TORMENTED BY DOUBTS.
"At the expiration of a few days Mlle. Helena had succeeded in securing
full information in regard to M. Celestin de Macreuse, and she began to
talk of him, not occasionally, but almost incessantly.
"She told me that M. de Macreuse, by his birth and connections, was
entitled to a place in the very best society; but, being endowed with
the most exemplary piety, and with wonderfully philanthropic instincts,
he had founded a charitable mission of the most admirable kind, and
though still young, his name was uttered everywhere with the most
profound affection and respect.
"Madame de la Rochaigue, on the other hand, praised M. de Senneterre in
the most extravagant way, while my guardian embraced every opportunity
to laud M. de Mornand's talents and virtues to the skies.
"At first I saw nothing extraordinary in these flattering mentions of
persons who seemed well worthy of praise, but I soon began to notice
that the names of these gentlemen were mentioned by my guardian, his
wife, or his sister only in conversations which one or the other had
separately with me.
"At last came the day when M. de Maillefort so spitefully, but, alas! so
truly, explained the real cause of the attentions and flattery lavished
upon me, and it soon became evident to me that my guardian and his wife,
apprised of the situation by Mlle. Helena, must fear the consequences
of the revelation which had been such a shock to me; for the very next
day each one of the three, in turn, disclosed his or her plans to
me,--plans evidently conceived long before,--and assured me that the
happiness of my life and the certainty of a blissful future depended
upon my marrying--
"M. de Macreuse,--according to Mlle. Helena.
"M. de Senneterre,--according to Madame de la Rochaigue.
"M. de Mornand,--according to my guardian.
"On hearing these unexpected proposals, my surprise and uneasiness were
so great that I could make no coherent reply, and my embarrassed,
incoherent words having been taken as a sort of tacit consent, I, after
a little reflection, decided to leave the champions of these three
suitors under the same erroneous impression.
"This induced them to make their confidential disclosures much more
complete.
"'My brother and his wife,' said Mlle. Helena, 'are excellent people,
but extremely vain and worldly. Neither of them is capable of
appreciating the rare excellence of M. de Macreuse's principles, his
Christian virtues, and his almost angelic piety; so we must keep our
secret, my dear Ernestine, until you have chosen the husband I suggest,
because he is so worthy of your choice. Then, proud and honoured by this
choice, you will only have to notify my brother, your guardian, who will
give his consent, I am sure, if you only evince proper firmness. If he
should refuse his consent, which is not at all likely, however, we will
resort to other and certain means of ensuring your happiness.'
"'My poor sister Helena,' said M. de la Rochaigue, in his turn, 'is a
most excellent woman, a saint if there ever was one, but she knows
nothing in the world about mundane matters. If you should take it into
your head to say anything about M. de Mornand to her, she would open her
eyes in astonishment, and tell you that he cares only for the vain
things of this world, that he is ambitious of power, etc. As for my
wife, she is perfect, but separate her from her balls, and her toilets,
and her social gossip, and her beaux who think only of the tie of their
cravats, and their strawberry-coloured gloves, and she is completely at
sea, for she knows nothing in the world about higher things. To her, M.
de Mornand would be a grave, serious, depressing man, a statesman, in
short, and by the slighting manner in which you have heard her speak of
the Chamber of Peers, my dear child, you can imagine how she would
regard a proposal of marriage from him. So all this must be kept a
profound secret between you and me, my dear ward, and your mind once
made up, as it is I who am your guardian after all, and as your marriage
will depend upon my consent, you will have no difficulty in carrying out
your wishes eventually.'
"'You must understand, my dear child,' said Madame de la Rochaigue,
'that all I have just said to you about M. de Senneterre must be kept a
profound secret between us. My sister Helena knows no more about
matrimonial matters than a babe unborn, and that dear husband of mine
has really gone politics mad. He dreams only of the Chamber of Peers,
and knows no more about the fashions, and pleasure, and elegance, than a
Huron Indian. In fact, he has no conception whatever of the delights of
a life shared with a charming young duke, who is the most generous and
amiable of men. So let us guard our secret well, my dearest child, and,
when the time comes to inform your guardian of your decision, I'll
attend to that, for M. de la Rochaigue has been in the habit of letting
me have my own way so long that I am sure he will offer no opposition in
this instance, but readily consent to do whatever we wish in the matter.
And now I want to tell you that a most fortunate idea occurred to me the
other day,' continued Madame de la Rochaigue. 'I have begged one of my
friends, whom you already know, Madame de Mirecourt, to give a ball one
week from to-day; so, my dear child, next Thursday, in the public
_tete-a-tete_ of a quadrille, you will have an opportunity to judge of
the sincerity of the sentiment M. de Senneterre feels for you.'
"The very next morning after this conversation my guardian said to me,
in the most confidential manner:
"'My wife thinks of taking you to a ball Madame de Mirecourt intends to
give. You will see M. de Mornand at this entertainment, and I am sure he
will not let the opportunity pass to convince you of the deep and
irresistible impression the sight of you made upon him when we went to
congratulate him on the success of his speech that day at the palace.'
"In like manner, a couple of days after my guardian and his wife had
thus disclosed their plans, Mlle. Helena said to me:
"'My dear Ernestine, my sister-in-law intends to take you to Madame de
Mirecourt's ball Thursday. I think this will be an excellent opportunity
for you to meet M. de Macreuse, and though this poor young man, who is
so bowed down with grief, has none of the frivolous attributes which
enable one to shine at affairs of this kind, he has requested one of his
particular friends--quite an important personage, by the way, the sister
of the Bishop of Ratopolis--to ask Madame de Mirecourt for a card for
him. This request was promptly complied with, so on Thursday you will
see him, and I feel sure you will not be able to resist his eloquence
when he tells you, as he has told me, how your adored image has followed
him everywhere, and has even troubled his prayers ever since the first
time he saw you at church.'
"It is consequently at the ball next Thursday, my dearest mother, that I
am to have my first interview with Messrs. de Macreuse, de Senneterre
and de Mornand.
"Even if M. de Maillefort's sarcastic remarks had not harshly revealed
the real cause of the admiration and affection so generally manifested
for me, my fears and suspicions must now have been awakened by the
duplicity of those around me, plotting unbeknown to each other, and
deceiving each other in order to succeed in their nefarious designs. You
can judge of my anxiety, my beloved mother, now these two successive
revelations have assumed such grave importance.
"To complete my confession, my dear mother, I must tell you plainly what
my first impressions were in relation to the three persons the different
members of the Rochaigue family wish me to marry.
"Up to this time, I had never given the subject of marriage so much as a
thought; the day for that seemed so far off, and it was such an
important matter, that if a vague thought of it ever did flit through my
mind, I merely congratulated myself that there was no need of troubling
myself about that matter for a long time.
"Consequently it was not with any thought of him as a possible husband
that I was touched by the evident grief of M. de Macreuse, who, like
myself, was mourning the loss of a mother, though what Mlle. Helena was
continually saying about the sweetness of his expression, his profound
melancholy, and the kindness of his heart as shown by his munificent
alms, all combined to add a profound esteem to the compassion I felt for
him.
"M. de Senneterre, by the frankness and generosity of his character, by
his unaffected gaiety and the graceful elegance of his manners, had
pleased me very much; and it seemed to me that it would be very easy,
though I am naturally so reserved, to feel perfect confidence in him.
"As for M. de Mornand, he had impressed me very much, though this was
probably due quite as much to what I had heard about the superiority of
his talents and character as to the powerful influence he seemed to
exert, so I felt almost overwhelmed, though decidedly proud of the few
kind words he addressed to me when I met him in the garden of the
Luxembourg.
"And now when M. de Maillefort's revelations have made me distrust
everything and everybody, I hear that all three of these men desire to
marry me. Is it strange, then, that I am no longer able to read my own
heart, and that, tormented by all kinds of doubts and suspicions, I ask
myself if these three suitors for my hand are not all actuated by the
same base motives as the persons by whom I am surrounded.
"And harassed by these doubts, all that pleased me and all that I so
much admired in them now disturbs and alarms me. What if M. de
Macreuse's grief and piety, M. de Senneterre's charming urbanity of
manner, and M. de Mornand's grand and generous utterances, all conceal
base and mercenary natures!
"Oh, mother, if you knew how terrible to me are these doubts which are
completing the work of destruction M. de Maillefort's revelation began.
"They are the more terrible because I shall always be obliged to live
with my guardian and his family, and if I become convinced beyond a
doubt that they have flattered and deceived me merely for their own
aggrandisement, I shall feel for them only the bitterest contempt and
aversion.
"Because I am immensely rich, must I be married only for my money?
"Am I doomed to the misery of such a marriage, the indifference,
contempt, hatred, perhaps, that are sure to follow when a man is mean
enough to wed a woman merely for mercenary motives?
"Oh, mother, the thought is so horrible that it haunts me continually. I
can not drive it away, strive as I may.
"So I have resolved to escape from it at the cost of a dangerous,
perhaps fatal experiment.
"I have been induced to make this resolve because it seemed to be the
only means of satisfying my cruel doubts, not only in regard to others,
but myself as well. I must know once for all what I really am, and what
I really appear to be, independent of my fortune.
"Satisfied on this point, I shall easily be able to distinguish the true
from the false. But how am I to ascertain what I am? How am I to
discover my precise value, so to speak? Whom can I ask? Who will be
frank enough to separate the young girl from the heiress in his
valuation?
"Besides, would such a verdict, however severe or kindly it might be,
satisfy and reassure me entirely?
"No, I must have the verdict of several disinterested parties.
"But where can I find any such persons? After a great deal of thought, I
have decided upon this plan.
"Madame Laine was telling me about a week ago of some little
entertainments that one of her friends gives every Sunday. I have sought
and found, this evening, a way to attend one of these reunions in
company with my governess, but ostensibly as a relative of hers, a young
orphan who supports herself by her daily toil, like all the other young
people who compose the company.
"There no one will know me. What they really think of me will be shown
conclusively by the reception given me. The rare perfections with which
I am endowed--according to those around me--have had such a sudden and
irresistible effect, they say, upon them, and upon the husbands they
have picked out for me,--in short, I produce such a sensation at all the
assemblies I frequent, that I am anxious to see if I shall prove equally
irresistible to the young people at Madame Herbaut's modest
entertainment.
"If I do not, I shall know that I have been basely deceived, and there
is little danger that I shall ever endanger my future happiness by
fixing my choice upon either of the suitors attracted solely by
cupidity.
"I am also resolved to find some means of escaping the snares that seem
to surround me on every side.
"What means I do not know. Alas! alone in the world as I am, in whom can
I confide? In whom can I trust?
"In God and in you, my mother. I shall obey all the inspirations you
send me, as I obey this, for, strange as it may appear, I cannot divest
myself of the idea that this did come from you. At all events, it had
its origin in a wise and noble sentiment,--a desire to know the truth,
however disheartening it may be.
"So to-morrow, I am resolved to attend the reunion at Madame Herbaut's
house."
