"I do, mademoiselle."

"Very well. I will never willingly see Gerald again while I live, unless

Madame de Senneterre, his mother, comes here--"

"Here?" exclaimed Olivier, in astonishment.

"Yes, unless Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre comes here and tells me

that she consents to my marriage with her son. Then, no one can ever say

that I forced myself upon this noble family."

This demand--which seemed and which was, in fact, merely the natural

outcome of an intense but laudable pride--Herminie uttered simply and

naturally, because, filled with a justly high respect for herself, the

young girl felt that she asked only what was her just due.

But at the first thought, this demand seemed to Olivier so exorbitant

that, in his astonishment, he could not help saying:

"Madame de Senneterre--come here--to tell you that she consents to your

marriage with her son,--why, what are you thinking of, Mlle. Herminie?

That exceeds the bounds of possibility!"

"And why, monsieur?" asked the young girl, with such ingenuous pride

that Olivier, remembering how generous and noble Herminie's character

and love were, replied, with no little embarrassment:

"You ask why Madame de Senneterre can not come here to tell you that she

consents to your marriage with her son?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"But, mademoiselle, even ignoring the convenances of the fashionable

world, the overtures you ask from a lady of Madame de Senneterre's

age--"

But again interrupting Olivier, the girl said, with a bitter smile:

"If I belonged to the fashionable world of which you speak,

monsieur,--if I had a mother and relatives, instead of being a poor

orphan,--and M. de Senneterre desired my hand in marriage, would it not

be according to the rules of propriety you spoke of just now that Madame

de Senneterre should be the first to approach my mother or my relatives

in her son's behalf?"

"Certainly, mademoiselle, but--"

"I have no mother, and I have no relatives," continued Herminie, sadly.

"To whom, then, if not to me, should Madame de Senneterre address

herself in relation to my marriage?"

"One word, mademoiselle, Madame de Senneterre might do this if she

approved of the marriage."

"And that is precisely why I ask it, M. Olivier."

"But Gerald's mother does not even know you, mademoiselle."

"If Madame de Senneterre has such a poor opinion of her son as to

believe him capable of choosing a wife unworthy of him, she can make all

needful inquiries in relation to me. Thank God, I have nothing to fear."

"That is true," said Olivier, who had exhausted all his arguments.

"So this is my last word, M. Olivier," continued Herminie. "If Madame de

Senneterre is not opposed to my marriage with her son, she will prove it

by making the kindly overtures I ask; if she does not, she will consider

me unworthy to enter her family, and in that case I will never see M. de

Senneterre again."

"Oh, Mlle. Herminie, if only out of compassion for Gerald--"

"Believe me, I am much more in need of pity than M. de Senneterre," said

the girl, and, no longer able to restrain her tears, she buried her face

in her hands. "I may die of grief, I do not know, but to the last I will

at least be worthy of Gerald and of his love."

Olivier was in despair, but he could not help admiring this noble pride,

though he deeply deplored the consequences so far as Gerald was

concerned.

Suddenly a loud ring of the door-bell resounded through the room.

Herminie sprang up and hastily dried her tears; then, remembering Mlle.

de Beaumesnil's note, she said to Olivier:

"It must be Ernestine. Poor child, I had forgotten all about her. M.

Olivier, will you have the goodness to open the door for me?"

"One word more," said Olivier, in earnest, almost solemn tones; "you

have no conception of the intensity of Gerald's love for you. You know I

am not prone to exaggeration, yet I am afraid, do you hear me,

positively afraid, when I think of the possible consequences of your

refusal."

Herminie trembled at Olivier's ominous words. For a moment she seemed to

be torn by conflicting doubts and fears; but she finally triumphed,

though the poor girl, exhausted by this mental conflict, answered in

tones that were barely audible:

"The thought of causing Gerald suffering is terrible to me, for I can

judge of his love by my own. My own sorrow, too, enables me to judge

what his must be. Nevertheless, I will never sacrifice my dignity, for

that is Gerald's as much as mine."

"I entreat you, mademoiselle, do not--"

"You have heard my resolve, M. Olivier. I shall not say another word.

Have pity on me. Can you not see that this interview is killing me?"

Olivier, seeing that it was useless to expostulate further, bowed to

Herminie in silence, and then walked towards the door; but he had

scarcely opened it when he exclaimed:

"My uncle, and you, Mlle. Ernestine! Great Heavens! This pallor--and

this blood on your forehead! What has happened?"

On hearing Olivier's words, Herminie rushed out of her room into the

little hallway.

CHAPTER VII.

GOOD NEWS.

The cause of Olivier's surprise and alarm was only too apparent.

Commander Bernard, pale as death and greatly agitated, was clinging to

Mlle. de Beaumesnil's arm as if for support; while the young girl, quite

as pale as the old officer, and clad in a simple lawn dress, had several

blood-stains on her forehead and cheek.

"What is the matter, uncle?" cried Olivier, scrutinising the veteran's

face with deep anxiety. "What has happened?"

"Great Heavens! Ernestine, are you hurt?" cried Herminie, almost

simultaneously.

"It is nothing, Herminie," replied the young girl, trying to smile,

though her voice trembled violently. "It is nothing, but excuse me for

bringing this gentleman in. Just now--I--you see--"

But the poor child could say no more. Strength and courage were alike

exhausted. Every vestige of colour fled from her lips; her eyes closed,

her head fell back, her limbs gave way under her, and she would have

fallen if Herminie had not caught her in her arms.

"She has fainted!" cried the duchess. "Help me carry her into my room,

M. Olivier."

"And I--I am the cause of all this trouble," said the commander,

following Olivier and Herminie with tottering steps as they carried

Ernestine into Herminie's room. "Poor child," he murmured; "what a kind

heart she has! What courage she displayed!"

The duchess, having placed Ernestine in the armchair, removed her hat

and pushed back from the pure white brow her beautiful chestnut hair,

which rolled down in heavy, shining waves upon her shoulders; then,

while Olivier supported the girl's unconscious head, Herminie with a

soft handkerchief staunched the blood which was flowing from a slight

wound a little way above the temple.

The old sailor stood near, watching this touching scene, his lips

trembling, and unable to utter a word, while big tears dropped slowly

down from his eyes upon his white moustache.

"Support her, M. Olivier, while I go for some cold water and a little

cologne," said Herminie.

She returned almost immediately with a handsome china basin, and a

bottle of cologne, and, after sponging the wound lightly with a mixture

of cologne and water, Herminie poured a little cologne in the palm of

her hand and made Mlle. de Beaumesnil inhale it.

Gradually Ernestine's pale lips recovered their wonted colour and a

slight flush succeeded the pallor in her cheeks.

"Heaven be praised! She is recovering consciousness," whispered

Herminie, gathering up the orphan's long tresses and securing them with

her shell comb.

Olivier, who had seemed deeply affected by the scene, now said to the

duchess, who was standing beside the armchair, supporting Mlle. de

Beaumesnil's head on her bosom:

"Mlle. Herminie, I regret very much that it should be under such

unfortunate circumstances that I have the honour of introducing to you

my uncle, Commander Bernard."

[Illustration: "'_She has fainted._'"

Original etching by Adrian Marcel.]

The young girl responded with an almost affectionate smile and bow, and

the old officer said:

"And I, mademoiselle, am doubly sorry, as I was unfortunately the cause

of this accident which distresses you so much."

"But how did it happen, uncle?" asked Olivier.

So while Herminie, seeing that, thanks to her attentions, Ernestine was

gradually regaining consciousness, made her again inhale a few drops of

cologne, Commander Bernard began his explanation by saying:

"I went out this morning while you were talking with one of your

friends, Olivier."

"Yes, uncle, Madame Barbancon told me that you had been so imprudent as

to go out in spite of your extreme weakness, but she felt less anxious

about you, I thought, from the fact that you had seemed in unusually

good spirits when you left the house."

"Yes, yes, I was unusually gay because I was happy, oh, very happy, for

this morning--"

But the commander, checking himself suddenly, gazed at Olivier with a

peculiar expression, then added, with a sigh:

"No, no, I must not tell you now. Well, as I said before, I went out--"

"It was a very imprudent thing for you to do, uncle."

"Perhaps it was, but I had my reasons for wanting to go; besides, I

thought a walk in the open air might do me good. Still, being a little

doubtful of my strength, instead of going out on the plain as usual, I

followed the broad grassy terrace that borders the railroad track in

this direction. Feeling tired after I had walked a short distance, I sat

down to rest and sun myself on the top of a bank on the side of one of

those new streets which have been graded and paved, but on which no

houses have yet been erected. I sat there a quarter of an hour, perhaps,

then, thinking myself sufficiently rested, I decided that I would get up

and start for home. But the walk, short as it was, had exhausted my

strength completely, for I had scarcely gotten upon my feet before I was

seized with vertigo, my knees trembled under me, I lost my balance; the

bank was steep--"

"And you fell?" asked Olivier, anxiously.

"I must have slidden rather than fallen to the foot of the bank, I

think, and my situation would not have been at all dangerous, I suppose,

if a big wagon, loaded with stones and drawn by horses which had been

left to guide themselves by the driver who was walking on ahead, had not

happened to come along just then."

"Great God!" exclaimed Olivier.

"How terrible!" cried Herminie.

"Ah, yes, especially to that dear young lady you see lying there

wounded, yes, wounded by risking her own life to save mine!"

"What, uncle, this wound of Mlle. Ernestine's--?"

"When I fell from the top of the bank," resumed the old man,

interrupting his nephew, who had cast a look of inexpressible gratitude

on Mlle. de Beaumesnil, "my head struck the pavement, and I lay there

unable to make the slightest movement, though I seemed to see the horses

advancing towards me through a sort of mist. My head could not have been

more than a yard from the wheel when I heard a loud cry, and dimly

perceived a woman, who was coming in the opposite direction from the

horses, rush towards me. Then consciousness deserted me entirely. When I

regained it," continued the old man, with increasing emotion, "I was

half lying, half sitting, on the bank a couple of yards from the spot

where I had fallen, and a young girl, an angel of goodness and courage,

was kneeling beside me, with clasped hands, her face still pale with

terror, and her forehead covered with blood. And it was she," exclaimed

the old officer, turning to Ernestine, who had now entirely recovered

her senses, "yes, it was you, mademoiselle, who saved my life at the

risk of your own,--you, a frail, delicate creature who listened only to

the promptings of your noble heart and indomitable courage."

"Oh, Ernestine, how proud I am of being your friend!" cried the duchess,

pressing the blushing and embarrassed girl to her heart.

"Yes, you may well be!" cried the old man, enthusiastically.

"Mademoiselle," said Olivier, in his turn, addressing Mlle. de

Beaumesnil with unmistakable agitation, "I can only say--but I feel sure

that you will understand what these words mean to me--I owe the life of

my uncle, or rather of the most tenderly loved father, to you."

"M. Olivier," replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil, averting her eyes after a

wondering glance at the young man, "what you say makes me doubly happy,

for until now I was entirely ignorant that this gentleman was that dear

relative of yours Herminie was telling me about day before yesterday."

"But how are you feeling now, mademoiselle?" inquired the old man, with

deep interest. "Don't you think it would be well to send for a

physician, Mlle. Herminie? Olivier will run and get one."

"Pray do nothing of the kind, M. Olivier," cried Ernestine, hastily. "My

head hurts me very little; the wound must be scarcely more than a

scratch, for I hardly feel it. When I fainted just now, it was more from

excitement than pain."

"That makes no difference, you must have a little rest, all the same,"

said Herminie. "I think, with you, that your wound is slight, but you

have had such a fright that I intend to keep you a few hours."

"Oh, so far as that prescription is concerned, I will take it with

pleasure, my dear Herminie," responded Mlle. de Beaumesnil, smiling;

"and I shall try to make my convalescence last as long as possible."

"And now, Olivier, if you will give me your arm, we will leave these

young ladies," said the veteran.

