Notwithstanding the triteness of the mythological comparison, we must be
pardoned for saying that never Hebe, the cupbearer to the gods of
Olympus, in all the brilliancy of her superhuman beauty, united in
herself more resplendent charms than did, in her terrestrial loveliness,
the modest maiden, Antonine Hubert, whose love secret with Frantz M.
Pascal had surprised.
What seemed most attractive in this young girl was the beauty of fifteen
years and a half which combined the grace and freshness of the child
with the budding charms of young womanhood,--enchanting age, still full
of mysteries and chaste ignorances, a pure dawn, white and transparent,
that the first palpitations of an innocent love would colour with the
exquisite tint of the full-blown rose.
Such was the age of Antonine, and she had the charm and all the charms
of that age.
To humanise our Hebe, we will make her descend from her pedestal, and,
veiling her delicate and beautiful form, will clothe her in an elegant
summer robe; a black silk mantle will hide the exquisite contour of her
bust, and a straw hat, lined with silk as rosy as her cheeks, allowing
us a view of her chestnut tresses, will serve as a frame for the oval
face, as fresh, as fair, and as soft as that of the child she has just
embraced.
As she entered the parlour with Sophie, mademoiselle blushed slightly,
for she had the timidity of her fifteen years; then, put at ease by the
cordial reception of Dutertre and his wife, she said to the latter, with
a sort of deference drawn from their old relations of child and mother,
as they were called in the boarding-school where they had been brought
up together:
"You do not know the good fortune which brings me here, Sophie."
"A good fortune!--so much the better, my little Antonine!"
"A letter from St. Madeleine," replied the young girl, drawing an
envelope from her pocket.
"Really!" exclaimed Sophie, blushing with joy and surprise, as she
reached her hand impatiently for the letter.
"What, Mlle. Antonine," said Charles Dutertre, laughing, "you are in
correspondence with paradise? Though if it is true I ought not to be
astonished, inasmuch--"
"Be silent, M. Tease," interrupted Sophie, "and do not make jokes about
Antonine's and my best friend."
"I will be careful,--but what is the meaning of this name, St.
Madeleine?"
"Why, Charles, have I not told you a thousand times about my school
friend, Madeleine Silveyra, who is godmother by proxy of our little one?
What are you thinking of?"
"I have a very good memory, my dear Sophie," replied Dutertre, "because
I have not forgotten that this young Mexican had such a singular kind of
beauty that she inspired as much surprise as admiration."
"The very same lady, my dear; after me, Madeleine acted as a mother to
Antonine, as we said at school, where each large girl had the care of a
child from ten to eleven years old; so, when I left school, I confided
dear Antonine to the affection of St. Madeleine."
"It is just that surname which was the cause of my mistake," replied
Dutertre, "a surname which seems to me very ambitious or very humble for
such a pretty person, for she must be near your age."
"They gave Madeleine the name of saint at school because she deserved
it, M. Dutertre," replied Antonine, with all the seriousness of fifteen
years, "and while she was my little mother they continued to call her
St. Madeleine, as they did in Sophie's time."
"Was this Mlle. St. Madeleine a very austere devotee?" asked Dutertre.
"Madeleine, like all people of her country,--we gave our French form to
her name of Magdalena,--gave herself to a particular devotion. She had
chosen the Christ, and her adoration for her Saviour became an ecstasy,"
replied Sophie; "besides, she united to this enthusiastic devotion the
warmest heart and the most interesting, enjoyable mind in the world. But
I pray you, Charles, let me read her letter. I am impatient. Just
imagine, the first letter after two years of separation! Antonine and I
felt a little bitter at her silence, but you see the first remembrance
we receive from her disarms us."
And taking the letter which Antonine had just given her, Sophie read,
with an emotion which increased with every line.
"Dear Madeleine, always tender and affectionate, always witty and
bright, always so appreciative of any remembrance of the past. After a
few days' rest at Marseilles, where she has arrived from Venice, she
comes to Paris, almost at the same time her letter arrives, and she
thinks only of the happiness of seeing Sophie, her friend, and her
little girl Antonine, and she writes in haste to both of us, and signs
herself as of old, St. Madeleine."
"Then she is not married?" asked Charles Dutertre.
"I do not know, my dear," replied his wife, "she signs only her
baptismal name."
"But why should I ask such an absurd question?--think of a married
saint!"
At that moment the servant entered, and, stopping on the threshold of
the door, made a significant sign to her mistress, who replied:
"You can speak, Julie, Mlle. Antonine is a part of the family."
"Madame," said the servant, "Agatha wants to know if she must put the
chicken on the spit if M. Pascal does not come?"
"Certainly," said Madame Dutertre, "M. Pascal is a little late, but we
expect him every minute."
"You are expecting some one, then, Sophie?" asked Antonine, when the
servant retired. "Well, good-bye, I will see you again," added the young
girl, with a sigh. "I did not come only to bring St. Madeleine's letter,
I wanted to have a long chat with you. I will see you again to-morrow,
dear Sophie."
"Not at all, my little Antonine. I use my authority as mother to keep my
dear little girl and have her breakfast with us. It is a sort of family
feast. Is it because your place was not ready, my child?"
"Come, Mlle. Antonine," said Charles, "do us the kindness to stay."
"You are a thousand times too good, M. Dutertre, but, really, I cannot
accept."
"Then," replied he, "I am going to employ the greatest means of seducing
you; in a word, if you will stay, you shall see the generous man who, of
his own accord, came to our rescue this day a year ago, for this is the
anniversary of that noble action that we are celebrating to-day."
Sophie, having forgotten the presentiment awakened in her mind by the
words of her little girl, added:
"Yes, my little Antonine, at the very moment, the critical moment, when
ruin threatened our business, M. Pascal said to Charles: 'Monsieur, I do
not know you personally, but I know you are as just as you are laborious
and intelligent; you need fifty thousand to put your business in a good
condition. I offer it to you as a friend, accept it as a friend; as to
interest, we will estimate that afterward, and still as a friend.'"
"That was to act nobly, indeed!" said Antonine.
"Yes," said Charles Dutertre, with profound emotion, "for it is not only
my industry which he has saved, but it was the labour of the numerous
workmen I employ, it was the repose of my father's old age, the
happiness of my wife, the future of my children. Oh, stay with us, stay,
Mlle. Antonine, the sight of such a good man is so rare, so sweet--But
wait, there he is!" exclaimed M. Dutertre, as he saw M. Pascal pass the
parlour window.
"I am much impressed with all Sophie and you have told me, M. Dutertre,
and I regret I cannot see this generous man to whom you owe so much, but
breakfast would detain me too long. I must return early. My uncle
expects me, and he has passed a very painful night; in these attacks of
suffering he always wants me near him, and these attacks come at any
time."
Then, taking Sophie by the hand, the young girl added:
"Can I see you again soon?"
"To-morrow or day after, my dear little Antonine, I am coming to see
you, and we will talk as long as you like."
The door opened; M. Pascal entered.
Antonine embraced her friend, and Sophie said to the financier, with
affectionate cordiality:
"Permit me, will you not, M. Pascal, to take leave of mademoiselle. I
need not say that I will hasten to return."
"No need of ceremony, my dear Madame Dutertre," stammered M. Pascal, in
spite of his assurance astonished to see Antonine again, and he followed
her with an intense, surly gaze until she had left the room.