* * * * *
So the next day, Mlle. de Beaumesnil, having feigned indisposition, and
having escaped the assiduous attentions of the Rochaigues by a firm
refusal to admit them to her room, left the house soon after nightfall,
accompanied by her governess, and, taking a cab some distance from the
mansion, was driven to Madame Herbaut's house.
END OF VOLUME I.
THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS
PRIDE--CONTINUED
[Illustration: "Gerald rushed in like one distracted"]
Pride--One of the Seven Cardinal Sins.
_ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS BY
ADRIAN MARCEL._
_BY EUGENE SUE_
_IN TWO VOLUMES_
_VOLUME II._
CONTENTS.
Vol. II.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. MADAME HERBAUT'S PARTY 13
II. THE DUCHESS ENTERTAINS ERNESTINE 23
III. A BOLD QUESTION 33
IV. REASON ASSERTS ITSELF 43
V. A CONSUMING FEVER OF LOVE 53
VI. A DELICATE MISSION 61
VII. GOOD NEWS 71
VIII. A STARTLING REVELATION 82
IX. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 91
X. DESPAIR 99
XI. THE BALL 107
XII. M. DE MACREUSE OVERDOES THE MATTER 118
XIII. AN HONEST CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL 131
XIV. VILLAINY UNMASKED 141
XV. THE PROSPECTIVE MINISTER'S DEFEAT 151
XVI. DISINTERESTED AFFECTION 162
XVII. A FRIEND IN NEED 171
XVIII. A QUESTION OF IDENTITY 183
XIX. ERNESTINE'S APPEAL 190
XX. AN ALLIANCE OFFENSIVE AND DEFENSIVE 198
XXI. "DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND" 207
XXII. A FINAL VICTORY 216
XXIII. A TEMPTING BAIT 228
XXIV. AN UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER 241
XXV. A SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE 253
XXVI. A CRUCIAL MOMENT 262
XXVII. THE MYSTERY DEEPENS 274
XXVIII. FOILED! 284
XXIX. AN EVENTFUL DAY 294
XXX. THE SIGNING OF THE MARRIAGE CONTRACTS 306
XXXI. THE BARON HAS HIS REVENGE 314
XXXII. CONCLUSION 322
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
"GERALD RUSHED IN LIKE ONE DISTRACTED" _Frontispiece_
"'SHE HAS FAINTED'" 72
"'ENOUGH, MONSIEUR, ENOUGH'" 148
"M. DE MAILLEFORT, ACCOMPANIED BY GERALD, BURST INTO THE ROOM" 290
PRIDE.
CHAPTER I.
MADAME HERBAUT'S PARTY.
Madame Herbaut occupied quite a spacious suite of apartments on the
third floor of the same house in which Commander Bernard lived.
The rooms devoted to these Sunday reunions consisted of the dining-room,
where the young people danced to the music of the piano; the
drawing-room, where there were card-tables for those who did not care to
dance, and, lastly, Madame Herbaut's bedroom, where guests could sit and
chat without being disturbed by the noise of the dancing, and without
disturbing the card-players.
This simply furnished, but comfortable abode indicated that Madame
Herbaut--who, by the way, was the widow of a small merchant--was in very
comfortable circumstances, though far from rich.
The worthy woman's two daughters found lucrative employment, one in
painting on china, the other in copying music,--work which had led to
her acquaintance with Herminie, who also copied music when pupils were
scarce.
The rooms presented a scene of even more than usual gaiety that evening.
There were about fifteen young girls, none over twenty years of age,
all resolved to make the most of Sunday, their only day of rest and
pleasure, so richly earned by toil and confinement all the week, either
at the counter, in the office, in some gloomy little back shop on the
Rue St. Denis or the Rue des Bourdonnais, or perhaps in some _pension_.
Some of these young girls were extremely pretty, and nearly all were
dressed with the good taste that characterises the attire of this humble
and industrious class of people only in Paris, probably.
These poor girls, being obliged to work hard all the rest of the week,
reserved all their little coquettish adornments for their one fete day,
the day so impatiently awaited on Saturday, and so deeply regretted on
Monday.
As is usual at such reunions, the masculine element in the little
assembly presented a much less elegant and stylish appearance than the
feminine element. In fact, but for some almost imperceptible shades of
difference, most of these young girls were as bright and attractive as
if they belonged to the very best society, but this slight superiority
on the part of the young girls was soon forgotten, thanks to the cordial
good-humour and frank gaiety, tempered with respect, which the young men
displayed towards their fair companions.
Instead of being at its best about one o'clock in the morning, as is
generally the case with a fashionable ball, this little assembly reached
the very zenith of animation and enjoyment about nine o'clock, as the
hostess always sent her guests home relentlessly before midnight, so
they would be ready to resume work the next morning at the accustomed
hour.
And what a dreary time Monday morning was, with the music and laughter
of the night before still ringing in your ears, and the prospect of six
long days of close confinement and drudgery before you!
But with what growing impatience and transports of joy you watched the
approach of the longed-for day.
It comes at last, and then what exuberant happiness!
Oh, rare and modest joys that have never been impaired by satiety!
But Madame Herbaut's guests were not philosophising much that evening.
They were reserving their philosophy for Monday.
These untiring young people were whirling swiftly around the room to the
inspiring strains of a lively polka; and such was the magic of the
strains that even the ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room, in spite
of their age and the grave preoccupations of Pope Joan and loto,--the
only games Madame Herbaut allowed,--moved their heads to and fro and
kept time with their feet, in short, executed a sort of antiquated
sitting polka, which testified to the skill of the musician at the
piano.
And this musician was Herminie.
About a month had passed since her first meeting with Gerald. Had other
meetings followed that interview begun under most unpleasant auspices
and ending with a gracious forgiveness? We shall know in due time.
This evening, in a dress of some soft, pale blue material that cost,
perhaps, twenty sous a yard, and a large bow of ribbon of the same
delicate hue in her magnificent golden hair, the duchess was ravishingly
beautiful.
A faint rose tint suffused her cheeks, her large blue eyes shone like
stars, and her half smiling scarlet lips revealed a row of pearl-white
teeth, while her girlish bosom rose and fell gently beneath the thin
fabric that veiled it, and her little foot, daintily clad in a satin
slipper, beat time to the strains of the lively polka.
To-day there could be no doubt that Herminie was very happy. Far from
holding herself aloof from the amusements of her companions, Herminie
greatly enjoyed seeing them enjoy themselves, and always did everything
in her power to add to their pleasure, but this generosity of feeling
would hardly suffice to explain the exuberance of life and youth and
happiness which imparted an unusually radiant expression to the
enchanting features of the duchess. One somehow felt that this charming
creature knew how charming and lovely and refined she was, and that the
knowledge made her, not proud, but happy,--happy like those generous
possessors of wealth, who prize their wealth chiefly because it enables
them to confer happiness on others.
Though the duchess was deeply interested in her polka and the dancers,
she turned her head involuntarily several times on hearing the door
open, but on seeing the persons who entered, she seemed rather to
reproach herself for her inattention to the business in hand.
The door opened again, and again Herminie cast a quick, almost impatient
glance in that direction.
The newcomer this time was Olivier, the commander's nephew.
Seeing the young soldier leave the door open as if some one was
following him, Herminie blushed slightly, and ventured another glance.
But alas! in the doorway behind him there appeared a stout, rosy youth
of eighteen, with an honest, artless face, and hands encased in green
kid gloves.
It is difficult to say why Herminie seemed a little disappointed on the
entrance of this youth,--perhaps it was because she hated green kid
gloves,--but the disappointment betrayed itself in a charming pout and
in the increasing vivacity of the strains to which her little foot was
impatiently beating time.
The polka ended, Herminie, who had been at the piano ever since the
beginning of the evening, was immediately surrounded, and thanked and
complimented and furthermore invited to dance by a number of the young
men, but she filled the souls of the aspirants with despair by pleading
a slight lameness as an excuse for not dancing that evening.
And you should have seen the gait Herminie adopted, in support of this
atrocious falsehood, decided upon the minute she saw Olivier come in
alone! Certainly no wounded dove ever dragged her little pink foot along
with a more distressed air.
Inconsolable at this accident which deprived them of the much coveted
pleasure of dancing with the duchess, the aspirants, hoping for some
compensation, offered their arm to the interesting cripple, but she had
the cruelty to prefer the support of Madame Herbaut's eldest daughter,
and repaired with her to that lady's room to rest and get a little fresh
air, she said, as the windows of that apartment overlooked Commander
Bernard's garden.
Herminie had hardly left the room, leaning on Hortense Herbaut's arm,
when Mlle. de Beaumesnil arrived, accompanied by Madame Laine.
The richest heiress in France wore a dress of simple white muslin, with
a narrow blue sash, and her entrance was unnoticed, though it occurred
during the interval between two quadrilles.
Ernestine was not pretty, neither was she ugly, so no one paid the
slightest attention to her; and as the young girl compared this
reception with the flattering eagerness with which people had crowded
around her heretofore, her heart sank, and she began to realise the
truth of M. de Maillefort's words.
"They knew my name at the other entertainments," Ernestine said to
herself, "and it was only the heiress that they gazed at, and flattered,
and besieged with attentions."
* * * * *
Madame Laine was just introducing Ernestine to Madame Herbaut when that
lady's eldest daughter, who had accompanied Herminie to the bedroom,
said, after a glance into the drawing-room:
"I must leave you, my dear duchess. I notice that a lady has just come
in who wrote to mamma this morning, asking permission to bring a young
relative with her, so you see--"
"Why, go, of course, my dear Hortense. You must do the honours of your
house, certainly," replied Herminie, not sorry, perhaps, to be left
alone awhile.
So Mlle. Herbaut rejoined her mother, who was welcoming Ernestine with
simple cordiality.
"You will soon become used to our ways, my dear," she was saying. "The
young girls and the young men dance in the dining-room, while their
mothers and fathers--when they come--play cards in the drawing-room, so
you see each guest amuses himself to his liking."
Then, to her daughter, she added:
"Hortense, take mademoiselle to the dining-room. You, my dear friend,"
she continued, addressing the governess, "must come to the Pope Joan
table. I know your taste, you see."
As we said before, this introduction had taken place in the interval
between the polka and a quadrille, and a young painter, a very good
musician, having taken Herminie's seat, now struck a few chords as a
signal for the dancers to take their places.
The Herbaut girls, being daughters of the house, and being also
extremely pretty and good-natured, seldom lacked for partners, and
Olivier, wearing with much grace the dashing uniform which would have
sufficed to distinguish him from the other men, even if he had not been
remarkably prepossessing in appearance, approached Mlle. Herbaut just as
she was entering the dining-room, in company with Ernestine, and said:
"You haven't forgotten, I hope, that this quadrille belongs to me, Mlle.
Hortense. Don't you think we had better take our places?"
"I will be at your service in a second, M. Olivier," replied Hortense,
who was conducting Mlle. de Beaumesnil towards a long couch, on which
several other young girls were seated.
"I hope you will pardon me for leaving you so soon," she remarked to
Ernestine, "but I am engaged for this dance. Won't you take a seat here
on the couch. I'm sure you will not lack for partners."