"M. Olivier, it will not do at all for Commander Bernard to return home

on foot, weak as he is. You had better tell our portress to call a cab

for you."

"No, no, my dear young lady, with Olivier's assistance I shall get along

nicely. The fresh air will do me a world of good, and then I can show

Olivier the place where I should have been killed but for this guardian

angel here. I am not much of a devotee, mademoiselle, but I shall often

make a sort of pilgrimage to that grassy slope to pray after my fashion

for the noble-hearted girl who saved me at a time I was so anxious to

live, for this very morning--"

And then, for the second time, to Olivier's great surprise, the veteran

seemed to check words which were almost upon his lips.

"Oh, well, never mind," he continued, "I shall pray after my fashion for

my guardian angel, for really," added the veteran, smilingly, "the world

seems to be upside down, for now it is young girls who save old

soldiers,--but fortunately the old soldiers have heart enough left for

gratitude and devotion."

Olivier, with his eyes riveted on Mlle. de Beaumesnil's sad and gentle

face, was experiencing a feeling of compassionate tenderness which was

full of charm. His heart throbbed with conflicting emotions as he gazed

at the young girl, and recalled the incidents of his first meeting with

her, her ingenuous frankness and quaint originality, and, above all,

Herminie's intimation that her friend's lot was far from being a happy

one. Olivier had long been an ardent admirer of Herminie's rare beauty,

but at this moment Ernestine seemed equally attractive in his eyes.

The young soldier was so absorbed that his uncle was obliged to take him

by the arm and say to him:

"Come, my boy, we must no longer trespass on the hospitality which

Mlle. Herminie will surely pardon me for having accepted."

"The fact is, Herminie," said Ernestine, "knowing you lived only a short

distance from the scene of the accident, I thought I might venture--"

"Surely you are not going to apologise for having acted as any friend

would have done?" the duchess exclaimed, interrupting her.

"We will bid you adieu, young ladies," said the old naval officer, then,

turning to Ernestine, he said earnestly:

"It would grieve me too much to think that I had seen you to-day for the

first and last time. Oh, have no fears, mademoiselle," exclaimed the old

man, noting a slight expression of embarrassment on the girl's tell-tale

face, "my gratitude gives me no excuse for intruding myself upon you,

but I should consider it a great favour if you and Mlle. Herminie would

occasionally permit me to call and see you,--for it is not enough to

have a heart full of gratitude, one should at least be allowed to

sometimes give expression to it."

"M. Bernard," replied Herminie, "this desire on your part is too natural

for Ernestine and me to feel any inclination to oppose it; and some

evening when Ernestine will be at liberty, we will let you know, and you

must do us the honour to come and take a cup of tea with us."

"May I really?" the veteran exclaimed, joyfully. Then he added:

"Yes, yes, the world does indeed seem to be upside down, for it is those

who are already under heavy obligations who have benefits heaped upon

them by their benefactors; but I am more than resigned, so adieu, my

dear young ladies, or, rather, _au revoir_. Are you ready, Olivier?"

But as he reached the door he paused, and seemed to hesitate, then after

a moment's reflection he came back, and said:

"I cannot do it, my dear young ladies; I cannot carry my secret away

with me."

"A secret, M. Bernard?"

"Yes; I have been on the point of telling it twice, but both times I

have checked myself, because I had promised to keep silence; but after

all, it is only right that Mlle. Ernestine, to whom I owe my life,

should at least know why I am so glad to live--"

"I, too, think you owe Ernestine this reward, M. Bernard," said

Herminie.

"I assure you that I should be very happy to be honoured with your

confidence, monsieur," added Mlle. de Beaumesnil.

"And it would be a real proof of confidence, mademoiselle, for, as I

told you, I was advised to keep the matter a secret, and I must confess,

my dear Olivier, that it was to keep it a secret from you that I went

out this morning."

"But why, uncle? I do not understand."

"Why, because in spite of all the advice in the world, in my first

transports of happiness over the good news which I had just heard, I

couldn't have helped falling upon your neck and telling you all. So I

went out, hoping to become sufficiently accustomed to my happiness to be

able to conceal it from you afterwards."

"But, uncle, what good news do you refer to?" inquired Olivier, with

increasing surprise.

"Your friend who was at the house this morning did not tell you that his

first visit was to me, did he?"

"No, uncle, when he came out into the garden to find me, I supposed he

had just arrived."

"Yes, for we had agreed to say nothing about our interview, as it was he

who brought me the good news, and Heaven knows he was pleased enough

about it, though everything else seemed to be going wrong with him. In

short, young ladies, you will understand my happiness, I think, when I

tell you that my brave Olivier has been made an officer."

"I?" exclaimed Olivier, with rapturous delight, "I an officer?"

"Oh, what happiness for you, M. Olivier," cried Herminie.

"Yes, my brave boy," exclaimed the veteran, pressing Olivier's hands

warmly, "yes, you are an officer; but I was to keep the secret from you

until the day you will receive your commission, so your happiness would

be complete, for you do not know all--"

"What more is there to tell, M. Bernard?" inquired Ernestine, who was

watching the scene with lively interest.

"It is that my dear Olivier will not have to leave me again; at least

not for a long time, for he has been appointed an officer in one of the

regiments that have just come to garrison Paris. Ah, Mlle. Ernestine,

have I not reason to love life now that Olivier and I are both so

fortunate? Do you understand now the full extent of my gratitude to

you?"

The newly made officer stood silent and thoughtful, but a strong emotion

betrayed itself in his features as he glanced at Mlle. de Beaumesnil,

with a new and very peculiar expression.

"Why, my boy," said the veteran, surprised and somewhat chagrined at the

thoughtful silence which had followed Olivier's first exclamation of joy

and astonishment, "how is this? I thought you would be so delighted to

hear of your appointment. I know very well that it is only a tardily

rendered acknowledgment of services rendered, still--"

"Pray do not think me ungrateful, uncle," replied Olivier, in a voice

that trembled with emotion. "If I am silent, it is only because my heart

is too full for utterance when I think of all the happiness this news

implies; besides, I feel sure that I owe my appointment to the

enthusiastic efforts of my best friend--an appointment, too, that is

unspeakably precious to me," added Olivier, casting still another look

at Ernestine, who blushed, though she knew not why, as she met his

earnest gaze, "because--because--it is you who announce it to me, my

dear uncle."

But it was evident that Olivier had not disclosed the real reason that

rendered his new appointment such a boon to him.

Ernestine alone seemed to read the young man's secret thoughts, for she

blushed again and a tear glittered in her eye.

"And now, Mister Officer," resumed the veteran, gaily, "as these young

ladies have heard our good news, we must no longer trespass upon their

good nature. I trust, however, that Mlle. Herminie will not forget her

promised invitation to take tea with her. You see I have a good memory,

mademoiselle."

"You need have no fears on that score, M. Bernard. I shall prove to you

that my memory is quite as good as yours," responded Herminie,

graciously.

While the commander was addressing a few more words of gratitude and of

farewell to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, Olivier, approaching Herminie, said to

her in a low, beseeching tone:

"Mlle. Herminie, this is one of those days which should incline one to

clemency. What shall I say to Gerald?"

"M. Olivier," replied Herminie, her face clouding suddenly, for the poor

child had almost forgotten her own sorrows for the time being, "you know

my resolve."

Olivier knew Herminie's remarkable firmness of character, so he

smothered a sigh as he thought of Gerald's disappointment.

"One word more, Mlle. Herminie?" he asked. "Will you have the goodness

to grant me another interview to-morrow at any hour that suits you? It

is upon a very important, but purely personal matter I wish to consult

you this time, and you will be doing me a great favour if you grant my

request."

"With pleasure, M. Olivier," replied the duchess, though she was not a

little surprised at the request. "I shall expect you to-morrow morning."

"I thank you, mademoiselle. Good-bye until to-morrow, then," said

Olivier.

He departed in company with Commander Bernard, and the two young

girls--the two sisters--were left alone together.

CHAPTER VIII.

A STARTLING REVELATION.

Olivier's parting words to Herminie had reawakened the grief and chagrin

from which her mind had been temporarily diverted by Commander Bernard's

unexpected arrival in company with Ernestine.

Ernestine, too, was silent and thoughtful for two reasons. One was the

peculiar look Olivier had bestowed on her on hearing of his

promotion,--a look whose tender and touching significance the young girl

fancied she understood; the other was the melancholy pleasure she

experienced at the recollection that this new but dearly prized friend

was the young musician who had so greatly ameliorated Madame de

Beaumesnil's sufferings towards the last.

Ernestine's silence was likewise prolonged by the difficulty she

experienced in bringing the conversation around to the subject of her

mother.

Her visit to Herminie had been easily managed. On going to church with

Mlle. de la Rochaigue as usual, she had asked Madame Laine to accompany

them, and on leaving church, by pretending that she had some shopping to

do, she had succeeding in getting away alone with her governess, after

which a cab had taken them to within a short distance of the Rue de

Monceau, where Madame Laine was now awaiting, in that vehicle, the

return of her youthful employer.

Though the silence of the duchess had lasted only a few moments,

Ernestine, noticing the sad reverie into which her friend had fallen,

said to her, with mingled tenderness and timidity:

"Herminie, I do not want to be intrusive, but it seems to me you are not

in your usual good spirits this morning."

"That is true," answered the girl, frankly. "I am in great trouble."

"In great trouble, my dear Herminie?" asked Ernestine, quickly.

"Yes, and perhaps I will tell you all about it by and by, but just at

this time I am too heart-broken to talk about it, so bear with me a

little, until I can explain the cause of my grief, though I don't know

that I ever can--"

"But why this reserve, Herminie. Don't you think me worthy of your

confidence?"

"That is not the reason, my dear child, but you are so young that I

ought not to talk to you about such matters, perhaps, but by and by we

will see about it. Now, let us think about your comfort. You must lie

down on my bed; you can rest better there than in a chair."

"But, my dearest Herminie--"

Without taking any notice of her guest's protest, Herminie stepped to

the alcove and drew back the curtains, which her natural delicacy and

reserve caused her to keep always closed, and Ernestine saw a little

white iron bedstead covered with a pale pink counterpane, and surmounted

by a canopy consisting of double draperies of the pretty chintz and

fresh white muslin. The alcove, too, was hung with pale pink muslin, and

the pillow-slip, dazzling in its whiteness, was edged with lace.

In fact, nothing could be daintier and prettier than this virginal

couch, upon which Ernestine, at last yielding to the entreaties of the

duchess, laid down to rest awhile.

Drawing the armchair up to the bedside and seating herself in it,

Herminie, taking the orphan's two hands affectionately in hers, said,

with tender solicitude:

"I am sure a little rest will do you a world of good, Ernestine. How do

you feel now?"

"My head aches a little, that is all."

"What a frightful risk you ran, my dear child."

"I don't deserve so much praise, though, Herminie; I did not think of

the danger I was incurring for an instant. I saw the old gentleman fall

almost under the wheels of the wagon, it seemed to me. I shrieked, and

sprang to his assistance, and though I am not very strong, I succeeded,

I scarcely know how, in dragging M. Bernard enough out of the way to

prevent him from being crushed."

"You dear, brave child! But the wound on your head--"

"The wheel must have struck me, I suppose, for I became unconscious

almost at that same instant, and M. Bernard, on recovering his senses,

noticed that I was hurt. But don't let us talk any more about it. I was

more frightened than hurt, and my reputation for bravery was very

cheaply won."

Then casting an admiring glance around her, the young girl continued:

"You were right in saying that your room was charming, Herminie. How

pretty and dainty everything is! And those lovely engravings and

beautiful statuettes and graceful vases filled with flowers are all so

simple and inexpensive that it seems as if any one might have them, and

yet nobody has, because one must have taste to select them. And when I

think," added the girl, enthusiastically, "that it was by your own

labour that you acquired all these pretty things, I do not wonder that

you are proud and happy. How much you must have enjoyed yourself here."

