by Eugène Sue
“Forgive me, my friend and brother. I began this letter cheerfully, and it has become really funereal in tone. Good-bye, Gerald, good-bye. Write me at Luzarches.
“Yours devotedly,
“Olivier Raymond.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE PRETTY MUSICIAN.
ABOUT SEVEN O’CLOCK on the evening of the same day on which M. de Maillefort’s duel took place, and just as the sun was beginning to vanish from sight in a bank of dark clouds that indicated a stormy night, — for occasional big drops of rain were already falling, — a young girl was crossing the Place de la Concorde, in the direction of the Faubourg Ste. Honoré.
This girl carried under her left arm two large music books whose shabby bindings attested to long and faithful service; in her right hand she held a small umbrella. Her attire, which was modest in the extreme, consisted of a plain black silk dress with a small mantle of the same material, and, though the spring was already far advanced, she wore on her head a gray felt hat tied under the chin with broad ribbons of the same quiet hue. A few soft, curling tresses of golden hair, which the wind had loosened from their confinement, caressed her low, broad forehead, and made a lovely frame for her sweet, youthful face, which wore an expression of profound sadness, but which was also instinct with refinement, modesty, and quiet dignity. This same natural dignity manifested itself in the thoughtful and rather proud expression of the girl’s large blue eyes. Her bearing was graceful and distinguished, and though her mantle concealed her figure, one instinctively felt that it was not only lithe, but perfect in contour, for her garments were worn with such an air of distinction that one forgot their shabbiness.
As she lifted her dress slightly in crossing a gutter, a pretty foot, clad in a neat, well-fitting, though rather thick-soled shoe, was disclosed to view, and one also caught a glimpse of a petticoat of dazzling whiteness, edged with a narrow lace-trimmed ruffle.
At the corner of the Rue des Champs Élysées, a beggar woman, with a child in her arms, addressed a few words to her in an imploring voice, whereupon the girl paused, and after a moment’s embarrassment, — for having both hands occupied, one with her music books and the other with her umbrella, she could not get at her pocket, — she solved the difficulty by confiding the music books temporarily to the poor woman’s care, and transferring her umbrella to her other hand. This done, the girl drew out her purse, which contained barely four francs in small change, and, taking from it a two sous piece, said hurriedly, but in tones of entrancing sweetness:
“Forgive me, good mother, forgive me for being unable to offer you more.”
Then, with a compassionate glance at the pale face of the infant which the woman was pressing to her breast, she added:
“Poor little thing! May God preserve it to you!” Then resuming possession of her music books, and casting another glance of tender commiseration on the poor creatures, she continued on her way down the Champs Élysées.
We have dwelt upon the apparently trivial details of this act of charity, merely because they seem to us so significant. The gift, though trifling in value, had not been given haughtily or thoughtlessly; nor was the young girl content with dropping a bit of money into the outstretched hand. There was also another circumstance which, though trivial, was highly significant: the young girl had removed her glove before proffering her alms — as she would have done before touching the hand of a friend and equal.
It so happened that M. de Ravil, who had just escorted his wounded friend to his home on the Rue de Madeleine, met the young girl on the pavement of the Rue des Champs Élysées, and, struck by her beauty and by the distinguished bearing which contrasted so strongly with the excessive plainness of her attire, he paused a moment directly in front of her and eyed her cynically, then, as she walked quickly on, he turned and followed her.
As she turned into the Rue de l’Arcade, a street little frequented at that hour of the day, he quickened his pace, and, overtaking the fair unknown, said, insolently:
“Mademoiselle gives music lessons, I judge? Will she be kind enough to come and give me one — at my house?”
As he spoke he laid his hand upon the arm of the girl, who turned quickly with a faint cry; then, though her cheeks were crimson with terror and emotion, she cast such a look of withering scorn on Ravil that, in spite of his natural impudence, his eyes fell, and bowing low before the unknown with an air of ironical deference, he said:
“Pardon me, madame la princesse, I was mistaken in the person.”