"Pray do not trouble yourself any further about me, mademoiselle,"
replied Ernestine.
The sounds of the piano becoming more and more peremptory, Hortense
Herbaut hurried off to join her partner, and Mlle. de Beaumesnil seated
herself on the couch.
The test on which Ernestine had so courageously resolved was beginning
in earnest. Near her sat five or six young girls, the least attractive,
it must be admitted, of the guests, and who, not having been engaged in
advance, like the belles of the ball, were modestly waiting for an
invitation to take part in the quadrille.
Either because Ernestine's companions were prettier than she was, or
because their manner was more attractive, she saw one after another of
them invited, without any apparent notice being taken of her.
Only one very plain-looking young girl was sharing Mlle. de Beaumesnil's
neglected condition when some one exclaimed:
"Another couple is needed! We must have another couple here!"
The youth so gorgeously adorned with the apple-green kid gloves was
anxious to do his part towards filling the vacancy, so, seeing two young
girls still unengaged, he rushed forward to invite one of them, but
instead of making his choice unhesitatingly, so as to spare the one that
was left the petty humiliation of feeling herself weighed in the balance
only to be found wanting, he stood for a few seconds as if undecided,
and then selected Mlle. de Beaumesnil's neighbour, his preference
being, doubtless, due to the greater showiness of her apparel.
Trivial as this incident seems, perhaps, it would be difficult to
describe the intense anguish that wrung Mlle. de Beaumesnil's heart.
On seeing several of the other young girls invited in turn, Ernestine's
natural modesty had excused the preference thus evinced, but in
proportion as the number of her companions diminished, and when she at
last found herself left alone with this unprepossessing companion, whose
homeliness was not even redeemed by any pretensions to elegance of
manner, her heart sank within her, but when she saw herself disdained,
as it were, after having been compared with her companion, she
experienced a terrible shock.
"Alas!" she said to herself, with infinite sadness, "if I cannot stand
comparison with these young girls around me, and particularly with this
last one, nobody can ever care for me, and any one who tries to convince
me to the contrary must be--I see plainly now--actuated only by base and
mercenary motives. All these young girls who have been preferred to me
can, at least, feel assured that the preference is sincere,--there are
no cruel doubts to mar the pleasure of their innocent triumph; but I--I
shall never know even this slight happiness."
And Mlle. de Beaumesnil's grief at the thought was so poignant that she
had all she could do to repress her tears.
But though these tears did not flow, her pale face betrayed such painful
emotion that two generous-hearted people each noticed it in turn.
The quadrille was going on while mademoiselle abandoned herself to these
gloomy reflections, and Olivier, who was dancing with Mlle. Hortense
Herbaut, found himself directly opposite Ernestine, and thus in a
position to observe the humiliating situation in which she was placed,
as well as the almost heart-broken expression of her face. Olivier was
so deeply touched that he asked:
"Who is that young lady sitting alone over there? I have never seen her
here before, I think."
"No, M. Olivier, she is a stranger. One of mamma's friends brought her
this evening."
"She is not pretty, and she doesn't seem to know anybody. At least
nobody has asked her to dance. Poor little thing, how dull it must be
for her!"
"If I had not been engaged for this dance, I should have stayed with
her, but--"
"Of course, Mlle. Hortense, you have your duties as hostess to attend
to, but I will certainly ask her to dance the next quadrille with me. I
don't like to see her so neglected."
"Mother and I will both feel exceedingly grateful to you, M. Olivier. It
would be a real deed of charity," said Hortense.
Almost at the same instant that Olivier first noticed Mlle. de
Beaumesnil's isolation, Herminie entered the salon from the adjoining
bedroom, and, walking up to one of the card-tables, leaned over the back
of Madame Herbaut's chair to watch the game. From where she stood she
could look straight out into the dining-room through the folding doors,
and, chancing to raise her eyes, she exclaimed:
"Why, who is that young girl sitting there alone on the couch, and
looking so sad?"
Madame Herbaut, glancing up from her cards, answered:
"It is a young girl one of my friends over there at the Pope Joan table
brought with her this evening. She doesn't know anybody here, and, not
being at all pretty, it is not surprising that she has no partner."
"But the poor child can't be allowed to sit there alone all the
evening," said Herminie, "so, as I can't dance myself, I'll try to
entertain the stranger and make the time seem less tedious to her."
"It is just like you to think of doing such a kind and generous act,"
replied Madame Herbaut, laughing, "and I assure you I shall be very
grateful to you, for Hortense and Claire have so many other duties on
their hands, and I fear there isn't much likelihood of this young girl's
securing any partners."
"Oh, don't worry about that, madame," replied Herminie. "I'm sure I
shall be able to save her from any discomfort on that account."
"How will you do it, my dear duchess?"
"Oh, that is my affair," laughed Herminie.
And still limping slightly,--deceitful creature that she was,--she
walked towards the couch on which Mlle. de Beaumesnil was sitting.
CHAPTER II.
THE DUCHESS ENTERTAINS ERNESTINE.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil, on seeing Herminie approach, was so struck by her
remarkable beauty that she entirely failed to notice the slight lameness
which the duchess had feigned in order to avoid dancing that evening.
So what was Ernestine's surprise, when the duchess, seating herself
beside her, said, in the most friendly manner:
"I am deputised by Madame Herbaut to come and keep you company for a
little while, in place of her daughters, who, of course, have many
duties to perform."
"So some one at least pities me," thought Mlle. de Beaumesnil, deeply
humiliated.
But Herminie's voice and manner were so sweet and engaging, and the
expression of her face was so kind, that Ernestine, reproaching herself
for the bitterness of her first thought, replied:
"I thank you very much, mademoiselle, but I fear that by thus detaining
you, I shall deprive you of the pleasure of--"
"Of dancing?" asked Herminie, smilingly. "I assure you, mademoiselle,
that my foot hurts me too much this evening to permit of my enjoying
myself in that way, so I trust you will grant me your companionship as a
compensation for my misfortune."
"Really, mademoiselle, you quite overpower me by your kindness."
"I am only doing what you would gladly do for me, I am sure,
mademoiselle, if you should see me sitting alone, as frequently happens
when one attends a little entertainment like this for the first time."
"I do not believe, mademoiselle," replied Ernestine, smiling, and now
made entirely at ease by these gracious advances,--"in fact, I am sure
that you would never be left alone even the first time you went
anywhere."
"Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, it is you who are overwhelming me with
compliments now," laughingly protested Herminie.
"I assure you that I am only saying what I really think," Ernestine
replied so artlessly that the duchess, appreciating the artless
flattery, replied:
"I thank you for your very flattering words. I am sure that they are
sincere; as for their being really deserved,--that is an entirely
different thing. But tell me, what do you think of our little party?"
"It is charming, mademoiselle."
"I think so, too. Everybody is so gay and animated! Each guest seems
determined to make the most of every minute of time. Nor is it strange.
Sunday comes only once a week for all of us here, and enjoyment is
really enjoyment, while to many people it is a fatiguing occupation.
Surfeited with pleasure, they do not even know what it is to be amused;
and it seems to me that nothing could be more sad than to be always
trying hard to amuse oneself."
"Oh, yes, it must be sad, as sad as trying to find true affection, when
nobody cares for you," Ernestine answered, unconsciously revealing the
thought uppermost in her mind.
There was such an intense melancholy in the girl's tone and in her face,
that Herminie was deeply touched by it.
"Poor child!" she said to herself, "probably she is not a favourite at
home, and that makes her all the more sensitive to slights when she is
out in company."
Something Herminie noticed just then seemed to confirm this suspicion,
for the progress of the dance having brought the green-gloved youth and
his partner directly opposite Ernestine, the duchess saw the favoured
one cast several compassionate and rather patronising glances at the
less fortunate damsel.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil also noticed these glances, and fancied that she
must be an object of pity to every one. The thought, of course, wounded
her deeply, so one can judge of her gratitude, when Herminie said, with
a smile:
"Are you willing to waive all ceremony between us, mademoiselle?"
"Certainly."
"Well, I find it dreadfully warm here. Would you mind going with me to
Madame Herbaut's chamber to stay awhile?"
"Oh, thank you, mademoiselle, thank you," exclaimed Ernestine,
gratefully, rising eagerly as she spoke.
"But why do you thank me?" asked Herminie, drawing the younger girl's
hand through her arm. "On the contrary, it is I who should thank you for
consenting to leave the ballroom on my account."
"I thank you because I understand your motive, mademoiselle," replied
Ernestine, as they entered Madame Herbaut's chamber, which they found
entirely deserted.
"Well, now that we are alone, explain again why you thanked me a minute
ago," said Herminie, when they had seated themselves.
"Mademoiselle, you are very generous, so you must be equally frank,"
began Ernestine.
"Frankness is one of my greatest virtues--or failings, mademoiselle,"
replied Herminie, smiling. "But why this appeal to my frankness?"
"Just now, when you asked me to accompany you here because the other
room was too warm, you were impelled to do it merely by your kindness of
heart. You said to yourself: 'This poor girl is neglected. No one asks
her to dance because she is so unattractive. If she remains here, she
will become an object of ridicule, and the knowledge will wound her
deeply. I will save her from this humiliation by getting away under some
pretext or other.' That was exactly what you said to yourself. Is it not
so?" insisted Mlle. de Beaumesnil, making no effort to conceal her tears
this time. "Confess that what I say is only the truth?"
"It is," said Herminie, with her accustomed honesty. "Why should I not
admit that your unpleasant position excited my sympathy?"
"And I thank you for it," said Ernestine, offering her hand to her
companion. "You have no idea how grateful I am, too, for your
sincerity."
"And, as you insist upon my being perfectly frank, I must tell you that
you have no idea how deeply you pained me just now," said Herminie,
pressing the proffered hand cordially.
"I?"
"Yes; for when I remarked what a sad thing it must be to strive as hard
for enjoyment as some people do, you replied, in accents that touched me
to the heart, 'Yes, it must be as sad as trying to find true affection
when nobody cares for you.' Have I not set you an example of frankness?
Can you not be equally frank with me?"
"It is true, mademoiselle, that I do not seem to follow your example in
this respect," said Ernestine, hesitatingly.
"Ah, well, let me ask you just one question, and pray do not attribute
it to mere idle curiosity. Can it be that you do not find among your own
relatives the affection you long for?"
"I am an orphan," replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in such a touching voice
that Herminie's sympathy increased.
"An orphan!" she repeated; "an orphan! Alas! I understand, for I, too--"
"You, too, are an orphan?"
"Yes."
"How glad I am!" exclaimed Ernestine, naively. Then thinking how cruel
or, at least, how strange the remark must have sounded, she added:
"Forgive me, mademoiselle, forgive me, but--"
"Ah, I think I read your feelings in my turn," responded Herminie. "Your
exclamation simply meant: 'She knows how sad the lot of an orphan is,
and she will love me, perhaps. Perhaps in her I shall find the affection
I have failed to find elsewhere.' Am I right?" added Herminie, offering
her hand in her turn. "Have I not read your thoughts aright?"