"Yes, I have had a great deal of pleasure out of my home, it is true."

"But now all these pretty surroundings have lost their charm? Why, that

sounds very ungrateful in you."

"No, no, this little room is still unspeakably dear to me!" exclaimed

Herminie, quickly, recollecting that it was in this room that she had

seen Gerald for the first time, and for the last time, too, perhaps.

Ernestine had not been able to devise any way of leading the

conversation to the subject of her mother without arousing Herminie's

suspicions, but now, happening to glance at the piano, she added:

"And there is the instrument you play so divinely. How much pleasure it

would give me to hear you."

"Don't ask me just now, I beg of you, Ernestine. I should burst into

tears at the sound of the first note. When I am sad, music always makes

me weep."

"I can understand that, but you will let me hear you play and sing some

day, will you not?"

"Oh, yes, I promise you that."

"And, by the way, speaking of music," continued Ernestine, trying to

control herself, "the other night when I was at Madame Herbaut's, I

heard somebody say that a very sick lady once sent for you to play and

sing for her."

"That is true," replied Herminie, sadly, "and this lady was the one I

spoke to you about the other evening because she had a daughter whose

name was the same as yours."

"And while she was listening to you the poor lady's sufferings became

less poignant?"

"Because she forgot them, but alas! this alleviation of her sufferings

could not save her."

"Kind-hearted as you are, Herminie, what loving attentions you must have

lavished on the poor lady."

"Her situation was so interesting, so pitiable, you see, Ernestine. To

die while still so young, and deploring the absence of a beloved

daughter!"

"Did she ever speak of this daughter to you, Herminie?"

"Poor unhappy mother! Her child was the subject of her every thought.

She had a portrait of her, painted when she was a mere child, and I have

often seen her eyes fill with tears when they rested upon the picture.

She often told me, too, how richly her daughter deserved her tenderness

by the amiability and sweetness of her disposition. She spoke, too, of

letters which her daughter wrote to her every day, letters in which her

beloved child's nobility of heart showed itself in every line."

"This lady must have loved you very much to make you her confidante to

such an extent, Herminie."

"She treated me with the greatest kindness, so it was only natural I

should become deeply attached to her."

"And the daughter of this lady who was so fond of you, and whom you seem

to have loved so much in return,--have you never felt any desire to make

the acquaintance of this other Ernestine?"

"Yes, for everything her mother told me about her made me love her in

advance, as it were, but at that time she was in a foreign land. When

she returned to France, I did, for a time, have some hope of seeing and

knowing her, but I was disappointed in that."

"How did that happen, my dear Herminie?" inquired Ernestine, concealing

her curiosity, at least in part, however.

"Business took me to the house of her guardian, and while I was there

something was said about my giving the young lady music lessons."

Ernestine gave a joyous start. This idea had never occurred to her

before, but wishing to have something to justify her curiosity in

Herminie's eyes, she exclaimed, laughingly:

"You must think it strange that I ask you so many questions about this

young lady. Perhaps it is because I feel that I should be dreadfully

jealous if you should ever love her better than you do me."

"Oh, you need have no fears on that score," said Herminie, shaking her

head, sadly.

"But why should you not love her?" asked Mlle. de Beaumesnil, eagerly;

then regretting her involuntary display of anxiety, she added: "But I am

not selfish enough to wish to deprive this young lady of your affection,

of course."

"What I know of her, and the recollection of her mother's great kindness

to me, will always make me fond of her. But alas! my dear Ernestine, it

is a matter of pride with me to shun any friendship that does not seem

entirely disinterested, and this young lady is very wealthy and I am

poor."

"You must have a poor opinion of her, then, after all," said Mlle. de

Beaumesnil, bitterly.

"Oh, no, Ernestine, after all her mother told me, I can not doubt her

kindness of heart, but I am an entire stranger to her. Then, too, for

many reasons, and more particularly from a fear of arousing sad

recollections, I should not dare to speak of the circumstances which

made me so intimately acquainted with her dying mother, nor of that

mother's great kindness to me. Besides, would it not look very much as

if I were trying to ingratiate myself with her, and presuming upon an

affection to which I really have no claim?"

On hearing this admission, how earnestly Ernestine congratulated herself

upon having won Herminie's affection before her new friend knew who she,

Ernestine, really was! And what a strange coincidence! She had feared

that, because she was the richest heiress in France, she would never be

loved for herself alone; while Herminie, because she was poor, feared

that her affection would not appear disinterested.

The duchess seemed to have become more and more depressed in spirits as

the conversation proceeded. She had hoped to find in it a refuge from

her own sad thoughts, but such had not been the case, for it was this

same laudable pride which made Herminie fear that her love for Gerald

might be attributed to vanity or mercenary motives, and so had led to

the resolve which would inevitably ruin her only hope of happiness.

For how could she expect that Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre would

ever consent to make the advances required of her? But alas! though

endowed with sufficient courage to sacrifice her love to the dignity of

that love, Herminie realised none the less keenly what terrible

suffering this courageous sacrifice would entail.

So referring almost unconsciously to the anguish she felt, after a

moment's silence, she remarked, in a strangely altered voice:

"Ah, my poor Ernestine, how sad it is that the purest and noblest

affections can be thus degraded by unworthy suspicions!"

And unable to restrain her feelings any longer, she burst into tears and

hid her face upon the bosom of Ernestine, who, half rising and pressing

her friend to her heart, exclaimed:

"What is it, Herminie? What is it? I saw that you were becoming more and

more depressed, but dared not ask you the reason."

"Do not say any more about it," replied Herminie, ashamed of her tears.

"Forgive this weakness in me, but just now a host of memories--"

"Herminie, I have no right to demand your confidence, I know, but

sometimes it is a relief to talk of one's troubles--"

"Yes, yes, I know it. It is the constraint that is killing me, but oh,

the humiliation, the disgrace!"

"Humiliation and disgrace attach to you? Oh, no, Herminie, you are too

proud for that!"

"But is it not weak and humiliating to weep as I do, after having had

the courage to make a commendable and even necessary resolution?" she

sobbed.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, the duchess continued:

"Do not regard what I am about to tell you as a confidential revelation

on my part, my dear child, but rather as a useful lesson."

"A lesson?"

"Yes, for you, like myself, are an orphan; like me, you are alone in the

world; and possessed of none of the experience that might save you from

the snares and pitfalls by which poor girls like us are continually

surrounded. So listen to me, Ernestine, and may you be spared the misery

I am suffering now."

And Herminie described the scene in which, justly incensed against

Gerald, who had ventured to pay her landlord the money she owed, she had

treated him first with haughtiness and disdain, but afterwards forgiven

him, touched by the generous impulse to which he had thoughtlessly

yielded. After which, Herminie continued in words like these:

"Two days after this meeting, in the hope of diverting my mind from

thoughts which had already gained too great an ascendency over me for my

peace of mind, I went to Madame Herbaut's house. Judge of my surprise

when I met this same young man again at that entertainment. My first

feeling was one of chagrin, almost of fear, a presentiment, doubtless;

then I had the weakness to yield to the charm of this second meeting.

Never before had I seen a man who possessed, like him, manners at once

unpretending, refined and distinguished, a brilliant, versatile mind,

but never failing delicacy of feeling. I hate flattery, but his was

characterised with so much grace and delicacy that I accepted it only

too gladly, I fear. I learned that evening that his name was Gerald, and

that--"

"Gerald?" Ernestine exclaimed, hastily, recollecting that the Duc de

Senneterre, one of the suitors for her hand, was also named Gerald.

Just then a loud ring of the door-bell attracted Herminie's attention

and prevented her from noticing Mlle. de Beaumesnil's astonishment. The

latter arose from the bed at the sound, while Herminie, greatly annoyed

by this interruption, directed her steps towards the door.

An elderly serving man handed her a note containing these words:

* * * * *

"I have not seen you for several days, my dear child, not having felt as

well as usual. Can you see me this morning?

Most affectionately yours,

"MAILLEFORT.

"P.S.--Do not take the trouble to answer in writing. If you will see

your old friend, simply say 'yes' to the bearer."

* * * * *

Herminie, in her grief, was inclined to find some excuse for deferring

M. de Maillefort's visit, but remembering that the marquis, belonging to

the aristocracy as he did, was doubtless acquainted with Gerald, and

that she might obtain some more definite information concerning her

lover without revealing her secret, she said to the servant:

"I shall expect to see M. le Marquis de Maillefort sometime during the

day."

But as she returned to the room where Mlle. de Beaumesnil was awaiting

her, Herminie said to herself:

"What if M. de Maillefort should come while Ernestine is here? Oh, well,

it will not matter much, after all, if she does see him; besides, the

dear child is so retiring that, as soon as a stranger comes, she is sure

to leave me alone with him."

So Herminie continued her conversation with Mlle. de Beaumesnil without

making any allusion to M. de Maillefort's approaching visit, for fear

that Ernestine would leave sooner than she had intended.

CHAPTER IX.

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

"Forgive me for having deserted you so unceremoniously, my dear

Ernestine," Herminie remarked to her friend. "It was a letter, and I had

to send a verbal reply."

"Do pray go on with your story, Herminie," replied Ernestine. "You have

no idea how deeply interested I am."

"And it is such a relief to me to tell you my troubles."

"Yes, I was sure it would be," responded Ernestine, with ingenuous

tenderness.

"I was just telling you that I learned at Madame Herbaut's little

entertainment that this young man's name was Gerald Auvernay. It was M.

Olivier who told me so, on introducing him to me."

"What! he knows M. Olivier?"

"They are intimate friends, for Gerald was a soldier in the same

regiment as Olivier. On leaving the service, he entered the office of a

notary, so he told me, but for some time past he had given up an

employment which was so distasteful to him, and had found occupation on

the fortifications under an officer of engineers he had known in Africa.

So you see, Ernestine, that Gerald's position and mine were identical,

and free as he seemed to be, I was surely excusable for allowing myself

to yield to a fatal fondness for him."

"But why fatal, Herminie?"

"Wait and you shall know all. Two days after our meeting at Madame

Herbaut's, on my return from my lessons, I went out into the garden to

which my landlord had kindly given me the entree. This garden, as you

can see from the window, is separated from the street in the rear only

by a hedge, and from the bench on which I had seated myself I saw Gerald

pass. Instead of being handsomely dressed as on the evening before, he

was clad in a gray blouse and a big straw hat. He gave a start of

surprise on perceiving me, but far from seeming mortified at being seen

in his working clothes, he bowed to me and, pausing, said gaily that he

was just returning from his day's work, being engaged in superintending

certain portions of the fortifications now in progress of construction

at the end of the Rue de Monceau. 'An occupation which suits me much

better than dull notary work,' he remarked. 'I am fairly well paid and I

have a crowd of rather rough but very worthy men to superintend. I like

it much better than copying stupid documents.'"

"I can understand that perfectly, my dear Herminie."

"It is more than likely that the cheerful way in which he accepted this

arduous labour, manual labour, I might almost say, touched me all the

more as Gerald had evidently received an excellent education. That

evening when he left me he smilingly remarked that it was with the hope

of sometimes meeting me within the boundaries of my park, as he often

passed through that street on his way to visit a former comrade, who

lived in a small house that could be seen from the garden. What will you

think, Ernestine, when I tell you that almost every evening about sunset

I had a chat with Gerald, and sometimes we even strolled out together to

the same grassy knolls where M. Bernard met with his accident this

morning? I found Gerald so full of frankness, generosity of heart,

talent, and charming humour, he seemed to have such a high--I was about

to say such a just--opinion of me, that when the day came that Gerald

declared his love, and told me that he could not live without me, I was

so happy, Ernestine, oh, so happy! for if Gerald had not loved me I do

not know what would have become of me. It would have been impossible for

me to do without this love, and now to love alone,--to love without

hope," added the poor girl, hardly able to restrain her tears, "oh, it

is worse than death, for it means a life for ever desolate."