The girl continued on her way, forcing herself to walk quietly in spite of her painful anxiety, for the house to which she going was only a short distance off now.
“All the same, I intend to follow her and see who this shabbily dressed girl who gives herself the airs of a duchess is,” Ravil said to himself.
The comparison was an eminently just one, though he did not know it, for Herminie — that was the girl’s name; in fact, being a foundling, she had no other — for Herminie was indeed a duchess, if one means by that word a charming combination of beauty, grace, and natural refinement, accompanied by that indomitable pride which is inherent in every fastidious and sensitive nature.
It has been truly said that many duchesses, both as regards appearance and instincts, were born lorettes; while, on the other hand, many poor creatures of the most obscure origin were born duchesses.
Herminie herself was certainly a living example of the truth of this assertion, for the friends she had made in her humble rôle of singing and piano teacher always called her the duchess, — a few from jealousy, for even the most generous and unassuming of people have their detractors, others, on the contrary, because the term best expressed the impression Herminie’s manner and appearance made upon them. It is hardly necessary to say that the young lady in question was no other than the duchess of whom Olivier had made frequent mention during the dinner at Commander Bernard’s house.
Herminie, still closely followed by Ravil, soon left the Rue de l’Arcade for the Rue d’Anjou, where she entered an imposing mansion, thus escaping the annoying pursuit of that cynical personage.
“How strange!” he exclaimed, pausing a few yards off. “Why the devil is that girl going into the Hôtel de Beaumesnil with her music books under her arm. She certainly cannot live there.”
Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “But now I think of it, this must be the female David who is trying to assuage Madame de Beaumesnil’s sufferings by the charm of her music. That lady might well be likened to good King Saul by reason of her great wealth, which will all go to that young girl in whom my friend Mornand already feels such an interest. As for me, that pretty musician who has just entered the home of the countess suits my fancy. I mean to wait until she comes out, for I must find out where she lives.”
The expression of melancholy on Herminie’s charming face deepened as she crossed the threshold, and, passing the porter without speaking, as any member of the household might have done, entered the magnificent hall of this sumptuous abode.
It was still daylight, but the entire lower floor was brilliantly lighted. As she noted this fact, her surprise changed to anguish, which increased when she saw none of the footmen who were usually in attendance.
A profound stillness pervaded the mansion as the young girl, with her heart throbbing almost to bursting, mounted the handsome stairway to a broad landing, which commanded a view of a long line of large and magnificently furnished apartments.
These rooms, too, were brilliantly lighted but also deserted, and the pale light of the candles, contending with the glowing rays of the setting sun, produced a very strange and most unnatural effect.
Herminie, unable to account for the poignant anxiety to which she was a prey, hurried breathlessly on through several rooms, then paused suddenly.
It seemed to her that she could hear stifled sobs in the distance.
At last she reached a door leading into a long picture-gallery, and at the farther end of this gallery He
rminie saw all the inmates of the mansion kneeling just outside the threshold of an open door.
A terrible presentiment seized the young girl. When she left Madame de Beaumesnil the evening before, that lady was alarmingly, though not hopelessly ill; but now, these lights, this lugubrious silence, broken only by smothered sobs, indicated beyond a doubt that Madame de Beaumesnil was receiving the last sacrament.
The young girl, overcome with grief and terror, felt that her strength was deserting her, and instinctively clutched at one of the consoles for support; then, endeavouring to conceal her emotion and her tears, again hastened on with tottering steps towards the group of servants in the open doorway of Madame de Beaumesnil’s chamber, and knelt there in the midst of them.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE UNHAPPY SECRET.
THROUGH THE OPEN doorway before which Herminie had just knelt, she could see by the wan light of an alabaster lamp Madame de Beaumesnil, a woman only about thirty-eight years of age, but frightfully pale and emaciated. The countess, who was sitting up in bed, supported by pillows, had her hands clasped devoutly. Her features, once of rare beauty, were drawn and haggard, her large eyes, formerly of a clear, bright blue, had lost their lustre, though they were riveted with mingled anxiety and anguish upon the face of Abbé Ledoux, her parish priest, who had just administered the last sacrament.