"Yes, that is true," replied Ernestine, yielding more and more to the
singular charm that pervaded her companion's every word and look. "You
have been so kind to me; you seem so honest and sincere that I do indeed
long for your affection, mademoiselle. It--it is an ambition only. I
dare not call it a hope, for you scarcely know me," concluded Ernestine,
timidly.
"But do you know me any better than I know you?"
"No, but with you it is very different."
"And why?"
"Because I am already under deep obligations to you, and yet I ask an
even greater favour."
"But how do you know that I will not be very glad to give you the
friendship you ask in exchange for yours? You seem to me well worthy of
it," said Herminie, who, on her side, was beginning to feel an
increasing fondness for Ernestine.
Then, suddenly becoming thoughtful, she added: "Do you know that this is
very strange?"
"What, mademoiselle?" asked Ernestine, a little worried by the
seriousness of her companion's face.
"We have known each other barely half an hour. I do not know your name,
you do not know mine; yet here we are almost exchanging confidences."
"But why should you be surprised to see affection and confidence spring
up suddenly between a benefactress and the person obliged,
mademoiselle?" asked Ernestine, timidly, almost imploringly, as if
fearing Herminie might regret the interest she had manifested in her up
to this time. "I am sure nothing could bring two persons together so
quickly and so closely as compassion on one side and gratitude on the
other."
"I am too anxious to believe you not to yield to your arguments very
readily," Herminie answered, half laughingly, half seriously.
"But my reasoning is true, mademoiselle," said Ernestine, encouraged by
her success, and anxious to make her companion share her convictions;
"besides, the similarity in our situations helps to bring us together.
The fact that we are both orphans is surely a bond between us."
"It is indeed," said the duchess, pressing Ernestine's hand
affectionately.
"Then you will really grant me your affection some day?"
"A few minutes ago, without even knowing you, I was touched by your
painful position," replied Herminie. "Now I feel that I love you because
it is so evident that you have a kind and noble heart."
"Oh, if you only knew what pleasure your words give me! I will never
prove ungrateful, I swear it, mademoiselle!"
Then as if bethinking herself, she added, "Mademoiselle? It seems to me
that it will be very difficult for me to call you that now."
"And equally difficult for me to reply in the same ceremonious way,"
responded the duchess. "So call me Herminie and I will call you--"
"Ernestine."
"Ernestine," exclaimed Herminie, remembering that this was her sister's
name,--the name the Comtesse de Beaumesnil had mentioned several times
in the young musician's presence when speaking of her beloved daughter;
"you are called Ernestine? You spoke of one bond between us just a
moment ago; this is another."
"What do you mean?"
"A lady to whom I was deeply attached had a daughter who was also named
Ernestine."
"You see how many reasons there are that we should love each other,
Herminie," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil; "and as we are friends now, I am
going to ask you all sorts of impertinent questions."
"Proceed, then!" said Herminie, smiling.
"Well, in the first place, what do you do for a living? What is your
profession, Herminie?"
"I give lessons on the piano and in singing."
"How lucky your pupils are! How kind you must be to them!"
"No, indeed, I am very severe," replied the duchess, gaily. "And you,
Ernestine, what do you do?"
"I--I do embroidery and tapestry work," Mlle. de Beaumesnil answered,
somewhat embarrassed.
"And do you have plenty of work, my dear child?" asked Herminie, with
almost maternal solicitude; "work of that kind is usually so very scarce
at this season of the year."
"I came from the country only a short time ago to join my relative
here," replied poor Ernestine, more and more confused; then gathering a
certain amount of courage from the very exigency of the situation, she
added: "So you see, Herminie, that I have never lacked work yet."
"If you ever should, I think I might be able to procure it for you, my
dear Ernestine."
"You! and how?"
"I, too, have done embroidery for some of the large shops, when--well,
one may surely confess it to a friend--when pupils were scarce, and I
had to eke out a living in that way; so as they were very well satisfied
with my work at the establishment of which I speak,--one of the largest
in town by the way,--I am still on good terms with them, and feel sure
that a recommendation from me would ensure you work if you need it."
"But as you embroider, too, Herminie, I should be depriving you of one
of your resources, and if pupils should become scarce again, what would
you do?" asked Ernestine, deeply touched by Herminie's generous offer.
"Oh, I have other resources now," answered the other girl, proudly. "I
copy music, too. But the important thing, you see, Ernestine, is to be
certain of work, for you, too, alas! know, perhaps, that it is not
enough for those who labour for their daily bread to have energy and
determination; they must have employment as well."
"Certainly, and that is very hard to find sometimes," said Ernestine,
sadly, thinking for the first time of the sad lot of many young girls,
and reflecting that her new friend had doubtless been in the deplorable
situation of which she spoke.
"Yes, and it is terrible for one to see oneself nearing the end of one's
resources, no matter how willing to work and how courageous one may be,"
replied Herminie, sadly. "And it is for this very reason that I will do
everything in my power to spare you such misery as that, my poor
Ernestine. But tell me, where do you live? I will call and see you
sometime when I am out giving lessons, that is, if it is not too far out
of my way, for I have to be very saving of my time."
Mlle. de Beaumesnil's embarrassment was very great, and it was still
farther augmented by the painful necessity of being compelled to utter a
falsehood, so it was with no little hesitation that she replied:
"I should be very glad to see you, my dear Herminie, but--but my
relative--"
"Poor child, I understand," said Herminie, quickly, unconsciously coming
to Ernestine's assistance. "You are not in your own home, of course, and
your relative makes you painfully conscious of the fact, sometimes,
perhaps."
"That is it exactly," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, delighted with this
excuse. "My relative is not bad at heart, but so peevish, and such a
grumbler. I don't believe there was ever another such grumbler in the
world," she added, smiling.
"That is enough for me," exclaimed Herminie, laughing in her turn. "If
she's a grumbler, she'll never have a visit from me. The only way out of
the difficulty, Ernestine, is for you to come and see me whenever you
have time."
"I was just going to ask you to grant me that privilege."
"Yes, yes, you shall come and see how pretty my room is," said the
duchess.
Then remembering that her new friend was not as comfortably housed,
Herminie added:
"When I say that, I don't really mean it. My room is really very
unpretentious."
But Ernestine understood Herminie's disposition and character pretty
well already, so she said, smiling:
"Be honest, Herminie."
"About what?"
"Your room is charming, and you only retracted your words because you
thought I would feel badly because I hadn't a room as pretty as yours."
"Do you know, Ernestine, that you would be a very dangerous person to
have around if any one had a secret, for you seem to divine
everything."
"I was sure of it! Your room is charming. How I shall enjoy seeing it."
"You must not say how I shall enjoy seeing it. You must say, 'Herminie,
I am coming to take a glass of milk with you some morning, soon.'"
"Oh, I'll say that with all the pleasure in life."
"And I accept your offer with equal pleasure. Only when you come,
Ernestine, don't let it be any later than nine o'clock, for I begin my
round of lessons at ten. And now what day will you come?"
Mlle. de Beaumesnil was rescued from this embarrassing situation by
Providence in the shape of a handsome non-commissioned officer of
hussars, who was no other than Olivier.
Faithful to the promise made to Mlle. Herbaut, the kind-hearted fellow
had come to ask Ernestine to dance the next quadrille with him, so,
after having greeted Herminie in the most cordial and respectful manner,
he bowed low before Ernestine, with the stereotyped phrase:
"Will mademoiselle do me the honour to dance the next quadrille with
me."
CHAPTER III.
A BOLD QUESTION.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil was doubly surprised, as the invitation must have
been premeditated, inasmuch as she was not then in the ball-room, so
having no answer ready in her astonishment, Herminie came to her
assistance by saying gaily to the young soldier:
"I accept your invitation in mademoiselle's name, M. Olivier, for she is
quite capable of depriving herself of the pleasure of dancing merely to
keep me company."
"As mademoiselle has accepted for me," added Ernestine, smiling, "I can
but follow her example."
Olivier bowed again, and turning to Herminie remarked:
"Unfortunately I arrived very late this evening, mademoiselle, for I
found you had not only ceased playing, but had also abandoned all idea
of dancing."
"You did come very late, M. Olivier, for I recollect seeing you come in
at the conclusion of the last polka I played."
"Alas! mademoiselle, you see in me a victim of my own patience and
another's unpunctuality. I was waiting for a friend who intended to come
with me."
Herminie blushed slightly and averted her eyes.
"But this friend did not come," Olivier added.
"Possibly he is ill, M. Olivier," said the duchess, with feigned
indifference.
"No, mademoiselle, he is perfectly well, for I saw him only a few hours
ago, but I think his mother must have detained him, for the
kind-hearted fellow never opposes her in anything."
The words seemed to dispel the slight cloud which had gathered, now and
then, on the brow of the duchess during the evening, and she answered,
gaily:
"Then you do very wrong to blame your friend if he has such a good
excuse for his absence, M. Olivier."
"I am not blaming him in the least, Mlle. Herminie. I am only pitying
him for not having come, and pitying myself for arriving so late, as I
might, perhaps, have had the pleasure of dancing with mademoiselle
sooner," added Olivier, addressing Mlle. de Beaumesnil, so she would not
feel that she was left out of the conversation.
Suddenly the words, "Take your places!" resounded through the room,
accompanied by a few chords on the piano.
"I am at your service, mademoiselle," said Olivier, offering his arm to
Ernestine.
The girl arose to accompany Olivier, but Herminie caught her by the
hand, and whispered:
"One moment, Ernestine, let me arrange your sash. It needs pinning."
And the duchess, with charming solicitude, straightened a disordered
fold in the sash, fastened it with a pin she took from her own girdle,
smoothed out a slight wrinkle in Ernestine's corsage,--rendered her, in
short, all those little kindly services which two devoted sisters are
always performing for each other.
"Now, mademoiselle," remarked Herminie, with kindly gravity, after
another brief survey of Ernestine's toilet, "I will let you go and
dance, but you must promise to enjoy yourself immensely."
Mlle. de Beaumesnil was so touched by Herminie's little attentions that,
before accepting Olivier's arm, she found an opportunity to imprint a
light kiss on the cheek of the duchess, and whisper:
"Thanks again! Many, many thanks!"
And really happy for the first time since her mother's death, Ernestine
left Herminie, took the arm Olivier offered, and accompanied him into
the ball-room.
The young hussar was remarkably handsome and distinguished-looking,
cordial in his manner towards men, and extremely deferential to women.
This, together with the fact that he wore his showy uniform, decorated
with the cross he had so bravely won, with easy grace, made him a great
favourite at Madame Herbaut's entertainments, so Ernestine excited not a
little envy and jealousy when she appeared in the ball-room on Olivier's
arm.
Even the most artless and ingenuous women are quick to discern the
effect they produce upon other women.
And in Mlle. de Beaumesnil's case, these powers of penetration were
united with a firm determination to observe every incident of the
evening with the closest attention, so, on perceiving the envy which
Olivier's preference excited, the young girl's gratitude increased.