Controlling her emotion, Herminie continued:

"I told Gerald my feelings with the utmost frankness. On my side there

was not only love, but almost gratitude, for without him life would have

seemed intolerable to me. 'We are both free to choose,' I said to

Gerald; 'our positions are equal. We shall both have to work every day

for our daily bread, and that gratifies my pride, for idleness imposed

upon a wife is a cruel humiliation to her. Our lot will be humble, even

precarious, perhaps, Gerald,' I added, 'but with courage, and strong in

our mutual love and trust, we can defy the worst misfortunes.'"

"What noble words, Herminie! How proud M. Gerald must have been of your

love! But as you have every chance of happiness, why these tears and

your evident despair?"

"Do you not think that I was more than justified in loving him?" asked

the poor girl, trying hard to repress her sobs. "Was not mine a true and

noble love. Oh, tell me, is it possible that any one can accuse me--"

But Herminie could not finish the sentence, for sobs choked her

utterance.

"Accuse you? _Mon Dieu!_ Accuse you of what? Are you not as free as M.

Gerald? Does he not love you as much as you love him? Are your positions

not equal?"

"No, no, our positions are not equal," replied Herminie, dejectedly.

"What is that you say?"

"No, our positions are not equal, alas! and that is my chief misfortune,

for in order to equalise our positions apparently, Gerald deceived me as

to his real station in life."

"Great Heavens! Who is he, then?"

"The Duc de Senneterre."

"The Duc de Senneterre!" exclaimed Ernestine, filled with terror for

Herminie, as she remembered that Gerald was one of the three suitors for

her--Ernestine's--hand, and that she was to meet him at the ball on the

following Thursday. Consequently, he must have deceived Herminie in the

most shameless manner, as he was, at that very time, endeavouring to

marry a rich heiress.

Herminie attributed her friend's intense dismay and astonishment

entirely to the startling revelation that had just been made, however,

and asked:

"Tell me, Ernestine, am I not, indeed, unfortunate?"

"But such a deception on his part was infamous. How did you discover

it?"

"M. de Senneterre himself, feeling unable to endure the life of deceit

his first falsehood imposed upon him, but not daring to make the

confession himself, entrusted the unpleasant task to M. Olivier."

"It should be some comfort to you that M. de Senneterre at least made

this confession of his own accord," said Ernestine.

"Yes, and, in spite of the grief it has caused me, I see in it a proof

of the loyalty I so admired in him."

"Loyalty!" exclaimed Ernestine, bitterly. "Loyalty, and yet he deserts

you!"

"Deserts me? Far from it. On the contrary, he renews his offer of his

hand."

"He, M. de Senneterre?" exclaimed Ernestine, in even greater

astonishment "But, in that case, why are you so unhappy, Herminie?" she

added.

"Because a penniless orphan like myself can make such a marriage only at

the cost of the bitterest humiliation."

Herminie could say no more, for just then the door-bell rang again.

"Forgive me, my dear Ernestine," she exclaimed, drying her tears. "I

think I know who it is that has just rung. I am obliged to see this

visitor and--"

"Then I will leave you, Herminie," said Ernestine, rising hastily. "I am

sorry, though, to leave you in such grief."

"At least wait until my visitor comes in!"

"Go and open the door, then, Herminie, while I put on my hat."

The duchess started towards the door, then, recollecting M. de

Maillefort's deformity, she returned, and said to her friend:

"My dear Ernestine, in order to spare the person I am expecting the

slight annoyance which the expression of your face, when you first

perceived his affliction, might cause him, I must warn you that this

friend of mine is a hunchback."

On hearing this, Mlle. de Beaumesnil suddenly recollected that her

governess had told her that the Marquis de Maillefort had asked for

Herminie's address, and a vague fear led her to ask:

"Who is this friend?"

"A most estimable man who made my acquaintance by the merest chance, for

he is one of the greatest of _grands seigneurs_. But I must not delay

too long in opening the door. Excuse me for one moment, my dear

Ernestine."

And Herminie disappeared, leaving Ernestine overwhelmed with

consternation.

A grim presentiment whispered that M. de Maillefort was about to enter

and find her in Herminie's home, and though Mlle. de Beaumesnil owed her

resolve to learn the truth, at any cost, to the Marquis de Maillefort's

ironical remarks, and though her feelings towards him had undergone an

entire change, she was not yet sure to what extent she could rely upon

him, and the prospect of such a meeting was most unwelcome.

Ernestine's fears were realised.

Her friend returned, accompanied by the marquis. Fortunately, Herminie,

noticing that the curtains of the alcove were open, hastened to close

them according to her habit, so, as her back was turned towards

Ernestine and M. de Maillefort for several seconds, she did not notice

the evident shock that her two friends experienced at the sight of each

other.

M. de Maillefort gave a sudden start of astonishment on recognising

Mlle. de Beaumesnil. Intense curiosity, mingled with uneasiness, was

apparent in every feature. He could not believe his eyes, and he was

about to speak, when Ernestine, pale and trembling, clasped her hands

with such a beseeching air that the words died upon his lips.

When Herminie turned, M. de Maillefort's face no longer expressed the

slightest astonishment, and, doubtless, with the intention of giving

Mlle. de Beaumesnil time to recover herself, he said to Herminie:

"I am intruding, I am sure, mademoiselle. My visit is inopportune,

perhaps."

"Believe me, monsieur, no visit of yours will ever be inopportune here,"

responded the duchess, earnestly. "I only ask your permission to show my

friend to the door."

"I beg you will do so," answered the marquis, bowing. "I should be

miserable if you stood on the slightest ceremony with me."

Mlle. de Beaumesnil was obliged to exercise all her self-control to

maintain even an appearance of calmness, but, fortunately, the little

hall-way leading to Herminie's room was dark, so the sudden alteration

in Ernestine's features escaped the notice of her friend, as she said:

"Ernestine, after all I have just confided to you, I need not tell you

how necessary your presence will be to me. Alas! I did not think I

should so soon put your friendship to the test. In pity, Ernestine, do

not leave me long alone! If you only knew how I shall suffer, for I

cannot hope to see Gerald again, or, rather, the hope is so uncertain

that I dare not even think of it, so I beseech you not to let any length

of time pass without my seeing you."

"You may rest assured that I shall return as soon as I can, and that it

will not be any fault of mine if--"

"Alas! I understand. Your time must be devoted to your work, because you

are obliged to work in order to live. It is the same with me. In spite

of my mental anguish, I shall have to begin my round of lessons one hour

from now. My lessons, great Heavens! and I scarcely know what I am

doing. But with people like us, we are not only obliged to suffer, but

also to live."

Herminie uttered these last words with such despairing bitterness that

Mlle. de Beaumesnil threw her arms around her friend's neck, and burst

into tears.

"Come, come, I will not be so weak again, Ernestine," said Herminie,

returning the embrace; "I promise you I will not. I will be content with

whatever time you can give me. I will wait and think of you," added the

duchess, forcing a smile. "Yes, to think of you, and to await your

return, will be some consolation."

"Farewell, Herminie, farewell," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil. "I shall soon

see you again,--just as soon as I possibly can, I promise you,--day

after to-morrow, if possible. Yes, I will manage it somehow," added the

orphan, resolutely, "day after to-morrow, at the same hour, you can

count upon seeing me."

"Thank you, thank you!" exclaimed Herminie, embracing Ernestine

effusively. "Ah, the compassion I showed to you your generous heart

returns in liberal measure."

"Day after to-morrow, then, it shall be, Herminie."

"Again I thank you with my whole heart."

"And now good-bye," said the orphan.

It was in a deeply agitated frame of mind that she wended her way back

to the spot where her governess was waiting for her in the cab. As she

left the house, she met a man who was walking slowly up the street,

casting furtive glances at the house in which Herminie lived.

This man was Ravil, who, as we have said before, frequently hung about

the home of the duchess, of whom he had retained a vivid and extremely

tantalising recollection ever since the day he so insolently accosted

her, when she was on her way to the Beaumesnil mansion.

De Ravil instantly recognised the richest heiress in France, who, in her

agitation, did not even glance at this man, whom she had met but once,

at the Luxembourg, where M. de la Rochaigue had taken her.

"What does this mean?" Ravil said to himself, in the utmost

astonishment. "Here is the little Beaumesnil dressed almost like a

grisette, coming out alone, pale and evidently frightened half to death,

from a house in this miserable part of the town. I'll follow her

cautiously at a distance, and see where she goes. The more I think of

it, the more inclined I am to believe that it is the devil himself who

sends me such a piece of good luck as this! Yes, this discovery may be

the goose that lays the golden eggs for me. It rejoices my heart. The

mere thought of it awakens golden visions like those which haunt that

big ninny, Mornand."

While Ravil was following the unsuspecting Ernestine, Herminie returned

to M. de Maillefort.

CHAPTER X.

DESPAIR.

M. de Maillefort awaited Herminie's return in a state of deep

perplexity, wondering in vain what strange combination of circumstances

had brought these two young girls together. The marquis had desired this

_rapprochement_ greatly, as we shall soon discover, but the hunchback

had not yet devised any way to bring it about, so Ernestine's presence

in Herminie's home, the secrecy with which she must have gone there, the

secrecy, too, which Mlle. de Beaumesnil, by an imploring gesture, had

begged him to preserve, all combined to excite his curiosity as well as

his anxiety to the highest pitch.

So, on the return of Herminie, who apologised for having absented

herself so long, the marquis said, with the most careless air

imaginable:

"I shall be very sorry if you do not always treat me with that perfect

freedom permissible between devoted friends, my dear child, and nothing

could be more natural, I am sure, than a desire to exchange a few

parting words with one of your young acquaintances, for this young lady

is, I suppose--"

"One of my friends, monsieur, or rather my dearest friend."

"Ah, indeed," answered the marquis, smiling. "It must be a friendship of

long standing, then, I suppose?"

"Very recent, on the contrary, monsieur. In fact, this friendship,

though so true and tried, was conceived very suddenly."

"I have sufficient confidence in your powers of discernment and your

nobility of heart to feel sure that you have chosen your friend wisely,

my dear child."

"A single incident, which occurred scarcely an hour ago, monsieur, will

give convincing proof of my friend's courage and nobility of soul. At

the risk of her own life,--for she escaped serious injury only by a

hair's breadth,--she rescued an aged man from certain death."

And Herminie, proud of her friend, and anxious to see her appreciated as

she deserved to be, proceeded to describe Ernestine's courageous rescue

of Commander Bernard.

The emotion of the marquis on hearing this unexpected revelation, which

revealed Mlle. de Beaumesnil in a new and most attractive light, can be

imagined.

"She certainly displayed wonderful courage and generosity of heart!" he

cried. Then he added: "I was sure of it! You could not choose your

friends other than judiciously, my dear child. But who is this brave

young girl?"

"An orphan like myself, monsieur, who supports herself by her own

exertions. She is an embroiderer."

"Ah, an embroiderer! But as she, too, is an orphan, she lives alone, I

suppose?"

"No, monsieur, she lives with a relative, who took her, last Sunday

evening, to a small entertainment, where I met her for the first tame."

The marquis knit his brows. For an instant he was almost tempted to

believe that one of the Rochaigues was implicated in this mystery, but

his implicit faith in Herminie caused him to reject that idea, though he

wondered how Mlle. de Beaumesnil had managed to absent herself from her

guardian's house for an entire evening, without the knowledge of the

baron or his family. He asked himself, too, with no less astonishment,

how Ernestine had managed to secure several hours of entire freedom that

very morning, but fearing he would arouse Herminie's suspicions by

questioning her further, he remarked:

"It is pleasant for me to know that you have a friend so worthy of you,

and it seems to me," added the hunchback, "that she could not have come

more opportunely."

"And why, monsieur?"

"You know you have given me the privilege of being perfectly frank with

you."

"Certainly, monsieur."