A minute before Herminie’s arrival, Madame de Beaumesnil, lowering her voice still more, though weakness and suffering had already reduced it to little more than a faint whisper, had said to the priest:
“Ah, my father, forgive me, but even at this solemn hour I cannot help thinking with even more bitterness of heart of that poor child, — my other daughter, — the unhappy fruit of a sin which has burdened my life with the most poignant remorse.”
“Hush, madame,” replied the priest, who, as he cast a furtive glance at the kneeling servants, had just seen Herminie take her place in their midst; “hush, madame, she is here.”
“She is?”
“Yes, she came in a moment ago, and is now kneeling with your people.”
As he spoke, the priest turned and walked towards the door to close it, after having first intimated by a gesture that the sad ceremony was over.
“I remember now — that yesterday — when Herminie left me — I begged her to return to-day at this very hour. The physician was right, — the angelic voice of the dear child, her tender melodies, have often assuaged my sufferings.”
“Take care, madame. Be more prudent, I beg of you,” pleaded the priest, alone now with the invalid.
“Oh, I am. My daughter suspects nothing,” answered Madame de Beaumesnil, with a bitter smile.
“That is quite probable,” said the priest, “for it was only chance, or, rather, the inscrutable will of Providence, that brought this young woman to your notice a short time ago. Doubtless it is the Saviour’s will that you should be subjected to a still harder test.”
“Hard, indeed, my father, since I shall be obliged to depart from this life without ever having said ‘my daughter’ to this unfortunate girl. Alas! I shall carry my wretched secret with me to the grave.”
“Your vow imposes this sacrifice upon you, madame. It is a sacred obligation,” said the priest, severely. “To break your vow, to thus perjure yourself, would be sacrilege.”
“I have never thought of perjuring myself, my father,” replied Madame de Beaumesnil, despondently; “but God is punishing me cruelly. I am dying, and yet I am forced to treat as a stranger my own child, — who is there — only a few feet from me, kneeling among my people, and who must never know that I am her mother.”
“Your sin was great, madame. The expiation must be correspondingly great.”
“But how long it has lasted for me, my father. Faithful to my vow, I never even tried to discover what had become of my unfortunate child. Alas! but for the chance which brought her to my notice a few days ago, I should have died without having seen her for seventeen years.”
“These thoughts are very sinful, my daughter,” said the priest, sternly. “They caused you to take a most imprudent step yesterday.”
“Have no fears, my father. It is impossible that the woman I sent for yesterday, openly, in order to avert any suspicion, should suspect my motive in asking for information which she alone could give.”
“And this information?”
“Confirmed — as I anticipated — in the most irrefutable manner — what I already knew — that Herminie is my daughter.”
“But why do you feel so sure of this woman’s discretion?”
“Because she lost all trace of my daughter after their separation sixteen years ago.”
“But are you sure this woman did not recognise you?”
“I confessed to you, my father, that I had a mask on my face when I brought Herminie into the world with this woman’s aid, and yesterday, in my interview with her, I found it easy to convince her that the mother of the child I was inquiring about had been dead for several years.”
“It is necessary that I should grant you absolution for this act of deception,” answered Abbé Ledoux, with great severity. “You can see now the fatal consequences of your criminal solicitude for a person who, after your vow, should always have remained a stranger to you.”
“Ah, that oath which remorse and gratitude for the most generous forgiveness extorted from me! I have often cursed it, — but I have always kept it, my father.”
“And yet, my sister, even at such an hour as this, your every thought is given to that young girl.”