She did not doubt in the least that Olivier, out of the kindness of his
heart, had wished to avenge the painful, almost humiliating slight she
had received earlier in the evening, and a natural feeling of gratitude
made Mlle. de Beaumesnil treat Olivier with less reserve, perhaps, than
was quite proper in the extremely delicate position in which she was
placed.
Olivier, in promising Mlle. Herbaut that he would ask Ernestine to
dance, had merely yielded to a generous impulse, for, seeing Mlle. de
Beaumesnil such a long way off, he had thought her almost ugly. He had
never exchanged a word with her, he did not know whether she was clever
or stupid, so, glad to find a topic of conversation in the warm
friendship that seemed to exist between Herminie and Ernestine, he
remarked to the latter, in one of the pauses of the dance:
"You seem to know Mlle. Herminie very well, mademoiselle. What a
charming young lady she is!"
"I agree with you perfectly, monsieur, though I met Mlle. Herminie this
evening for the first time."
"Indeed!"
"Our sudden intimacy surprises you, does it not, monsieur? But why
should it? Sometimes the richest are the most generous. They do not wait
to be asked; they offer their largess to you of their own accord. That
was the case with Herminie this evening."
"I understand, mademoiselle. You knew no one here, and Mlle. Herminie--"
"Seeing me alone, had the goodness to come to me. This can not surprise
you very much, however."
"Why not, mademoiselle?"
"Because a moment ago you, monsieur, were actuated by the same
charitable impulse in asking me to dance."
"Charitable? What an expression to use in this connection,
mademoiselle!"
"It is the right one, however."
"Quite the contrary, mademoiselle."
"Come, admit it, monsieur. You ought always to tell the truth, you
know."
"Frankly, mademoiselle," responded Olivier, smiling in his turn, "should
I be performing an act of charity--allow me to make this comparison--in
culling a forgotten or unseen flower?"
"Say, rather, a rejected one."
"So be it, mademoiselle. But might this not merely show the poor taste
of a person who would prefer a big red poppy to a modest violet."
And Olivier cast a laughing glance at the buxom lass whose gaudy attire
did seem to justify the comparison.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil could not help smiling, but she answered, with a
shake of the head:
"Ah, monsieur, kind as your reply is, it proves that I am doubly right."
"How is that, mademoiselle?"
"You took compassion on me, and you still have sufficient compassion to
be unwilling to admit the fact."
"You do right to insist upon frankness, mademoiselle. It is a thousand
times better than compliments."
"And what I certainly expect of you, monsieur."
"Well, yes, mademoiselle; seeing that you were the only person not
dancing, I thought how dull it must be for you, and I resolved to engage
you for the next quadrille. I hope my sincerity has not offended you,
but you insisted--"
"Certainly, monsieur; and I am so grateful for your sincerity that if I
dared--"
"Do not hesitate, I beg of you, mademoiselle."
"But no, however frank you may be, however great a lover of truth, your
sincerity, I am sure, would not exceed certain limits--"
"Those you yourself prescribe, mademoiselle; no others."
"Are you in earnest?"
"I am, I assure you."
"The question I am about to put to you, monsieur, will seem so peculiar,
so bold, perhaps."
"Then, mademoiselle, I shall tell you that it seems strange and bold,
that is all."
"I don't think I shall ever dare--"
"Ah, mademoiselle, you seem to be afraid of frankness, in your turn,"
said Olivier, laughing.
"Say, rather, that I tremble for your sincerity; it will have to be so
great, so rare, to stand my test."
"You need have no fears, I will vouch for it, mademoiselle."
"Well, monsieur, what do you think of my appearance?"
"Mademoiselle," stammered Olivier, who was not in the least prepared for
such a brusque and embarrassing question; "really--I--"
"Ah, you see that you dare not say what you think, monsieur," exclaimed
Ernestine, gaily. "But wait, to put you quite at your ease, let us
suppose that on leaving this entertainment you should meet one of your
friends, and in telling him about the young ladies you danced with, what
would you say about me if you should happen to remember that I was one
of your partners?"
"Well, mademoiselle," responded Olivier, who had partially recovered
from his surprise, "I should merely say to my friend, 'I saw a young
lady whom nobody asked to dance. This interested me in her, so I engaged
her for the next quadrille, not supposing that our conversation would
prove particularly interesting, for not knowing the young lady at all, I
had nothing but commonplaces to say to her. But quite the contrary.
Thanks to my partner, our conversation was extremely animated, and the
time passed like a dream.'"
"And what if your friend should perhaps ask if this young lady was
pretty or ugly?"
"I should say that I had not been able to distinguish her features very
well from a distance," replied Olivier, intrepidly, "but on seeing her
closer, and looking at her more attentively, and more particularly after
I had heard her talk, I found her face so gentle and kind and
characterised by such an expression of winning frankness that I ceased
to think that she was not pretty. But I should add, still speaking to my
friend, of course: 'Do not repeat these remarks made to you in
confidence, for it is only women of great good sense and amiability who
ask for, or forgive, sincerity.' It is consequently only to a very
discreet friend that I should say this, mademoiselle."
"I thank you so much, monsieur. I am grateful, you have no idea how
grateful, for your frankness," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in such a
sincere and earnest voice that Olivier, surprised and touched in spite
of himself, gazed at the girl with lively interest.
Just then the dance ended, and Olivier took Ernestine back to Herminie,
who was waiting for her; then, impressed by the singular character of
the young girl with whom he had just danced, he withdrew himself a
little apart to think over their strange conversation.
"You enjoyed yourself very much, did you not, Ernestine?" asked
Herminie, affectionately. "I knew it by your face. You talked all the
time you were dancing."
"M. Olivier is very pleasant; besides, knowing that you were so well
acquainted with him made me feel perfect confidence in him at once."
"And he deserves it, I assure you, Ernestine. No one could have a better
heart or a nobler character. His most intimate friend"--and the duchess
blushed almost imperceptibly--"tells me that M. Olivier works like a
slave at the most uncongenial employment in order to utilise his leave
and assist his uncle, a retired officer of marines, crippled with
wounds, who resides in this same house and has only his pension to live
on."
"This doesn't surprise me at all, Herminie. I knew that M. Olivier must
have a kind heart."
"He is as brave as a lion, too, with it all. His friend, who served in
the same regiment, has told me of many deeds of wonderful valour on M.
Olivier's part."
"That seems only natural to me. I have always believed that good and
kind-hearted people were the bravest," replied Ernestine. "You, for
example, must be very courageous, Herminie."
The conversation between the two young girls was again interrupted by a
young man, who, after interchanging a quick glance with Herminie,
politely invited Ernestine to dance.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil saw the look, and it made her blush and smile.
Nevertheless, she made an engagement to dance the next quadrille, but as
soon as the young man had walked away Ernestine gaily remarked to her
new friend:
"You are making me a very dangerous person, my dear Herminie."
"Why do you say that, Ernestine?"
"That invitation I just received--"
"Well, what of it?"
"Was all your work."
"Mine?"
"Yes, you said to yourself, 'This poor Ernestine must, at least, dance
twice during the evening. Everybody is not as kind-hearted as M.
Olivier, but I am queen here, and I will give orders to one of my
subjects.'"
But just then Queen Herminie's subject came to say that the quadrille
was forming.
"Good-bye, Madame Sybil," exclaimed Herminie, shaking her finger
threateningly at Mlle. de Beaumesnil. "I'll teach you not to be so proud
of your wonderful powers of divination."
The young girl had scarcely walked away with her partner before Olivier
came up, and, seating himself beside the duchess, said:
"Who is that young girl I just danced with?"
"An orphan who supports herself by her embroidery, M. Olivier, and who
is not very happy, I think, for you can not imagine the touching way in
which she thanked me for my attention this evening. It was this that
made us friends so quickly, for I never saw her until to-night."
"That is what she meant, I suppose, by speaking so artlessly of what she
called your compassion, and mine."
"Poor child! She must have been very unkindly treated, and is still,
perhaps, to make her so grateful for the slightest show of interest."
"Hers is certainly a very original character. You can't imagine what a
strange question she asked me, imploring me to be perfectly frank all
the while."
"No, I can not."
"Well, she asked me whether I thought her pretty or ugly."
"What a strange child! And what did you answer?"
"I told her the truth, as she insisted."
"What! M. Olivier, did you really tell her that she wasn't pretty?"
"I certainly did, adding, however,--and that, too, was the truth,--that
she had such a frank and gentle manner that it made one quite forget
that she was not pretty."
"Great heavens! M. Olivier," cried Herminie, almost in affright, "that
wasn't a pleasant thing for her to hear. And she did not seem hurt?"
"Not the least bit in the world. Quite the contrary, in fact, and that
was what surprised me so much. When one asks questions of this nature, a
request to be frank generally means that you are to lie; while she
thanked me in such an earnest and pathetic way for my sincerity that I
was really touched, in spite of myself."
"Do you know what I think, M. Olivier? I really believe the poor child
must have been very unkindly treated at home. She must have been told a
hundred times that she was a monster of ugliness, and, finding herself
for the first time in her life with some one she really felt that she
could trust, she wanted to know the truth in regard to herself."
"You are probably right, Mlle. Herminie, and what touched me, as it did
you, was to see with what gratitude the poor girl welcomed the slightest
sign of interest, provided it was sincere."
"Would you believe it, I have seen big tears well up in her eyes more
than once this evening, M. Olivier?"
"I, too, somehow fancied that her gaiety concealed a habitual
melancholy. She was trying to forget herself, perhaps."
"And then her trade, which unfortunately requires such an expenditure of
time and labour, is so unremunerative, poor child! If the trials of
poverty should be added to her other troubles--"
"I fear that is only too probable, Mlle. Herminie," said Olivier,
feelingly. "She is, indeed, very much to be pitied!"
"Hush, here she comes," said Herminie. Then she added: "But she is
putting on her wrap; they must be taking her away."
And in fact, Ernestine, behind whom Madame Laine was walking with an
imposing air, came to the door, and made a slight movement of the head
to Herminie as if to indicate that she was leaving with regret.
The duchess hastened to her new friend. "What! you are going already?"
she asked.
"I must," answered Ernestine, with a meaning look at innocent Madame
Laine.
"But you will come next Sunday, will you not? You know we shall have a
thousand things to say to each other."
"I hope to come, my dear Herminie, I shall be so anxious to see you
again."
Then with a gracious bow to the young hussar, Ernestine said:
"_Au revoir_, M. Olivier."
"_Au revoir_, mademoiselle," replied the young soldier, with a bow.
An hour afterwards Mlle. de Beaumesnil and Madame Laine were safe within
the walls of the Hotel de la Rochaigue.
CHAPTER IV.
REASON ASSERTS ITSELF.
On her return from Madame Herbaut's little entertainment, mademoiselle
opened her journal and wrote as follows:
"Thank Heaven, my darling mamma; the inspiration to which I yielded was
a wise one!
"What a cruel lesson I received at first, then how much valuable
information, and lastly what delightful compensation!