"Very well, then, it seems to me that you are not in your accustomed

good spirits. You look pale, and it is very evident that you have been

weeping, my poor child."

"I assure you, monsieur--"

"And all this is the more noticeable because you seemed so perfectly

happy the last two or three times I saw you. Yes, contentment could be

read on every feature; it even imparted to your beauty such a radiance

and expansiveness that--as you may perhaps remember, from the rarity of

the thing--I complimented you upon your radiant beauty. Think of it! I,

who am the very poorest flatterer that ever lived!" added the hunchback,

probably in the hope of bringing a smile to Herminie's lips.

But the girl, unable to conquer her sadness, replied:

"The change in my appearance which you speak of is probably due to the

fright that Ernestine's narrow escape caused me, monsieur."

The marquis, sure now that Herminie was suffering from some grief that

she wished to conceal, insisted no further, but said:

"It is as you say, doubtless, but the danger is over now, my dear child,

so I may as well tell you that my visit this morning is important, very

important. You know that I have made it a point of honour not to say

anything to you of late in relation to the grave matter that first

brought me here."

"Yes, monsieur, and I am grateful to you for not having again referred

to a subject that is so painful to me."

"I am compelled to speak again, if not of Madame de Beaumesnil, at least

of her daughter," said the marquis, casting a keen, searching look at

Herminie, in order to discover--though he was almost certain to the

contrary--if the young girl knew that her new friend was Mlle. de

Beaumesnil; but he did not feel the shadow of a doubt of Herminie's

ignorance on the subject when she promptly replied, without the

slightest embarrassment:

"You say you must speak of Madame de Beaumesnil's daughter, monsieur?"

"Yes, my dear child. I have made no attempt to conceal my devoted

friendship for Madame de Beaumesnil, nor her dying requests in relation

to the young orphan whom I have not yet discovered, in spite of the most

persistent efforts. I told you, too, of the no less urgent request of

the countess concerning her daughter, Ernestine. For divers reasons

which, believe me, do not affect you in the least, I am very desirous,

solely on Mlle. de Beaumesnil's account, understand, that you two young

girls should become acquainted."

"But how could that be brought about, monsieur?" asked Herminie,

eagerly, thinking what happiness it would give her to know her sister.

"In the easiest way imaginable--a way that was even suggested to you, I

believe, when you so nobly returned that five hundred franc note to

Madame de la Rochaigue."

"Yes, monsieur, Madame de la Rochaigue did give me some reason to hope

that I might be employed to give Mlle. de Beaumesnil music lessons."

"Well, my dear child, that has been arranged."

"Really, monsieur?"

"Yes, I had a talk with the baroness last evening, and either to-day or

to-morrow she is going to mention the matter to Mlle. de Beaumesnil. I

do not doubt that she will accept the proposition. As for you, my dear

child, I do not apprehend any refusal on your part."

"Far from it, monsieur."

"Besides, what I ask for this young girl, I ask in the name of the

mother to whom you were so devotedly attached," said the marquis, with

deep emotion.

"You can not doubt the interest I shall always feel in Mlle. de

Beaumesnil, monsieur, but the relations between, us will, of course, be

confined to our lessons."

"Not by any means."

"But, monsieur!"

"You must understand, my dear child, that I should not have taken all

this trouble to bring about an acquaintance between Mlle. de Beaumesnil

and yourself, if it was to be confined to the lessons given and

received."

"But, monsieur--"

"There are important interests at stake, interests which I feel can be

safely intrusted to your hands."

"Explain, monsieur, I beg of you."

"I will do that after you have seen your new scholar," replied the

marquis, thinking what a delightful surprise it would be to Herminie

when she recognised Mlle. de Beaumesnil in the poor embroideress, her

best friend.

"In any case, you may be sure that I shall consider it a sacred duty to

fulfil your instructions, monsieur, and that I shall hold myself in

readiness to go to Mlle. de Beaumesnil as soon as I am sent for."

"I will introduce you to her, myself."

"So much the better, monsieur."

"And if agreeable to you, next Saturday at this hour, I will come for

you."

"I shall expect you monsieur, and I thank you very much for sparing me

the embarrassment of presenting myself alone."

"And now a word of advice in Mlle. de Beaumesnil's interest, my dear

child. No one knows, and no one must know that her poor mother summoned

me to her in her last hours. My deep affection for the countess must

also remain a secret. You will maintain a profound silence on the

subject in case either M. or Madame de la Rochaigue should ever speak of

me."

"I shall comply with your wishes, monsieur."

"And I will come on Saturday, that is understood," said the hunchback,

rising. "It will give me great pleasure to introduce you to Mlle. de

Beaumesnil, and I feel sure that you yourself will find a pleasure you

do not anticipate in this meeting."

"I hope so, monsieur," replied Herminie, rather absently, for, seeing

that the marquis was about to go, she did not know how to broach the

subject that had been uppermost in her mind ever since the hunchback's

arrival.

At last, endeavouring to appear perfectly calm, she said:

"Before you go, monsieur, will you have the goodness to give me a little

information if it be in your power to do it?"

"Speak, my dear child," said M. de Maillefort, reseating himself.

"M. le marquis, in the social world to which you belong, have you ever

chanced to meet Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre?"

"I was one of her deceased husband's most intimate friends, and I am

extremely fond of the present Duc de Senneterre, one of the best, most

whole-souled young men I know. I had fresh proofs of his nobility of

character only yesterday," added the hunchback, with evident emotion.

A slight flush suffused Herminie's face on hearing Gerald thus praised

by a man she esteemed as highly as M. de Maillefort.

That gentleman, evidently much surprised, continued:

"But what information do you desire in relation to Madame de

Senneterre, my dear child? Has any one proposed that you should give her

daughters lessons?"

Hastily catching at these words which helped her out of a great

difficulty by furnishing her with a pretext for her inquiries, Herminie,

in spite of her natural abhorrence of anything like deception, replied:

"Yes, monsieur, some one told me that I might possibly secure pupils in

that distinguished family, but before making any attempt in that

direction, I was anxious to know if I could expect from Madame de

Senneterre the consideration my rather too sensitive nature exacts. In

short, monsieur, I am anxious to know whether Madame de Senneterre

possesses a kindly nature or whether I am not likely to find in her that

haughtiness which sometimes characterises persons of such an exalted

position as hers."

"I understand you perfectly, and I am very glad you applied to me, for

knowing you as I know you, dear, proud child that you are, I say very

plainly, neither seek nor accept any pupils in that family. The Mlles.

de Senneterre are lovely girls--they have their brother's

disposition--but the duchess--!"

"Well, monsieur?" asked poor Herminie.

"Ah, my dear child, the duchess is more deeply in love with her title

than any other woman I ever saw--which is very strange, as she is really

extremely well born, while this ridiculous and absurd pride of rank is

generally confined to _parvenus_. In short, my dear child, I would much

rather see you brought in contact with twenty M. Bouffards than with

this insufferably arrogant woman. The Bouffards are so coarse and

ignorant that their rudeness amuses rather than wounds, but in the

Duchesse de Senneterre you will find the most polite insolence, or

rather the most insolent politeness, imaginable, so I am sure that you,

my dear child, who have such a high respect for yourself, could not

remain in Madame de Senneterre's company ten minutes without being

wounded to the quick, and resolving that you would never set foot in her

house again. That being the case, what is the use of entering it?"

"I thank you, monsieur," replied Herminie, almost crushed by this

revelation which destroyed her last hope,--a hope she had preserved in

spite of herself, that perhaps Madame de Senneterre, touched by her

son's love, would consent to make the concession that Herminie's pride

demanded.

"No, no, my dear child," continued the marquis, "Gerald de Senneterre's

filial tenderness must blind him completely for him not to lose all

patience with his mother's absurd arrogance, and for him not to see that

she is as hard-hearted as she is narrow-minded. In short, her

selfishness is only exceeded by her cupidity. I have every reason to

know this, so I am delighted to defraud her of a victim by enlightening

you in regard to her. And now good-bye. Let me be of service to you in

any matter, however small, as often as you can. It will serve to content

me while waiting for something better. And now I will again bid you

good-bye until Saturday."

"Until Saturday, monsieur."

And M. de Maillefort departed, leaving Herminie alone with her

immeasurable despair.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BALL.

The day of Madame de Mirecourt's ball had arrived.

The three suitors for Mlle. de Beaumesnil's hand were to press their

claims at this brilliant fete.

The announcement that the richest heiress in France was to make her

debut that evening furnished a topic for general conversation, and made

every one forget a suicide that had plunged one of the most illustrious

houses in France into mourning.

Madame de Mirecourt did not attempt to conceal her intense gratification

that her house had been selected for Mlle. de Beaumesnil's debut, and

secretly congratulated herself, too, at the thought that it would

probably be in her house that the marriage of this famous heiress with

the Duc de Senneterre would be virtually concluded, for being devoted to

Gerald's mother, Madame de Mirecourt was one of the most ardent

promoters of the scheme.

Having stationed herself as usual near the door of the main drawing-room

to welcome her guests, Madame de Mirecourt awaited the coming of the

Duchesse de Senneterre with the utmost impatience. That lady, who was to

be accompanied by her son, had promised to come early, but had not yet

arrived.

An unusually large number of guests, attracted thither by curiosity, had

crowded into the principal salon in order to be the first to see Mlle.

de Beaumesnil, whose name was upon every lip.

There was not a marriageable young man who had not bestowed an unusual

amount of care upon his toilet, not that these young men had any openly

avowed intentions, but--who knows? Heiresses are so peculiar, and who

could foresee the consequences of a brief chat, of a quadrille, or of a

first impression?

So each young man, as he cast a last complacent glance in his mirror,

recalled all sorts of romantic episodes in which wealthy damsels had

fallen in love at first sight with some stranger, whom they had finally

married against the wishes of their relatives,--for all these worthy

bachelors had but one thought in this instance, marriage, and they even

carried their honesty so far as to love marriage for the sake of

marriage itself, and the bride became little more than an accessory in

their eyes.

Each bachelor had endeavoured to make the most of himself according to

his character and appearance. The handsome ones had striven to make

themselves still more handsome and irresistible.

Those of a less attractive or even homely exterior assumed a

_spirituelle_ or melancholy air.

In short, each and every one said to himself, like the people who allow

themselves to be enticed into those lotteries that offer prizes of

several millions:

"Of course it is absurd to suppose that I shall win one of these

fabulous prizes. I have but one chance in nobody knows how many

thousand, but somebody has got to win. Why may I not be the lucky one?"

As for the persons that composed the assemblage, they were very nearly

the same who had attended the dance given by Madame de Senneterre

several months before, and who had taken a more or less prominent part

in the numerous conversations on the subject of Madame de Beaumesnil's

approaching death.

Several of these persons also recollected the curiosity that had been

expressed in regard to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, who was then in a foreign

land, and whom no one had ever seen, so a majority of Madame

Mirecourt's guests would consequently witness to-night the solution of

the problem propounded several weeks before.

Was the richest heiress in France as beautiful as a star or as hideous

as a monster? Was she glowing with health or a hopeless consumptive?

It was ten o'clock, and Madame de Mirecourt was becoming very uneasy.

Madame de Senneterre and her son had not made their appearance; Mlle. de

Beaumesnil might arrive at any moment, and it had been arranged that

Ernestine should be chaperoned by Madame de la Rochaigue or Madame de

Senneterre the entire evening, and that Gerald should dance the first

quadrille with the heiress.

Every minute the crowd increased. Among the newcomers, M. de Mornand,

accompanied by M. de Ravil, advanced in the most disinterested air

imaginable to pay his respects to Madame de Mirecourt, who greeted him

very graciously, and innocently remarked, without the slightest

suspicion how true her words were:

"I am sure you came partially to see me, but chiefly to see the lioness

of the evening, Mlle. de Beaumesnil."

The prospective minister smiled as he replied, with truly diplomatic

guile:

"I assure you, madame, I came only to have the honour of paying my

respects to you, and to witness one of those charming fetes you alone

know how to give."

