, that I shall never forget them,
mademoiselle," replied Gerald, "for they will always remind me that
there is one attribute which should be respected above all others in a
woman,--her dignity."
And bowing deferentially to Herminie, Gerald turned to leave the room.
M. Bouffard had listened to the latter part of this conversation in
open-mouthed wonder, it being just about as intelligible to him as if it
had been carried on in Greek; but now checking Gerald, who had started
towards the door, the ex-grocer, evidently with the idea that he was
achieving a master-stroke, exclaimed:
"One moment, my good sir, one moment. As mademoiselle is no longer
offended with you, there is no reason why you shouldn't take those nice
little rooms on the third floor I was telling you about,--a small hall,
and two cozy rooms; one that will answer for a sitting-room, and the
other for a bedroom--just the thing for a bachelor."
On hearing this proposal, Herminie became very uneasy, for it would have
been decidedly unpleasant to see Gerald installed in the same house.
But the young duke promptly replied:
"I have already told you that the rooms would not suit me, my dear sir."
"Yes, because this young lady was offended with you, and it is very
unpleasant to be on bad terms with one's fellow tenants. But now this
young lady has forgiven you, there is no reason you shouldn't take those
nice rooms."
"I am even less inclined to take them now," replied Gerald, venturing a
glance at Herminie.
The young girl did not raise her eyes, but she blushed slightly, for she
appreciated the delicacy of Gerald's refusal.
"What!" exclaimed M. Bouffard, profoundly astonished; "now you have made
up with mademoiselle, you are less inclined to take them than ever? Is
it possible that you have noticed any objections to my house since you
came back?"
"It is not precisely that which deprives me of the pleasure of taking up
my abode under your roof, my dear sir, but--"
"Come, I'll let you have those rooms for two hundred and fifty francs,
with a small cellar thrown in, if you want it."
"Impossible, my dear sir, impossible."
"Call it two hundred and forty, then, and say no more about it."
"I am obliged to call your attention to the fact that mademoiselle's
room is not the place for this haggling, monsieur."
Then turning to Herminie and bowing profoundly, the young duke said:
"Believe me, mademoiselle, I shall always retain a most delightful
recollection of this first and last interview."
The girl bowed graciously, but without raising her eyes, and Gerald
departed, resolutely pursued by M. Bouffard, who seemed determined not
to lose his prey.
But Gerald remained obdurate in spite of the landlord's tempting offers.
The ex-grocer persisted in his efforts, so Gerald, to get rid of him,
and perhaps also to have an opportunity to think over his meeting with
Herminie, quickened his pace and told the landlord that he intended to
extend his walk as far as the fortifications. So he started off, leaving
M. Bouffard in despair at having missed this fine opportunity to rent
those charming third story rooms.
A road leading to the fortifications intersected the Rue de Monceau near
this point. Gerald took it, and then strolled slowly along, absorbed in
a profound reverie.
Herminie's rare beauty, as well as her dignity and refinement of manner
had made a deep impression on the young duke, and the more he said to
himself that he had, of course, seen this charming creature for the
first and last time, the more he rebelled against the thought.
Besides, upon analysing or rather comparing his former fancies with his
sudden but deep interest in Herminie, and discovering nothing like it in
the past, Gerald asked himself, with no little uneasiness:
"What if I should be really caught this time?"
He had just asked himself this question when he was met by an officer of
engineers wearing an army redingote without epaulettes, and a big straw
hat.
"Why, it's Senneterre!" exclaimed this officer.
The young duke looked up and recognised Captain Comtois, one of his
former comrades in the African army.
"How are you, my dear Comtois?" he exclaimed, cordially offering his
hand. "I did not expect to see you here, though you are quite in your
native element, I must admit," he added, with a glance at the
fortifications.
"Yes, my dear fellow, we're making the earth fly and the work is
advancing rapidly. I am general-in-chief of that army of labourers and
masons you see over there. In Africa, we tore down walls; here, we build
them up. Did you come over to look at the works? If you did, I'll show
you about."
"A thousand thanks for your kind offer, my dear Comtois, I'll remind you
of your promise some day soon."
"Very well, come and take breakfast with me any morning you like. I am
living in camp over there. It will remind you of old times; you'll think
you're in a Bedouin camp again. Oh, by the way, you remember Clarville,
that young lieutenant of _spahis_ who resigned in order that he might
have the satisfaction of fighting Colonel Duval a year afterwards?"
"Clarville? Yes, a brave fellow--I remember him perfectly."
"Well, after he resigned, he had very little to live on, and the failure
of some bank swept away the little that he had. In fact, if I hadn't
happened to come across him, I believe he would have starved.
Fortunately, I was able to take him on as overseer, and that pays him a
little something."
"Poor fellow! it was a lucky thing for him, though."
"I should think so, particularly as he is married,--a love-match,--that
is to say, the girl hadn't a penny, and there are two little children in
the bargain, so you can judge of his situation. He manages to make both
ends meet, but that is all. I have been to see him. He lives in a side
street at the end of the Rue de Monceau."
"At the end of the Rue de Monceau?" asked Gerald, hastily. "I, too, must
go and see him."
"He would be delighted, my dear Senneterre, for when misfortunes come,
one's visitors are rare."
"What is the number of the house?"
"It is the only house on the street,--a little bit of a house. The
devil! There's the second bell. I must leave you, my dear Senneterre,
and get my men together. Good-bye; don't forget your promise."
"No, certainly not."
"And I may tell Clarville you're coming to see him?"
"Yes, day after to-morrow."
"It will please him very much; good-bye."
"Good-bye, my dear fellow."
"Don't forget Clarville's address."
"I am not very likely to," thought Gerald. "The street where he lives
must skirt the end of the garden of the house where I just saw that
adorable girl."
So, while the captain rushed off towards a group of wooden shanties in
the distance, Gerald strolled along, a prey to a sort of feverish
agitation.
The sun was low in the horizon when he awoke from his reverie.
"I don't know what will come of all this," he said to himself, "but this
time, and it is the only time, I feel that I'm gone, absolutely gone,
this time!"