"Two persons with true, honest hearts manifested a genuine interest in
me.
"A genuine, unselfish interest this time, for these persons, at least,
have not even a suspicion that I am the richest heiress in France.
"On the contrary, they believe me to be poor, almost on the verge of
absolute want, in fact; and then, what is more, they have been perfectly
honest with me. I know it, I am certain of it!
"Judge of my happiness! I have met some one at last whom I feel I can
trust, I, who have come to distrust everybody and everything, thanks to
the fulsome flattery of those around me.
"At last I know what I am really worth--how I really appear in the eyes
of others.
"I am far from pretty; there is nothing in the world about me worthy of
the slightest notice. I am one of those persons who must pass through
life unnoticed unless some compassionate heart should be touched by my
naturally gentle and rather melancholy ways.
"The feeling I must really inspire, if I inspire any feeling at all, is
that sort of affectionate commiseration that truly noble souls feel when
they are brought into close contact with an inoffensive creature who is
suffering from some hidden sorrow.
"If this commiseration ever attracts one of these noble natures to me,
what it will find and love in me is sweetness of disposition combined
with an intense longing for mutual sincerity.
"This, then, is precisely what I am,--nothing less, nothing more!
"And when I compare these slight attractions, the only ones I possess,
with the marvellous charms and perfections with which my flatterers have
endowed me; when I think of the sudden and irresistible passions I have
inspired in persons who have scarcely exchanged a word with me; when I
think of the sensation I create in fashionable circles, and then think
of the modest entertainment this evening, where I was invited to dance
only from a feeling of pity, and where I saw all the other young girls
chosen in preference to me, because I was the least attractive one
present,--oh, mother, I, who never hated any one in my whole life
before, now feel that I hate as deeply as I despise these persons who
have so shamefully deceived me by their base flattery.
"I am astonished at all the bitter, insolent, and opprobrious epithets
which occur to me, and with which I long to crush my deceivers some day,
or, rather, when a test to which I mean to subject them at that grand
ball next Thursday has wholly convinced me of their deceitfulness and
treachery.
"Alas! my dear mother, suppose any one had told me a short time ago that
I, who am naturally so timid, should make such a bold resolve some day!
"But the necessity of escaping the greatest of misfortunes imparts
courage and determination even to the most timid.
"But, as I have said before, my dear mother, the cruel lesson I received
was not without its compensations.
"In the first place, I have gained, I am sure, a generous and sincere
friend. Seeing me slighted and neglected, a charming young girl took
pity on me. She came to me, and endeavoured to console me with wonderful
cleverness and kindness.
"I felt, or, rather, I feel, for her the tenderest gratitude.
"Oh, if you only knew, mother, how novel and pleasant and delightful it
was for me, the richest heiress in France, to find some one who, upon
seeing me neglected, and, as she supposed, unhappy, on that very account
manifests the most touching interest in me,--who, in short, loves me for
myself alone.
"To be sought out and to be loved on account of your supposed
misfortunes, what ineffable happiness this is to a person who, up to
that time, has been loved, apparently, only on account of the wealth she
is known to possess.
"The sincere affection I have gained this time is unspeakably precious
to me, because it gives me the hope of such a happy future. With a tried
and trusted friend, what have I to fear? Ah, I have no fear of seeing
this friend change some day when I tell her who I really am!
"What I have said in regard to Herminie, for that is her name, also
applies to M. Olivier, who might be taken for this young girl's brother,
so great is his kindness of heart and his honesty. Seeing that no one
had asked me to dance, it was he who invited me out of pity, and so
great is his frankness that he did not deny that he was actuated by
motives of compassion. Moreover, when I had the hardihood to ask him if
he thought me pretty, he replied that he did not, but that I had a face
which was interesting by reason of its gentle, rather sad expression.
"These honest words gave me inexpressible pleasure and satisfaction. I
felt that they were true, for they reminded me of what you said to me
once, my beloved mother, when you were speaking of my looks; besides,
the words were addressed, not to the wealthy heiress, but to the little
embroideress.
"M. Olivier is only a common soldier, I know; but he must have received
an excellent education, for he expresses himself admirably and his
manners are perfect. Besides, he is as kind-hearted and good as he is
brave, for he evinces a truly filial devotion for his aged uncle, a
retired naval officer.
"Oh, mother, what noble and courageous natures these are! How entirely
at ease one feels with them! How their frankness and sincerity rejoices
one's heart! How healthy and wholesome to the soul such association is!
What serenity and cheerful resignation they display under adverse
circumstances, for both these young people are obliged to work
hard,--Herminie, for a mere subsistence; M. Olivier, to increase his old
uncle's inadequate means.
"To work for a living!
"And yet Herminie told me if work should fail me at any time she would
do her best to secure me employment from a large establishment for which
she had occasionally worked herself, for I had no idea yet what a
dreadful thing it was to be out of work.
"To be out of work!
"Great Heavens, that means to lack food! That means want, misery, death
itself, perhaps!
"All the merry, laughing girls I saw at this little entertainment, girls
who are, like Herminie, dependent entirely upon their own exertions for
a livelihood, may know all the horrors of abject want to-morrow, if work
should fail them!
"Is there no one to whom they can go and say, 'I am brave and willing,
only give me work?'
"But such a state of things is unjust! It is shameful! Is there no such
thing as pity for the woes of others in the world? Is it a matter of
little or no consequence that there should be so many people in the
world who do not know whether they will have food on the morrow?
"Oh, mother, mother, now I understand the vague fear and uneasiness I
experienced when they told me I was so rich! I had good reason to say to
myself, with something akin to remorse:
"Such vast wealth for myself alone? And why?
"Why should I have so much and others nothing?
"How did I acquire this immense fortune?
"Alas! I acquired it only by your death, my mother, and by your death,
my father.
"So I had to lose those I held most dear in the world in, order to
become so rich.
"In order that I may be so rich, it is necessary, perhaps, that
thousands of young girls like Herminie should be always in danger of
want,--happy to-day, filled with despair to-morrow.
"And when they have lost their only treasures, the lightheartedness and
gaiety of youth, when they are old, and when not only work, but strength
is lacking, what becomes of these unfortunates?
"Oh, mother, the more I think of the terrible difference between my lot
and that of Herminie and so many other young girls--the more I think of
the dangers that surround me, of all the nefarious schemes of which I am
the object because I am rich, it seems to me that wealth imparts a
strange bitterness to the heart.
"Now my reason has at last asserted itself, I must satisfy myself of the
omnipotent power of wealth over venal souls; I must see to what depths
of degradation I, a girl of sixteen, can make those around me stoop.
Yes, for my eyes are open now. I realise with profound gratitude that M.
de Maillefort's revelations alone started this train of thought that is
making everything more and more clear to me every minute.
"I do not know, but it seems to me, my dear mother, that I can express
my thoughts more clearly now, that my mind is developing, that my
faculties are awakening from a sort of stupor, that my character is
undergoing a decided change in many respects, and that, while it remains
keenly susceptible to all that is sincere and generous, it is becoming
strongly antagonistic and aggressive to all that is false, base and
mercenary.
"I am convinced of one thing: they lied to me when they told me that M.
de Maillefort was your enemy. They told me so merely because they wanted
to make me distrust his counsels. It was designedly that they fostered
my dislike of him, a dislike caused by the slanders of which I have been
the dupe.
"No, never shall I forget that it was to M. de Maillefort's revelations
that I was indebted for the idea of going to Madame Herbaut's, where I
not only learned the truth concerning myself, but where I met the only
two really generous and sincere persons that I have known since I lost
you, my father, and you, my mother."
* * * * *
The morning after Madame Herbaut's ball Mlle. de Beaumesnil rang for her
governess a little earlier than usual.
Madame Laine appeared almost instantly, however.
"Did mademoiselle have a comfortable night?" she asked.
"Very, my dear Laine but tell me, have you made the inquiries I asked
you to last evening, so we may know whether any one suspected our
absence."
"No one has the slightest suspicion of it, mademoiselle. Madame de la
Rochaigue did not send to inquire for you until early this morning."
"And you replied?"
"That mademoiselle had passed a very comfortable, though slightly
restless, night; but that the quiet and rest had benefited mademoiselle
very much."
"That is all right then, my dear Laine, and now I have another favour to
ask of you."
"I am at mademoiselle's service; but I am so distressed about what
happened at Madame Herbaut's last night," said the governess. "I was in
torture the whole evening."
"But what happened at Madame Herbaut's?"
"Why, mademoiselle was received with such coldness and indifference. It
was shameful, for mademoiselle is in the habit of seeing everybody crowd
around her as they ought."
"As they ought?"
"Most assuredly. Mademoiselle knows very well the respect that is due to
her position, so last evening I was mortified and incensed beyond
expression. 'Ah,' I said to myself,'if you only knew that this young
lady you are neglecting is Mlle. de Beaumesnil, you would all be down on
your knees in the twinkling of an eye.'"
"My dear Laine, let me first set your mind at rest about last evening. I
was delighted, and I enjoyed myself so much that I intend to go again
next Sunday evening."
"What, mademoiselle wishes to go again?"
"I shall go, that is decided. Now, another thing. The reception which I
met with at Madame Herbaut's, and which scandalises you so deeply, is
convincing proof of the discretion I expected from you. I thank you for
it, and if you always act in this way I assure you your fortune is
made."
"But mademoiselle knows that it is not self-interest--that--"
"Yet that need not prevent me from rewarding you as you deserve, my dear
Laine. And that is not all; I want you to ask Madame Herbaut for the
address of one of the young ladies I met last evening. The young lady I
mean is called Herminie, and she gives music lessons."
"I shall not have to apply to Madame Herbaut for that, mademoiselle, M.
le baron's steward knows the address."
"What! Our steward knows Mlle. Herminie's address?" exclaimed Ernestine,
greatly astonished.
"Yes, mademoiselle. They were speaking of the young lady in the office
only a few days ago."
"Of Mlle. Herminie?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. It was in relation to a five hundred franc note that
she returned to the baroness. Louis, one of the footmen, heard the whole
conversation through the door of the reception-room."
"Madame de la Rochaigue knows Herminie?" cried Ernestine, whose surprise
and curiosity were increased by each word the governess uttered. "And
what is this about a five hundred franc note?"
"Why, it seems that this honest young girl--I told you that Madame
Herbaut was exceedingly particular in the selection of her guests--this
honest young girl returned the five hundred francs because she said she
had already been paid by the countess."
"What countess?"
"Why, mademoiselle's mother."
"My mother paid Herminie? And for what?"
"Ah, yes, it is true that mademoiselle is not aware--I suppose no one
has told mademoiselle for fear of making her still more sad."
"Has not told me what? In Heaven's name, speak!"
"Why, the late countess suffered so much towards the last, that the
physicians, at their wit's end, thought that music might ameliorate her
sufferings, at least to some extent."
"Great Heaven! I can not believe it. Go on, go on."
"So they sent for a young musician, and this young musician was
Herminie!"
"Herminie?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. For ten days or a fortnight before Madame la
comtesse died, mademoiselle came to play and sing to her every day, and
they say it quieted the countess very much, but unfortunately it was too
late."