After which M. de Mornand made his best bow and passed on, whispering to

Ravil:

"Go and see if she is in one of the other rooms. I will remain here. Try

to bring the baron to me if you see him."

De Ravil nodded an assent to his Pylades and mingled with the crowd,

saying to himself, as he thought of the meeting of the day before, which

he had carefully refrained from mentioning to M. de Mornand:

"So here is an heiress who wanders about lonely parts of the town,

grisette fashion, and then returns to that abominable Madame Laine, who

is complacently waiting for her in a cab. This last surprises me very

little, however, as that unscrupulous female told me flatly, a week or

so ago, that I could no longer count upon her influence. But at whose

expense is she favouring this intrigue on the part of the little

Beaumesnil? for there must be an intrigue, of course. That big ninny of

a Mornand is no good. I might have known it. I must ferret out the truth

of all this, for the more I think of it, the more convinced I am that

the best thing for me to do is to drop Mornand, and devote my attention

to the goose that lays the golden eggs, and, as a preliminary measure,

I'll watch what goes on here this evening."

Just as the cynic vanished in the crowd, the Duchesse de Senneterre

entered the room, but alone--her expression indicative of the deepest

annoyance.

Madame de Mirecourt advanced a few steps to meet her, and, with the

cleverness which women of the world possess in such an eminent degree,

she found a way, though surrounded by a crowd of guests, and engaged to

all appearance in exchanging the usual commonplaces with the duchess, to

really hold the following low-toned conversation with her:

"But where is Gerald?"

"The doctor had to bleed him this evening."

"Good Heavens! what is the matter with him?"

"He has been in a terrible state ever since yesterday."

"But why did you not warn me, my dear duchess?"

"Because up to the very last minute he declared that he was coming,

though he did feel so badly."

"It is too bad! Mlle. de Beaumesnil may come at any moment, and you were

to have taken possession of her immediately upon her arrival."

"I know it, so I am in misery--nor is this all."

"Why, what else is troubling you, my dear duchess?"

"I cannot exactly explain why, but I have some doubts as to my son's

intentions."

"What an idea!"

"He has acted so strangely of late."

"But did he not assure you this very day that, though he was far from

well, he intended coming here this evening to meet Mlle. de Beaumesnil?"

"Certainly; and another thing that reassures me is that M. de

Maillefort--whom Madame de la Rochaigue fears so much, and to whom my

son has imprudently confided our plans--M. de Maillefort is on our side,

for he knows the object of this meeting, and yet he promised to

accompany Gerald and me."

"There is no help for it, I suppose, but it certainly is a fine

opportunity lost. When Madame de la Rochaigue arrives with Mlle. de

Beaumesnil, do not leave them for an instant, and so arrange with the

baroness that the girl shall have only unattractive men for partners."

"Yes, that is very important."

Every minute or two new guests came up to pay their respects to Madame

de Mirecourt.

Suddenly Madame de Senneterre made a hasty movement, then, in a quick

aside to her friend, exclaimed:

"Why, that is M. de Macreuse who has just come in! Can it be you receive

that creature?"

"Why, my dear duchess, I have met him at your house a hundred times;

besides, it was one of my most particular friends, the sister of the

Bishop of Ratopolis, Madame de Cheverny, who requested an invitation for

him. You know, too, that M. de Macreuse is received everywhere on

account of his St. Polycarpe Mission."

"St Polycarpe has nothing in the world to do with it. I assure you, my

dear," said the duchess, interrupting her friend impatiently, "I

received the man like everybody else, but I am sorry enough now, for I

have discovered that he is nothing more or less than a scoundrel, a man

that shouldn't be allowed in decent society. I have even heard that

valuable articles have been known to disappear during his visits," added

Madame de Senneterre, unblushingly.

"Great Heavens! is it possible that the man's a thief?" exclaimed Madame

de Mirecourt.

"No, my dear, of course not, he only borrows a diamond or some other

jewel now and then, and forgets to return it."

At that very instant M. de Macreuse, who had been watching the

expression of the ladies' faces as he slowly advanced, and who shrewdly

suspected that they were none too charitably inclined towards him, but

who nevertheless came forward to bow to the mistress of the house with

imperturbable assurance, interrupted the conversation by saying:

"I hoped, madame, to have had the honour of presenting myself here this

evening under Madame de Cheverny's auspices, but unfortunately for me

she is feeling far from well, and made me the bearer of her profound

regrets."

"I am truly inconsolable that indisposition deprives me of the pleasure

of seeing Madame de Cheverny this evening," replied Madame de Mirecourt,

dryly, still under the influence of what Madame de Senneterre had just

said to her.

But Macreuse was not easily disconcerted, for bowing low to the duchess

this time, he said, smilingly:

"I have less occasion to regret the kind protection of my friend, Madame

de Cheverny, as I may almost venture to count upon yours, madame la

duchesse."

"Justly, monsieur," responded Madame de Senneterre, with bitter hauteur,

"I was just speaking to Madame de Mirecourt of you when you came in, and

congratulating her upon having the honour of receiving you in her

house."

"I expected no less from the habitual kindness of madame la duchesse, to

whom I am indebted for many valuable acquaintances in the delightful

circle in which she moves," replied M. de Macreuse, in tones of the

utmost respect.

After which he bowed low again, and passed on.

This protege of Abbe Ledoux, Madame de Beaumesnil's former confessor,

was much too shrewd and clear-sighted not to have felt that, in his late

interview with Madame de Senneterre (the interview in which he had

confessed that he was an aspirant for Mlle. de Beaumesnil's hand), he

had, in vulgar parlance, put his foot in it, though the duchess had

ostensibly promised him her support.

Too late Macreuse awoke to the fact that the duchess had a marriageable

son, and the haughty and sarcastic greeting she had just given him

confirmed this pious young man's suspicions; but he troubled himself

very little about this hostility, feeling sure, from Mlle. Helena de la

Rochaigue's reports, that he was not only the first suitor in the field,

but that he had already made a deep impression upon the young heiress by

his touching melancholy and piety.

So, full of hope, M. de Macreuse first satisfied himself that Mlle. de

Beaumesnil was not in the room, and then stationed himself in a

convenient place to watch for her arrival, resolved to take advantage of

the first opportune moment to invite her to dance.

"Did any one ever see anything to equal his impudence?" exclaimed Madame

de Senneterre, as the abbe's protege moved away.

"Really, my dear duchess, what you tell me astonishes me beyond measure.

And to think that M. de Macreuse is regarded as a model of virtue and

piety almost everywhere!"

"A fine model he is! There are plenty of other things I could tell you

about him, too--"

But interrupting herself, Madame de Senneterre exclaimed:

"Here comes Mlle. de Beaumesnil at last. Ah, what a pity it is that

Gerald is not here!"

"Oh, well, you can console yourself with the thought that Mlle. de

Beaumesnil will hear nothing but your son's praises the entire evening.

Remain here, and I will bring the dear child to you. You and the

baroness must not leave her even for a moment."

And Madame de Mirecourt advanced to meet Mlle. de Beaumesnil, who had

just come in, accompanied by M. and Madame de la Rochaigue.

The young girl was leaning on her guardian's arm. A low buzzing sound,

produced by loud whispers of "That is Mlle. de Beaumesnil," created a

general stir in the spacious rooms, and a crowd of curious observers

soon filled the doorways of the salon in which Ernestine found herself.

It was in the midst of this eager excitement that the richest heiress in

France, lowering her eyes under the curious looks directed upon her from

every side, made her entrance into society.

The poor child was secretly comparing this eagerness and impatience to

see and to be seen by her, as well as the murmurs of admiration which

she heard as she advanced, with the entirely different reception she had

received at Madame Herbaut's house the Sunday before; and all this only

made her the more resolved to carry her attempted test as far as

possible, and thus satisfy herself once for all in regard to the honour

and sincerity of the people with whom she seemed destined to live.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, to the utter dismay of the Rochaigues, and with a

sudden display of obstinacy that both amazed and cowed them, had

insisted upon dressing as simply as on the occasion of Madame Herbaut's

little entertainment.

A plain white muslin gown and a blue sash, exactly like those she had

worn the Sunday before, composed the attire of the heiress, who wished

to look neither better nor worse than she did then.

The thought of attiring herself in a ridiculous manner had occurred to

her, almost certain that, even in that case, the charming originality of

her toilet would be loudly praised on every side, but the thought of

what a serious and important thing this test was to her led to a speedy

abandonment of that idea.

As had been planned in advance by Mesdames de Mirecourt, de Senneterre,

and de la Rochaigue, Mlle. de Beaumesnil, as soon as she arrived at the

ball, and made her way through the eager crowd that blocked her passage,

was conducted by her hostess to the large and magnificent room which had

been reserved for dancing. Here, Madame de Mirecourt left Ernestine in

the care of Madame de la Rochaigue and Madame de Senneterre, whom the

baroness had just met--by the merest chance.

Not far from the divan on which the heiress was seated were several

charming young girls, all as pretty and much more elegantly dressed than

the belles of Madame Herbaut's ball, but every eye was riveted upon

Ernestine.

"I shall not lack partners this evening," she thought, "nor shall I be

asked out of pity. All those charming girls over there will doubtless be

neglected on my account."

While Mlle. de Beaumesnil was absorbed in these observations,

recollections, and comparisons, Madame de Senneterre was telling Madame

de la Rochaigue, in subdued tones, that, unfortunately, Gerald was so

ill that it would be impossible for him to attend the ball, and it was

therefore decided that Ernestine should be allowed to dance very little,

and then only with carefully selected partners.

To attain this end, Madame de la Rochaigue said to Ernestine:

"My darling child, you can judge of the sensation you are creating in

spite of the unheard-of simplicity of your toilet. My predictions are

more than realised, you see. You are sure to be overwhelmed with

invitations to dance, but as it would never do for you to dance with

everybody, we will manage in this way. When I think it advisable for you

to accept an invitation, I will open my fan; if, on the contrary, I keep

it closed, you will decline on the plea that you are dancing very

little, and that you have made too many engagements already."

Madame de la Rochaigue had scarcely addressed this remark to Ernestine

before quite a number of young people began to take their places for a

quadrille. Several young men who were dying to invite Mlle. de

Beaumesnil hesitated a little, rightly thinking that it was hardly the

thing to ask her the minute she entered the ball-room; but M. de

Macreuse, being either less scrupulous or more daring, did not hesitate

a second, but, making his way swiftly through the crowd, begged

Ernestine to do him the honour to dance the quadrille that was then

forming, with him.

Madame de Senneterre, positively stupefied by what she called such

unheard-of audacity on M. de Macreuse's part, turned to hastily implore

Madame de la Rochaigue to give the signal for a refusal, but it was too

late.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, anxious to find herself virtually alone with M. de

Macreuse as soon as possible, promptly accepted the invitation, without

waiting to note the movements of Madame de la Rochaigue's fan, and, to

that lady's great astonishment, immediately rose, accepted the pious

young man's arm, and walked away.

"That scoundrel's insolence is really unbearable!" exclaimed the

duchess, wrathfully.

But checking herself suddenly, she exclaimed in an entirely different

tone:

"Why, there he is now!"

"Who?"

"Gerald."

"How fortunate! Where do you see him, my dear duchess?"

"Over there by the window. Poor boy, how pale he looks!" added the

duchess, feelingly. "How brave it was in him to come! We are saved!"

"Yes, it is, indeed, Gerald!" said Madame de la Rochaigue, no less

delighted than her friend. "M. de Maillefort is with him. The marquis

did not deceive me, after all. He promised that he would do nothing to

interfere with my plans as soon as he found out that M. de Senneterre

was the husband I had picked out for Ernestine."

The music struck up, and just as Madame de Senneterre motioned to Gerald

that there was a vacant seat beside her, the quadrille in which M. de

Macreuse and Mlle. de Beaumesnil were to participate began.