“No, not my every thought, my father, for I have another child. But alas! I cannot prevent my heart from throbbing faster at the approach of Herminie, who is also my daughter. Can I prevent my heart from going out to her? I may have courage to control my lips, to guard my eyes, and to conceal my feelings when Herminie is with me, but I cannot prevent myself from feeling a mother’s tenderness for her.”
“Then you must forbid the girl the house,” said the priest, sternly. “You can easily invent a plausible pretext for that, I am sure. Thank her for her services, and—”
“No, no, I should never have the courage to do that,” said the countess, quickly. “Is it not hard enough for me that my other daughter, whose affection would have been so consoling in this trying hour, is in a foreign land, mourning the loss of the father of whom she was so suddenly bereft? And who knows, perhaps Ernestine, too, is dying as I am. Poor child! She was so weak and frail when she went away! Oh, was there ever a mother as much to be pitied as I am?”
And two burning tears fell from Madame de Beaumesnil’s eyes.
“Calm yourself, my sister,” said the abbé, soothingly; “do not grieve so. Put your trust in Heaven. Our Saviour’s mercy is great. He has sustained you through this solemn ceremony, which was, as I told you, merely a precaution, for, God be praised! your condition, though alarming, is by no means hopeless.”
Madame de Beaumesnil shook her head sadly, as she replied:
“I am growing weaker fast, my father, but now that my last duties are performed I feel much calmer. Ah, if I did not have my children to think of, I could die in peace.”
“I understand you, my sister,” said the priest, soothingly. Then watching Madame de Beaumesnil’s face closely all the while, he continued:
“I understand you, my sister. The future of your child, your legitimate child, — I cannot and must not speak of the other, — her future excites your liveliest apprehensions — and you are right — an orphan — and so young, poor child!”
“Alas! yes, a mother’s place can never be filled.”
“Then why do you hesitate, my sister?” said the abbé, slowly and impressively, “why do you hesitate to assure this beloved daughter’s future happiness? Why have you never permitted me — though I have long desired the favour — to introduce to you that good and devout young man, that model of wisdom and virtue, of whom I have so often spoken. Your mother’s heart would long since have appreciated this pa
ragon of Christian virtues; and sure, in advance, of your daughter’s obedience to your last wishes, you could have recommended him to her by a few lines, which I myself would have delivered to the poor child. You could easily have advised her to take for her husband M. Célestin de Macreuse. Your daughter would then be sure of a most estimable and devout husband, for—”
“My father,” interrupted Madame de Beaumesnil, without making any effort to conceal the painful feelings that this conversation was awakening. “I have told you that I do not doubt the great worth of this gentleman you have so often mentioned to me, but my daughter Ernestine is not sixteen yet, and I am not willing to insist upon her marrying a man she does not even know, for the dear child has so much affection for me that she would be quite capable of sacrificing herself to please me.”
“We will say no more about it, then, my dear sister,” said the abbé, with a contrite air. “In calling your attention to M. Célestin de Macreuse, I had but one object in view. That was to save you from the slightest anxiety concerning your dear Ernestine’s future. You speak of sacrifices, my sister, but permit me to say that the great danger is that your poor child will be sacrificed some day to some man who is unworthy of her, — to some irreligious, dissipated spendthrift. You are unwilling to influence your daughter in her choice of a husband, you say. But alas! who will guide her in her choice if she has the misfortune to lose you? Will it be her selfish, worldly relatives, or will your too artless and credulous child blindly yield to the promptings of her heart. Ah, my sister, think of the dangers and the deception to which she will inevitably be exposed! Think of the crowd of suitors which her immense fortune is sure to attract! Ah, believe me, my sister, it would be wiser to save her from these perils in advance by a prudent and sensible choice.”
“Forgive me, my father,” said Madame de Beaumesnil, greatly agitated, and evidently desirous of putting an end to this painful conversation; “but I am feeling very weak and tired. I appreciate and am truly grateful for the interest you take in my daughter. I shall do my duty faithfully by her so long as I am spared. Your words will not be forgotten, I assure you, my father, and may Heaven give me the strength and the time to act.”