While Ernestine was drying the tears these sad details, hitherto unknown
to her, had brought to her eyes, Madame Laine continued:
"It seems that, after your mother's death, the baroness, thinking Mlle.
Herminie had not been paid, sent her five hundred francs, but this
noble-hearted young girl brought the money back and declared that the
countess owed her nothing."
"She saw my dying mother! She assuaged her sufferings," thought
Ernestine, with inexpressible emotion. "Ah, how I long to tell her that
I am the daughter of the lady she loved, for how could any one know my
mother without loving her?"
Then starting violently at another recollection, the young girl said to
herself:
"But I remember now, that, when I told her my name was Ernestine, the
coincidence seemed to strike her, and she seemed to be deeply moved when
she said that a lady, for whom she had a profound regard, had a daughter
who was also named Ernestine. So my mother must have talked to her about
me, and if my mother talked to her as confidentially as that, my mother
must have loved her; so I, too, have reason to love her. In fact, it is
my bounden duty. My brain whirls, my heart overflows. This is too much
happiness. I can hardly believe it."
Dashing away her tears, Ernestine turned to her governess and asked:
"But how did the steward ascertain Mlle. Herminie's address."
"He went to the notary who sent the five hundred francs, for Madame de
la Rochaigue wished to ascertain the address so she could send it to M.
de Maillefort."
"What, does M. de Maillefort, too, know Herminie?"
"I cannot say, mademoiselle, all I know is that the steward took
Herminie's address to M. le marquis nearly a month ago."
"Get me the address at once, my dear Laine."
In a few minutes the governess brought the address and Ernestine
immediately sat down and wrote as follows:
* * * * *
"MY DEAR HERMINIE:--You invited me to come and see your pretty room. I
shall come early day after to-morrow--Tuesday, early in the morning, so
I may be sure of not interfering in your work. I look forward with
delight to seeing you again. I have a thousand things to tell you. With
love,
"Your sincere friend,
"ERNESTINE."
* * * * *
After she had sealed this note, Mlle. de Beaumesnil said to her
governess:
"I wish you to post this letter yourself, my dear Laine."
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"How shall I manage to get out alone with Madame Laine day after
to-morrow?" Ernestine said to herself. "I have no idea, but my heart
tells me that I shall see Herminie again!"
CHAPTER V.
A CONSUMING FEVER OF LOVE.
On the morning of the same day that mademoiselle had appointed for her
visit to Herminie, Gerald de Senneterre was having a long conversation
with Olivier.
The two young men were sitting under the little arbour of which
Commander Bernard was so fond.
The young duke's face was extremely pale and agitated. In fact, he
seemed a prey to the deepest anxiety and distress.
"So you will see her, my dear Olivier," he was saying to his friend.
"At once. I wrote to her last evening requesting an interview. She has
not answered my note, so she consents."
"Then in an hour my fate will be decided," groaned Gerald.
"I am forced to admit that I think this a very serious matter," said
Olivier. "You know, even better than I do, how proud this young girl is,
and that which would be our greatest chance of success with any one else
will be almost sure to have an exactly opposite effect in her case.
Still, we will not despair."
"But, Olivier, if I should be obliged to give her up, I don't know how I
could bear it!" exclaimed Gerald, hoarsely. "I should kill myself, I
believe!"
"Gerald! Gerald!"
"Yes, I admit it. I love her to distraction. I never believed before
that even the most impassioned love could attain such a degree of
intensity. My love is a consuming fever,--a fixed idea that absorbs me
utterly. You know Herminie--"
"Yes, and I know that a more noble and beautiful creature never lived."
"Olivier, I am the most miserable of men!" exclaimed Gerald, burying his
face in his hands.
"Come, come, Gerald, don't give way so. You can rely upon me. I believe,
too, that you can trust her. Does she not love you as much as you love
her? So don't be despondent. On the contrary, hope, and if,
unfortunately--"
"But I tell you that I can not and will not live without her."
There was such evident sincerity in the words, as well as such
passionate resolve, that Olivier shuddered, for he knew what an
indomitable will his former comrade possessed.
"Gerald," he said, with deep emotion, "again I tell you that you should
not despair. Wait here until my return."
"You are right," said Gerald, passing his hand across his fevered brow.
"I will wait for you."
Olivier, unwilling to leave his friend in such a despondent mood,
continued:
"I forgot to tell you that I informed my uncle of your intentions in
regard to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and they have his unqualified approval.
'Such conduct is worthy of him,' he said to me, so day after to-morrow,
Gerald--"
"Day after to-morrow!" exclaimed the young duke, bitterly and
impatiently. "I am not thinking of anything so far off. It is as much as
I can do to see my way from hour to hour."
"But, Gerald, it is a duty you have to perform."
"Don't talk to me about anything but Herminie. I am utterly indifferent
to everything else. What are these so-called duties and obligations to
me when I am in torture?"
"You do not realise what you are saying."
"Yes, I do."
"No, you do not."
"Olivier!"
"Oh, you may rebel as much as you please, but I tell you that your
conduct, now as ever, shall be that of a man of honour. You will go to
this ball to meet Mlle. de Beaumesnil."
"I'll be d---- d if I will. I am at liberty to do as I please, I think,
monsieur."
"No, Gerald, you are not at liberty to do anything that is dishonest or
dishonourable."
"Do you know that what you are saying--" began the young duke, pale with
anger; but seeing the expression of sorrowful astonishment on Olivier's
features, Gerald became ashamed of his outburst, and, extending his hand
to his friend, he said, in an almost beseeching voice:
"Forgive me, Olivier, forgive me! To think that almost at the very
moment that you are undertaking the gravest and most delicate mission
for me, I should so far forget myself--"
"Come, come, you needn't go to making excuses," said Olivier, preventing
his friend from continuing by affectionately pressing his hand.
"You must have compassion on me, Olivier," said Gerald, despondently. "I
really believe I must be mad."
The conversation was here interrupted by the sudden arrival of Madame
Barbancon, who rushed into the arbour, crying:
"Oh, M. Olivier, M. Olivier!"
"What is the matter, Madame Barbancon?"
"The commander!"
"Well?"
"He has gone out!"
"What, suffering as he is to-day!" exclaimed Olivier, anxiously. "It was
very imprudent. Didn't you try to prevent him from going, Mother
Barbancon?"
"Alas! M. Olivier, I really believe the commander is not in his right
mind."
"What?"
"I was out, and it was the porter who admitted M. Gerald in my absence.
When I returned a few minutes ago, M. Bernard was laughing and singing,
and I really believe even dancing, in spite of his weakness, and at last
he flung his arms around me, shouting like a maniac, 'Victory, Mother
Barbancon, victory!'"
Gerald, in spite of his own troubles, could not repress a faint smile.
It seemed as if he understood the cause of the old officer's delight,
but when Olivier, who was really much disturbed, asked, "Do you know
anything about this, Gerald?" the young duke replied, with the most
natural air in the world:
"Nothing whatever, upon my word! It seems to me more than probable,
though, that the commander must have heard some good news, and there
would be certainly nothing alarming about that."
"Good news!" repeated Olivier, much surprised, and trying in vain to
imagine what it could be.
"Well, this much is certain," interposed Madame Barbancon, "after the
commander had shouted 'Victory!' almost at the top of his voice, he
asked: 'Is Olivier in the garden?' 'Yes, with M. Gerald,' I replied.
'Then get me my hat and cane quick, Mother Barbancon,' said he, 'and let
me get off as soon as I can.' 'What! you are going out, weak as you
are?' I exclaimed. 'You are very foolish to think of such a thing,
monsieur.' But the commander wouldn't listen, and clapped his hat on his
head and started as if he intended to come out here and speak to you;
then he stopped short, and after reflecting a moment retraced his steps
and went out at the front door, singing that miserable old song he sings
only when he is in high glee about something,--which doesn't often
happen with the poor, dear man!"
"I don't know what to make of it," said Olivier, "and I can't help
feeling a little uneasy. My uncle has seemed so feeble since his last
attack, that a half hour in the garden yesterday exhausted him
completely."
"Oh, don't be alarmed, my friend, joy never kills."
"I think I had better go down the street a little way, M. Olivier," said
Madame Barbancon. "He has an idea that exercise outside will do him more
good than his walks in the garden, and perhaps I shall find him down
there. But what on earth could he have meant by his 'Victory, Mother
Barbancon, victory!' He must have heard something new in favour of his
Bu-u-onaparte."
And the worthy woman hastened off.
"Don't be uneasy, Olivier," said Gerald, kindly. "The worst that can
happen is that the commander may tire himself a little."
The clock in the neighbouring steeple struck nine, and Olivier,
remembering the mission he had promised to fulfil, said:
"Well, it is nine o'clock. I am going."
"My dear Olivier," said Gerald, "you forget your own anxieties in your
solicitude for my interests; and I, in my selfishness, haven't said so
much as a word to you about your sweetheart."
"What sweetheart?"
"Why, the young girl you met at Madame Herbaut's Sunday."
"I would that your love affair were as tranquil as mine, Gerald; that
is, if you can dignify with that name the interest one naturally feels
in a young girl who is neither happy nor at all pretty, but who has a
sweet face, an excellent disposition, and great originality of
character."
"But you are thinking of this poor girl a great deal of the time, it
seems to me."
"That is true, though I really don't know why. If I find out I will tell
you. But never mind me. You have just displayed a vast amount of heroism
in forgetting your own passion long enough to interest yourself in what
you are pleased to call my love affair," said Olivier, smiling. "This
generosity on your part is sure to be rewarded, so courage, my friend!
Keep up a good heart and wait for me here."
* * * * *
Herminie, for her part, was thinking of Olivier's approaching visit with
a vague uneasiness that cast a slight cloud over her usually radiant
face.
"What can M. Olivier want?" thought the duchess. "This is the first time
he has ever asked to call on me, and he wishes to see me on a very
important matter, he says in his note. This important matter cannot
concern him. What if it should concern Gerald, who is his most intimate
friend? But I saw Gerald only yesterday, and I shall see him again
to-day, for it is to-morrow that he is to tell his mother of our love. I
can't imagine why the idea of this approaching interview worries me so.
But that reminds me, I must inform the portress that I am at home to M.
Olivier."
As she spoke, she pulled a bell that communicated with the room of
Madame Moufflon, the portress, who promptly responded to the summons.
"Madame Moufflon, some one will call to see me this morning, and you are
to admit the visitor," said Herminie.
"If it is a lady, of course. I understand."
"But it is not a lady who will call this morning," replied Herminie,
with some embarrassment.
"It is not a lady? Then it must be that little hunchback I have orders
to admit at any time, I suppose."
"No, Madame Moufflon, it is not M. de Maillefort, but a young man."
"A young man?" exclaimed the portress, "a young man? Well, this is the
first time--"
"The young man will tell you his name. It is Olivier."
"Olivier? That is not hard to remember. I'll just think of olives; I
adore them! Olivier, olives, olive oil--it is very nearly the very same
thing. I sha'n't forget it. But, by the way, speaking--not of young men,
for this old serpent isn't young--I saw that old scoundrel hanging
around the house again last evening."
"Again?" exclaimed Herminie, with a look of scorn and disgust at the
thought of Ravil.
For this cynic, since his first meeting with Herminie, had made numerous
attempts to see the young girl, but the portress proving above bribery,
he had written several times to Herminie, who had treated his letters
with the disdain they deserved.
"Yes, mademoiselle, I saw the old snake hanging around again yesterday,"
continued the portress, "and when I planted myself in the doorway to
watch him, he sneered at me as he passed, but I just said to myself:
'Sneer away, you old viper. You'll laugh on the other side of your mouth
one of these days.'"
"I cannot help encountering this man on the street sometimes," said
Herminie, "for he seems to be always trying to put himself in my way;
but I needn't tell you, Madame Moufflon, that he must never be admitted
to the house on any pretext whatever."
"Oh, you needn't worry about that, mademoiselle, he knows pretty well
who he has to deal with by this time."
"But I forgot to mention that a young lady will probably call this
morning, too, Madame Moufflon."
"Very well. But if M. Olivier should be here when the young lady calls,
what then? Shall I admit her just the same?"
"Certainly."
"Oh, I never told you, did I, mademoiselle, that M. Bouffard, who was so
rough to you, but who has been as gentle as a lamb ever since you began
giving his daughter lessons, is always praising you to the skies now. He
said to me only the other day, 'There are plenty of rosieres who are not
half as good and modest as Mlle. Herminie. She is a young lady who--'"
But a peal of the door-bell put a sudden end to these eulogiums.
"It is M. Olivier, I expect," said Herminie. "Show him in, please,
Madame Moufflon."
And a minute afterwards that worthy dame ushered in Olivier, and
Herminie found herself alone with Gerald's intimate friend.
CHAPTER VI.
A DELICATE MISSION.
The vague uneasiness which Herminie had felt was greatly increased at
the sight of Olivier, for the young man looked unusually grave. The
duchess even fancied that he avoided her gaze, as if embarrassed, and
this embarrassment on his part was made still more apparent by his
silence and evident reluctance to explain the object of his visit.
Herminie was the first to break this silence.
"You wrote, M. Olivier, that you wished to see me about a very important
matter," she said, at last.
"Very important, mademoiselle."
"I judge so from your manner. What have you to tell me?"
"It concerns Gerald, mademoiselle."
"Great Heavens! What misfortune has befallen him?" exclaimed the
duchess, much frightened.
"None, mademoiselle. I left him only a few minutes ago."
Herminie, thus reassured, felt deeply incensed with herself for her
unguarded exclamation, and, blushing deeply, she said to Olivier:
"I trust you will not misinterpret--"
But the natural frankness of her character asserted itself, and she
said, with quiet dignity:
"But why should I try to conceal from you something that you know
already, M. Olivier. Are you not Gerald's dearest friend, in fact,
almost a brother to him? Neither of us have any cause to blush for our
mutual attachment. To-morrow, he is to inform his mother of his
intentions and ask her consent, which he is almost certain to gain. For
why should he not gain it. Our conditions in life are almost identical.
He supports himself by his own exertions, as I support myself by mine.
Our lot will be humble, and--But, forgive me, M. Olivier, for thus
boring you. It is a fault to which all lovers are prone. But as no
misfortune has befallen Gerald, what is the important matter that brings
you here?"
Herminie's words indicated such a feeling of perfect security that
Olivier realised the difficulties of his task even more keenly, and it
was with painful hesitation that he replied:
"As I said before, no misfortune has befallen Gerald; but I come to you
at his request."
Herminie's face, which had grown quite serene, became anxious again, and
she said:
"Pray have the kindness to explain, M. Olivier. You say you have come at
Gerald's request? Why is an intermediary needed, even in the person of
his most intimate friend? This astonishes me. Why did not Gerald come
himself?"
"Because there is something he is afraid to confess to you,
mademoiselle."
Herminie started violently; the expression of her face changed, and,
looking searchingly at Olivier, she repeated:
"There is something Gerald is afraid to confess to me?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"It must be something terrible if he dares not tell me," exclaimed the
girl, paling visibly.
"I meant to have used more precautions, and to have approached the
subject in a more roundabout way, mademoiselle," replied Olivier, who
was in torture, "but I see that such a course on my part would only
serve to prolong your anxiety--"
"My God! What am I about to hear?" murmured the young girl, trembling
violently in every limb.
"Truth is better than falsehood, Mlle. Herminie."
"Falsehood?"
"In a word, Gerald can no longer endure the false position in which a
peculiar combination of circumstances, and his desire to see you, have
placed him. His courage has failed him. He has resolved that he will
deceive you no longer, and, whatever may come of it, trusting to your
generosity, he sends me, I repeat, to tell you what he is afraid to
confess himself,--for he knows how bitterly you abhor deceit, and
unfortunately Gerald has deceived you."
"Deceived me?"
"Yes, Gerald is not what he seems to be. You have known him under an
assumed name. He has pretended to be what he is not."
"My God!" murmured the young girl, in abject terror.
A horrible suspicion had assailed her.
Never supposing for an instant that Olivier could have an aristocrat for
an intimate friend, the poor child feared that Gerald had taken another
name in order to conceal, not the obscurity of his birth or
condition,--these were no disgrace in Herminie's eyes,--but guilty or
dishonourable antecedents. In short, she imagined that Gerald must have
committed some dishonourable act in the past.
So, in her wild terror, the girl, holding up her two hands as if to ward
off an impending blow, exclaimed, brokenly:
"Do not finish this shameful confession, do not, I beseech you."
"Shameful!" repeated Olivier. "What! because Gerald has concealed the
fact that he is the Duc de Senneterre--"
"You say that Gerald, your friend--"
"Is the Duc de Senneterre! Yes, mademoiselle. We were at college
together; he enlisted, as I did. In that way I met him again, and since
that time our intimacy has never flagged. And now, Mlle. Herminie, you
can, perhaps, understand why Gerald concealed his real name and position
from you. It was a wrong to which I became an accomplice through
thoughtlessness; for what has since become a serious matter, that I
deeply regret, was at first merely intended as a joke. Unfortunately,
the introduction of Gerald as a notary's clerk to Madame Herbaut had
already been made, when a singular chance brought you and my friend
together. You will understand the rest. But I repeat that Gerald
resolved, of his own free will, to confess the truth to you, as a
continued deception was too revolting to his sense of honour."
On hearing that Gerald, instead of being a disgraced man, hiding under
an assumed name, had really been guilty of no other wrong than that of
concealing his noble birth, the revulsion of feeling Herminie underwent
was so sudden and violent that she at first experienced a sort of
vertigo; but when she became capable of reflection, when she became able
to realise the consequences of this revelation, the young girl, who was
as pale as death, trembled in every limb. Her knees tottered under her,
and for a moment she was obliged to lean against the mantel for support.
When she did speak, it was in a strangely altered voice.
"M. Olivier," she said, "I am going to say something that may seem
utterly senseless to you. A moment ago, before you had told me all, a
terrible suspicion that Gerald had concealed his real name because he
had been guilty of some wrong doing occurred to me--"
"What, you could believe that?"
"Yes, I did believe that, but I do not know but the truth you have told
me concerning Gerald's position causes me deeper sorrow than that I
experienced when I thought Gerald might be a dishonoured man."
"Impossible, mademoiselle, impossible!"
"This seems to you as absurd as it does senseless, does it not?" asked
the young girl, bitterly.
"It does indeed."
"But in that case, by the power of my love, I might hope to raise him
from his slough of despond, to restore his self-respect, to rehabilitate
him in my eyes, and in his own; but between me and M. le Duc de
Senneterre there is now an unfathomable abyss."
"Oh, reassure yourself on that point," hastily exclaimed Olivier, hoping
to cure the wound he had inflicted and to change his companion's grief
to joy. "You really need have no fears on that score, Mlle. Herminie. I
was deputised to inform you of Gerald's deception, but, thank Heaven! I
am also authorised to tell you that he intends to atone for his fault
and in the most satisfactory manner. Gerald may have deceived you in
some matters, but he has never deceived you as to the sincerity of his
sentiments. They are now what they have always been; his determination
does not waver in the least. To-day, as yesterday, Gerald has only one
desire, one hope,--that you will consent to bear his name, only to-day
his name is that of the Duc de Senneterre. That is all."
"That is all!" exclaimed Herminie, whose deep despondency seemed to have
given place to a sorrowful indignation. "That is all, you say, monsieur?
So it is nothing to have won my affection under false pretences--to have
reduced me to the trying necessity of renouncing a love which was the
hope and blessing of my life or of entering a family that will regard me
with aversion and disdain! And you call this nothing, monsieur! Ah, your
friend pretends to love me, and yet respects me so little as to believe
that I will ever submit to the countless humiliations such a marriage
is sure to bring upon me!"
"But, Mlle. Herminie--"
"Listen to me, M. Olivier. If, after our first meeting, which, by reason
of its very strangeness, made a deep impression upon me,--if, I say,
after our first meeting, Gerald had frankly confessed that he was the
Duc de Senneterre, I should have resisted my growing affection with all
my strength, and I should have triumphed over it, perhaps; but, in any
case, I would never willingly have seen Gerald again. I will not be his
mistress, and, as I said before, I am not the woman to submit to the
humiliations that await me if I consent to become his wife."
"You are very much mistaken, Mlle. Herminie. Accept Gerald's offer, and
you will have no humiliations to fear. Gerald is his own master. Since
he lost his father several years ago, he has had unbounded influence
over his mother. He will make her understand what this love is to him.
But if Madame de Senneterre seems disposed to sacrifice Gerald's
happiness to financial greed, my friend is resolved, after all means of
persuasion have been exhausted, of course, to dispense with his mother's
consent, if need be."
"But I, monsieur, must have, cost what it may, not the affection,--for
that does not come at will,--but the esteem of my husband's mother
because I am worthy of her esteem. Never, do you understand me, never
shall any one say that I was the cause of a rupture between Gerald and
his mother, or that I took advantage of his love for me to force myself
upon a noble and distinguished family; no, monsieur, no one shall ever
say that of me, my pride will not permit it."
As she uttered these words Herminie was truly superb in her sadness and
dignity.
Olivier had too keen a sense of honour himself not to share the young
girl's scruples--the same scruples which Gerald, too, had feared, for
both the young men knew Herminie's indomitable pride.
Nevertheless, Olivier, resolved to make a last effort, said:
"But consider well, Mlle. Herminie, I entreat you. Gerald does all that
any man of honour can do in offering you his hand. What more do you
desire?"
"What I desire, monsieur, as I have told you, is to be treated with the
consideration which is due me, and which I have a right to expect from
M. de Senneterre's family."
"But Gerald can be responsible only for himself, mademoiselle. Any
attempt to exact more would--"
"Say no more, M. Olivier," said Herminie, interrupting him; "you know
me, and you know that I have a firm will."