CHAPTER XII.

M. DE MACREUSE OVERDOES THE MATTER.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil had eagerly availed herself of the first opportunity

for a conversation with M. de Macreuse, for from this conversation she

hoped to ascertain whether her distrust of him was well founded. She was

strongly inclined to think so, the abbe's protege having assured Mlle.

Helena that he had fallen suddenly and passionately in love with Mlle.

de Beaumesnil at first sight.

And after her experience at Madame Herbaut's, the heiress knew what to

think of the sudden and irresistible impressions her beauty must

produce.

But recollecting the different things that had attracted her attention

to M. de Macreuse, recalling the profound grief he had seemed to feel at

his mother's death, the charity of which he had given such convincing

proof by his alms, and, above all, the rare virtues which Mlle. Helena

was continually lauding to the skies, Ernestine was anxious to know

exactly what to think of this so-called model young man.

"M. de Macreuse has interested me very much," she said to herself. "He

is very prepossessing in appearance, and his melancholy is extremely

touching; in fact, but for M. de Maillefort's sneering remarks, which

have made me distrust myself as well as others, I should perhaps have

taken a decided fancy to M. de Macreuse. Perhaps, captivated by the rare

virtues of which I have heard so much, I should have unconsciously

yielded to Mlle. Helena's influence, and perhaps have married M. de

Macreuse, a choice which I am told would assure my happiness for life.

Let me see, then, what kind of a choice I should have made, for I have

an infallible means of distinguishing truth from falsehood now."

M. de Macreuse, full of confidence by reason of Helena's flattering

reports, and realising the decisive nature of this interview, had long

been preparing himself to play the liar to perfection.

When Ernestine laid her hand lightly on his arm, this pious youth

pretended to give a sudden start, and the young girl was conscious of

the sort of thrill that traversed her partner's arm.

When they had taken their places, M. de Macreuse made two ineffectual

attempts to address a few words to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, but he seemed

dominated by such a powerful, though perfectly natural emotion, that

speech failed him and he could only blush deeply.

Abbe Ledoux, by the way, had taught his protege an almost infallible

means of blushing: this was to hang one's head for several seconds,

holding one's breath all the while.

This skilfully counterfeited emotion occupied the first few minutes of

the quadrille, M. de Macreuse having addressed scarcely a word to Mlle.

de Beaumesnil.

Moreover, by a marvel of tact and cunning, the originator of the St.

Polycarpe mission not only managed to escape the ridicule to which a

profoundly melancholy man exposes himself when he undertakes to dance,

but also to preserve an interesting appearance in Mlle. de Beaumesnil's

eyes in spite of the terpsichorean evolutions he was obliged to perform.

He was aided not a little by his personal appearance, we must admit.

Dressed entirely in black, booted and gloved in the most irreproachable

manner, the cut of his coat was perfection, and his black satin cravat

extremely becoming to one with his fair complexion and regular features.

His figure, though a little too stout, was replete with an easy grace,

and as he walked through the different figures of the quadrille, keeping

perfect time to the music, he now and then cast a resigned but pathetic

look at Mlle. de Beaumesnil, a look that seemed to say:

"I am a stranger to worldly pleasures--entirely out of place at fetes,

from which my sorrow impels me to hold myself aloof, but I submit to

this painful contrast between my grief and the gaiety around me, because

I have no other means of seeing you."

This beloved disciple of Abbe Ledoux, in short, belonged to that school

of actors that seems to make a specialty of meaning but constrained

glances, expressive but discreet sighs, all fittingly accompanied with

rollings of the eyes, and a contrite, radiant, or ingenuous expression

of countenance, as best suits the occasion.

In fact, M. de Macreuse's rendition of his role was so admirable that

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in spite of her suspicions, could not help saying

to herself:

"Poor M. de Macreuse! it must be very painful for him to find himself at

a gay entertainment in which he can take so little pleasure, overwhelmed

as he is by the despair his mother's death has caused him."

But her suspicions reasserting themselves, "Then why did he come?" she

asked herself. "Very possibly he was impelled to do so solely by

avaricious motives. Is it a shameful hope of securing my wealth that

makes him forget his grief and his regret?"

M. de Macreuse having at last found a favourable opportunity for

beginning a conversation with Ernestine, summoned up another blush, then

said, in his most timid, unctuous, and ingratiating tones:

"Really, I must appear very awkward and ridiculous to you,

mademoiselle."

"And why, monsieur?"

"I have not dared to address so much as a word to you since the

beginning of the dance, mademoiselle, but--embarrassment--fear--"

"What! I frighten you, monsieur?"

"Alas! yes, mademoiselle."

"That is not a very gallant remark, monsieur."

"I make no pretentious to gallantry, mademoiselle," replied Macreuse,

sadly, but proudly. "I am only sincere--and the fear you inspire in me

is real, only too real."

"But why do I inspire you with fear?"

"Because you have unsettled my life and my reason, mademoiselle, for

from the first moment I saw you, without even knowing who you were, your

image placed itself between me and the only previous objects of my

adoration. Up to that time, I had lived only to pray to God and to

cherish or mourn for my mother, while now--"

"Good Heavens, monsieur, how tiresome all this is! What I say may

surprise you, but it is the truth, nevertheless; for you see," continued

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, assuming from this on the imperious and flippant

tone and manner of a spoiled child, "I am in the habit of saying

anything that comes into my head, unless I am absolutely compelled to

play the hypocrite."

It is needless to say that M. de Macreuse was astounded by this

interruption, and above all by the manner in which it was made, for,

from Mlle. Helena's reports, he had fully expected to find in Ernestine

an artless, but deeply religious child; so, up to this time, he had

carefully maintained a manner and a style of conversation which would be

likely to please an unsophisticated devotee.

Still, too wary to betray his astonishment, and ready to change his

character at a moment's notice if that should prove necessary to put him

in tune with the heiress, this pious young man replied, venturing a

half smile--he had preserved a melancholy gravity up to that time:

"You are right, mademoiselle, to say whatever comes into your head,

particularly as only charming thoughts can find shelter there."

"Really, monsieur, I like this kind of talk very much better. You were

not at all amusing before."

"It depends upon you, mademoiselle," responded Macreuse, risking a whole

smile this time, and so transforming his formerly grief-stricken face by

degrees, as it were, "and it will always depend upon you, mademoiselle,

to change sorrow to gladness. Nothing is impossible to you."

"Oh, as to that, there's a time for everything, I think. Now this

morning at church I seemed sad, because church is so dull any way;

besides, in order not to be outdone by Mlle. Helena I put on the most

saintly airs imaginable, but in my secret heart I am awfully fond of

gaiety and of amusing myself. By the way, what do you think of my gown?"

"It is in exquisite taste. In its charming simplicity it is a delightful

contrast to the gaudy attire of all the other young ladies; but they are

excusable, after all, and you deserve very little credit, for they have

need of outward adornments, while you can dispense with them,

mademoiselle. Perfection needs no ornamentation."

"That is exactly what I said to myself," responded Ernestine, with the

most arrogant and conceited air imaginable. "I felt sure that, even in a

plain white dress, I was pretty certain to eclipse all the other young

girls and make them turn green with envy. It is such fun to excite envy

in others and torment them."

"You must be accustomed to that pleasure, mademoiselle. It is true that

the jealousy of others does afford one a vast amount of amusement, as

you so wittily remarked a moment ago."

"Oh, I am not so wonderfully witty," responded Ernestine, with an

admirable semblance of overweening conceit; "but I am very fond of my

own way and can't bear any one to oppose or contradict me. That is why I

hate old people so. They are for ever preaching to young folks. Do you

like old people, monsieur?"

"You mean mummies, mademoiselle. The chief aim of life should be

pleasure."

And the imperious necessity of executing a figure in the quadrille

having interrupted M. de Macreuse at this point, he took advantage of

the excellent opportunity thus afforded to change the expression of his

countenance entirely, and to assume the most joyous dare-devil air

imaginable. A similar change, too, was apparent in his dancing. It was

much more lively and animated. The young man straightened himself up,

lifted his head high in the air, and whenever he found an opportunity he

bestowed upon Mlle. de Beaumesnil glances which were now as impassioned

as the former ones had been timid and discreet.

While he was assuming this new character, the abbe's protege was all the

while saying to himself:

"How strange! the girl is an arrant hypocrite evidently, inasmuch as she

succeeded in deceiving Mlle. de la Rochaigue so completely in regard to

her real character. I strongly suspect, though, that my excellent friend

was afraid that she would frighten me if she told me the truth about the

girl. She little knows me. I'm glad that the girl is silly and vain, and

that she thinks herself witty and beautiful and capable of out-shining

all the pretty women here to-night. Deceitfulness, ignorance, and

vanity--it must be a fool indeed that can not use three such potent

factors as these to advantage. But now to the main question! With a

simpleton like this, reserve is unnecessary, nor can one pile on the

flattery too thickly. Complaisance must extend almost to baseness, for

the girl has evidently been utterly spoiled by her wealth. She knows

perfectly well that anything is permissible in her,--that any offence

will be condoned in the richest heiress in France."

So as he returned to his place M. de Macreuse remarked to Ernestine:

"You accused me just now of being too grave, mademoiselle. You must not

suppose that I am in the most hilarious spirits now, but the happiness

of being with you intoxicates me."

"And why?"

"If Mlle. Helena, in encouraging me to hope that some day, when you

learned to know me better, you might think me worthy to consecrate my

life to you,--if Mlle. Helena was mistaken in this--"

"By the way, speaking of Mlle. Helena, you must admit that she is a

frightful bore."

"That is true, but she is so good."

"So good! Well, that did not prevent her from saying something dreadful

to me about you the other day."

"About me?"

"Yes, she made you out such a paragon of goodness that I said to myself:

'Great Heavens, how intolerable that man must be with all his virtues. A

person as perfect as that must be a frightful nuisance! And then to be

always at church or engaged in charitable works, the mere idea of it is

enough to make one die of ennui.' I did not say this to Mlle. Helena,

but I thought it all the same. Judge then, monsieur, I, who would marry

only to be as free as air and amuse myself from morning till night, to

be always on the go, to be the most fashionable woman in Paris, and

above all to be able to go to the masked ball at the Opera house! Oh,

that ball, it sets me crazy just to think of it! Mercy! what is the use

of being as rich as I am if one cannot enjoy everything and do exactly

as one pleases?"

"When one is as rich as you are," replied M. de Macreuse, with

unblushing effrontery, "one is queen everywhere, above all in one's own

home. The man you honour with your choice should, to follow out my

comparison, be the prime minister of your kingdom of pleasure,--no, your

chief courtier, and as such be ever submissive and eager to do your

bidding. His one thought should be to save you from the slightest

annoyance, and leave you only the flowers of existence. The birds of the

air should not be freer than you; and if your husband understands his

duty, your pleasures, your wishes, and even your slightest caprice,

should be sacred to him. Is he not your slave, and you his divinity?"

"Good, monsieur, that would suit me perfectly, but from what Mlle.

Helena has told me about you, and from what I myself have seen--"

"And what have you seen, mademoiselle?"

"I have seen you giving alms to the poor and even talking with them."

"Certainly, mademoiselle, and I--"

"In the first place, I have a horror of poor people,--they are so

loathsome in their rags they fairly turn one's stomach."

"They are horrible creatures, it is true, but one has to throw them a

little money now and then as one throws a bone to a starving dog to keep

him from biting you. It is merely a matter of policy."

"I understand, then, for I wondered how you could feel any interest in

such repulsive creatures."

"Good Heavens, mademoiselle," replied Macreuse, more and more earnestly,

"you must not wonder at certain apparent contradictions between the

present and the past. If any do exist you are the cause of them, so

ought you not to pardon them? What did I tell you from the very first?

Did I not confess that you had wrought a complete change in my life? Ah,

yes, I had sorrows, but I have them no longer. I was devout, but

henceforth there is only one divinity for me, yourself. As for my

virtues," added M. de Macreuse, with a cynical smile, "they need not

worry you. Only too happy to lay the others at your feet, I will retain

only such as may please you."

"How infamous!" thought Ernestine. "To attract my attention, or, rather,

to excite my interest, this man made a pretence of being charitable,

virtuous, devout, and a most devoted son; now he denies his virtues, his

charity, his mother, and even his God, to please me, and attain his

object, viz., to marry me for my money, while the detestable faults I

affect do not shock him in the least; he even praises and exalts them."

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, who was little versed in dissimulation, and who had

been obliged to exercise the greatest self-restraint in order to enact

the role which would assist her in unmasking M. de Macreuse, could no

longer conceal her scorn and disgust, and, in spite of all her efforts,

her face betrayed her real feelings only too plainly, as she listened to

M. de Macreuse's last words.

That gentleman, like all the disciples of his school, made a constant

study of the countenance of the person he wished to deceive or convince;

and the quick contraction of Mlle. de Beaumesnil's features, her smile

of bitter disdain, and a sort of impatient indignation that she made

little or no attempt to conceal at the moment, were a sudden and

startling revelation to M. de Macreuse.

"I am caught," he said to himself. "It was a trap. She distrusted me and

wanted to try me. She pretended to be silly, capricious, vain,

heartless, and irreligious, merely to see if I would have the courage to

censure her, and if my love would survive such a discovery. Who the

devil would have suspected such cunning in a girl of sixteen? But if she

has feigned all these objectionable proclivities, her real instincts

must be good and generous," this beloved disciple of Abbe Ledoux said to

himself. "And if she was anxious to put me to the test she must have had

some idea of marrying me. All is not lost. I must recover my lost ground

by a bold stroke."

These reflections on the part of the pious youth lasted only for an

instant, but that instant sufficed to prepare him for another

transformation.

The same brief interval had also given Mlle. de Beaumesnil time to calm

her indignation, and summon up courage to end this interview by covering

Macreuse with shame and confusion.

"So you are really willing to sacrifice all your virtues on my account?"

exclaimed Ernestine. "Few persons are as obliging as all that. But the

quadrille is ended. Instead of escorting me back to my seat, won't you

take me to that conservatory I see at the other end of the room?"

"I am all the more pleased to comply with your request, mademoiselle, as

I have a few words, very serious words they are, too, that I wish to say

to you."

M. de Macreuse's tone had changed entirely. It was grave now, even

stern.

Ernestine glanced at the pious young man in astonishment. His expression

had become as sad as at the beginning of the quadrille, but the sadness

was no longer of a melancholy, touching character, but stern, almost

wrathful.

More and more amazed at this sudden metamorphosis which Macreuse

intensified, so to speak, during their walk through the salon to the

conservatory, Mlle. de Beaumesnil asked herself what could be the cause

of this strange change in her companion.

The long gallery, enclosed in glass, which they entered, was bordered on

each side with masses of flowering plants and palms, and at the farther

end was an immense buffet loaded with the choicest viands. As nearly all

the gentlemen were engaged in escorting their partners to their seats,

there were very few people in the gallery at the time, so M. de Macreuse

had an excellent opportunity to say all he had to say.

"May I ask, monsieur," asked the orphan, flippantly, seeing that she

must not yet abandon her role--"may I ask what very important thing you

have to say to me. Grave is about the same thing as being tiresome, it

seems to me, and I have a horror of everything that is tiresome, you

know."

"Grave or tiresome, you will, nevertheless, have to listen to these

words, which are the last you will ever hear from my lips,

mademoiselle."

"The last during this quadrille, evidently."

"They are the last words I shall ever say to you in my life,

mademoiselle."

There was something so sad and yet so proud in the voice, face, and

bearing of this model young man that Mlle. de Beaumesnil was overwhelmed

with astonishment.

Nevertheless, she continued, still trying to smile:

"What, monsieur, I am never to see you again after all--all Mlle. Helena

has said about--about--"

"Listen, mademoiselle," said M. de Macreuse, interrupting her; "it is

impossible for me to keep up this farce any longer--or to express any

longer sentiments that are and ever will be farthest from my thoughts."

"To what farce do you allude, monsieur?"

"I came here, mademoiselle, expecting to find in you the pious,

sensible, generous, kind-hearted, honest young girl of whom Mlle. Helena

has always spoken in terms of the highest praise. It was to such a girl

that my first remarks were addressed, but the frivolous, sneering manner

in which they were received disappointed and even shocked me."

"Can I believe my ears?" thought Ernestine. "What on earth does he

mean?"

"Then a terrible doubt seized me," continued M. de Macreuse, with a

heavy sigh. "I said to myself that perhaps you did not possess those

rare virtues which I so greatly admire and which I was confident I

should find in you, but I could not and would not believe it at first,

preferring to attribute your words to the thoughtlessness of youth. But

alas! your frivolity, vanity, hardness of heart, and impiety became more

and more apparent as our conversation proceeded. I wished to convince

myself thoroughly, however, and though my heart bled each moment, I

wanted to overcome your insensibility to all that is pitiable, your

contempt for all that is sacred. I even went so far as to seem to scoff

at that which is dearest to me in life,--my religion and the memory of

my mother."

And a tear glistened on the lashes of the abbe's disciple.

"It was a test, then, in his case, as in mine," thought Ernestine.

"I feigned the most pernicious sentiments," continued M. de Macreuse,

waxing more and more indignant, "and you did not utter a word of censure

or even of surprise! At last I pushed flattery, cowardice, and baseness

to their utmost limits, and you remained calm and approving instead of

crushing me with the scorn I deserved. It has been a terrible ordeal for

me, for the blow to my hopes is as unexpected as it is overwhelming. All

is over now. Pardon a severity of language to which you are little

accustomed, mademoiselle, but understand, once for all, that I will

never devote my life to any woman, who is not worthy both of my love and

my respect."

And with a stern and dignified air M. de Macreuse bowed low to

Ernestine, and walked away, leaving her speechless with astonishment.

"I thank God that I was mistaken," thought the poor child, with a

feeling of profound relief. "Such hypocrisy, deceit, and

unscrupulousness are an impossibility. M. de Macreuse was horrified by

the sentiments I expressed, consequently he must possess a sincere and

upright soul."

The reflections of this artless girl, who was so ill fitted to cope with

the wily founder of the St. Polycarpe mission, were interrupted by

Mesdames de Rochaigue and de Senneterre, who, having seen Mlle. de

Beaumesnil enter the gallery in company with M. de Macreuse, had

hastened after her, thinking the young girl intended to partake of some

refreshments, but the two ladies found her alone.

"Why, what are you doing here, my own dearest?" inquired Madame de la

Rochaigue.

"I came here for a little fresh air, madame; it is so warm in the

ballroom."

"But the gallery is just as much too cool, my dear child, and you run a

great risk of taking cold. You had better come back to the ballroom at

once."

"As you please, madame," replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil.

As she reentered the ballroom, in company with the two ladies, she saw

M. de Macreuse give her a despairing look; but he turned quickly away,

as if he feared the young girl would perceive the sorrowful emotion to

which he was a prey.

CHAPTER XIII.

AN HONEST CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, on reentering the ball-room, also noticed Gerald de

Senneterre standing near one of the doorways. He was very pale, and

looked extremely sad.

The sight of him reminded Ernestine of her friend's despair, and she

asked herself why Gerald, in spite of his love for Herminie and his

desire to marry her, had come to this ball where a meeting with her,

Ernestine, had been arranged by Madame de la Rochaigue.

As she conducted the richest heiress in France back to her seat, Madame

de la Senneterre said to her, with the utmost affability:

"Mademoiselle, I am deputised to ask a favour of you in behalf of my

son."

"What is it, madame?"

"He begs that you will give him the next quadrille, though he is not

dancing this evening, for he has been, and is still, quite indisposed,

so much so, in fact, that it required almost superhuman courage on his

part to come at all. But he hoped to have the honour of meeting you

here, mademoiselle, and such a hope as that works wonders."

"But if M. de Senneterre does not feel able to dance, madame, what is

the use of my making an engagement with him?"

"That is a secret which I will divulge when the crowds of young men that

are going to besiege you with invitations to dance are disposed of.

Merely remember that the next quadrille belongs to my son, that is, if

you are so kind as to grant him the favour he asks."

"With the greatest pleasure, madame."

"Keep my seat for me, my dear," the duchess said to Madame de la

Rochaigue, rising as she spoke, "I must go and tell Gerald."

While awaiting M. de Senneterre's coming, Mlle. de Beaumesnil was also

reflecting with all the satisfaction of a truly honest heart that M. de

Macreuse had not deserved her distrust. The more she reflected on the

subject, the more the young man's conduct pleased her by reason of its

very rudeness. In fact, his austere frankness seemed to her almost as

noble as the sentiment she fancied she had discerned in Olivier's

breast, when he gave her such a peculiar but meaning look on so

unexpectedly hearing that he had been made an officer.

"They are both noble men," she said to herself.

But Mlle. de Beaumesnil was not allowed to enjoy these pleasant and

consoling thoughts long, for she had scarcely seated herself before she

was besieged with invitations to dance, as Madame de Senneterre had

predicted. Resolved to observe and judge for herself, as much as

possible, the heiress accepted quite a number of these invitations,

among them one from M. de Mornand.

Eager to discover M. de Senneterre's intentions, and to ascertain why he

had engaged her for a quadrille if he did not feel able to dance,

Ernestine awaited the time for Gerald's approach with no little interest

and curiosity. At last she saw him leave his place, after exchanging a

few words with M. de Maillefort, whom Ernestine had not seen since she

met him so unexpectedly at Herminie's home.

On seeing the hunchback, the orphan could not help blushing, but, as she

cast another glance at him, she was touched by the expression of tender

solicitude with which he was regarding her, and the meaning smile he

bestowed upon her reassured her completely in regard to that gentleman's

discretion.

The time for forming the quadrille having arrived, Gerald approached

Mlle. de Beaumesnil and said:

"I have come to thank you for the promise you so kindly made to my

mother."

"And I am ready to fulfil it, monsieur, as soon as I know--"

"Why I engaged you for this quadrille when I am not able to dance?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"It is an innovation, mademoiselle, that would prove very popular, I am

sure, if it were adopted," said Gerald, smiling in spite of his

melancholy.

"And this innovation, monsieur?"

"For many persons, and I confess that I am one of the number, a

quadrille is merely a pretext for a quarter of an hour's tete-a-tete.

Then why not say in so many words: 'Madame, or mademoiselle, will you do

me the honour to talk with me for the next quarter of an hour?' and as

one can talk much more comfortably sitting on a sofa than standing, why,

let us sit through this dance and talk."

"I think the idea a very happy one, monsieur."

"And you consent?"

"Certainly," replied Ernestine, moving a little closer to Madame de la

Rochaigue, and thus making room for Gerald beside her.

The dancers having taken their places on the floor, most of the seats

were vacant; and Gerald, having no neighbour on the other side, could

talk to Ernestine without any danger of being overheard, especially as

Madame de la Rochaigue, in order to give her ward greater freedom, moved

a little farther from Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and a little nearer to Madame

de Senneterre.

Up to this time, M. de Senneterre had been talking in a light, half

jesting tone, but as soon as he found himself virtually alone with

Mlle. de Beanmesnil, his manner changed entirely, and his features and

accents alike indicated the deepest interest and anxiety.

"Mademoiselle," he said earnestly, almost solemnly, "though I am far

from well, I came here this evening to do my duty as an honourable man."

Mlle. de Beanmesnil experienced a feeling of intense relief. Gerald had

no intention of deceiving Herminie, then, and doubtless he was about to

explain why he had not relinquished all pretensions to

her--Ernestine's--hand.

"Do you know how an heiress is married off, mademoiselle?" asked Gerald.

And as Mlle. de Beaumesnil gazed at him in surprise, without making any

reply, Gerald continued: