Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Too shrewd and crafty to press the claims of his protégé further, Abbé Ledoux said, benignly:

  “May Heaven inspire you, my sister. I doubt not that our gracious Lord will make your duty as a mother clear to you. Courage, my sister, courage. And now farewell until to-morrow.”

  “The morrow belongs to God.”

  “I can at least implore him to prolong your days, my sister,” answered the priest, bowing low.

  He left the room.

  The door had scarcely closed behind him before the countess rang for one of her attendants.

  “Is Mlle. Herminie here?” she asked.

  “Yes, madame la comtesse.”

  “Ask her to come in. I wish to see her.”

  “Yes, madame la comtesse,” replied the maid, hastening off to fulfil her employer’s instructions.

  A few minutes afterwards, Herminie, pale and sad, though apparently calm, entered Madame de Beaumesnil’s chamber, with her music books in her hand.

  “I was told that madame la comtesse wished to see me,” she said, with marked deference.

  “Yes, mademoiselle. I have — I have a favour to ask of you,” replied Madame de Beaumesnil, who was racking her brain to devise some way of bringing her daughter closer to her.

  “I am entirely at madame’s service,” Herminie answered, promptly but quietly.

  “I have a letter to write, mademoiselle, — only a few lines, but I am not sure that I shall have the strength to write it. There is no one here that I can ask to do it in my stead. Should it be necessary, would you be willing to act as my secretary?”

  “With the greatest pleasure, madame,” was the ready response.

  “I thank you for your willingness to oblige me.”

  “Does madame la comtesse wish me to get the necessary writing materials for her?”

  “A thousand thanks, mademoiselle,” replied the poor mother, though she longed to accept her daughter’s offer so she might keep her with her as long as possible. “I will ring for some one. I am loath to give you so much trouble.”

  “It is no trouble to me, madame. I will gladly get the necessary materials if you will tell me where to find them.”

  “Over there, on that table near the piano, mademoiselle. I must also ask you to have the goodness to light a candle, — the light from the lamp is not enough. But really I am trespassing entirely too much upon your good nature,” added Madame de Beaumesnil, as her daughter lighted a candle and brought the necessary writing materials to the bedside.

  The countess having taken a sheet of paper and laid it upon a blotting-case placed upon her knees, accepted a pen from the hand of Herminie, who was holding the candle in the other.

  Madame de Beaumesnil tried to write a few words, but her extreme weakness, together with her failing sight, compelled her to desist from her efforts; the pen dropped from her trembling fingers, and, sinking back upon her pillows, the countess said to Herminie, with a forced smile:

  “I am not as strong as I thought, so I shall be obliged to accept your kind offer, mademoiselle.”

  “Madame la comtesse has been in bed so long that she should not be surprised to find herself a little weak,” responded Herminie, anxious to reassure Madame de Beaumesnil and herself as well.

  “You are right, mademoiselle. It was very foolish in me to try to write. I will dictate to you, if you have no objections.”

  Herminie had not felt at liberty to remove her hat, and the countess, from whom the brim concealed a part of her child’s face, said, with some embarrassment:

  “If you would take off your hat, mademoiselle, you would find it more convenient to write, I think.”

  Herminie removed her hat, and the countess, who was fairly devouring the girl with her eyes, had an opportunity to admire at her ease, with true maternal pride, the charming face and golden tresses of her child.

  “I am at your service now, madame la comtesse,” said Herminie, seating herself at a table.

  “Then will you kindly write this.” And the countess proceeded to dictate as follows:

  “Madame de Beaumesnil would be greatly obliged to M. le Marquis de Maillefort if he would come to her house as soon as possible, even should that be at a late hour of the night.

  “Madame de Beaumesnil, being very weak, is obliged to have recourse to the hand of another person in order to write to M. de Maillefort, to whom she reiterates the assurance of her very highest regard.”

  As Madame de Beaumesnil dictated this note she was assailed by one of those puerile, but no less poignant, fears that only a mother can understand.

  Delighted by the refinement of manner and language she noticed in her daughter, and aware that she was a musical artiste of a high order, the countess asked herself, with a mother’s jealous solicitude, if Herminie’s education was all it should be, and if her child’s great musical talent might not have been cultivated at the expense of other and less showy accomplishments.

  And strange as it may seem, — so important are the merest trifles to a mother’s pride, — at that moment, and in spite of all her grave anxieties, Madame de Beaumesnil was saying to herself:

  “What if my daughter did not spell well? What if her handwriting should prove execrable?”

  This fear was so keen that for a minute or two the countess dared not ask Herminie to show her the letter she had written, but, finally, unable to endure the suspense any longer, she asked:

  “Have you finished, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, madame la comtesse.”

  “Then will you have the goodness to hand me the letter so — so I can see if M. de Maillefort’s name is spelled correctly. I neglected to tell you how it was spelled,” added the countess, unable to invent any better excuse for her curiosity.

  Herminie placed the letter in Madame de Beaumesnil’s hand. And how proud and delighted that lady was when she saw that the spelling was not only absolutely perfect, but that the chirography was both graceful and distinguished.

  “Wonderful! I never saw more beautiful writing!” exclaimed Madame de Beaumesnil, hastily.

  Then, fearing her companion would notice her emotion, she added, more calmly:

  “Will you kindly address the letter now, mademoiselle, to —

  “M. le Marquis de Maillefort,

  “No. 45 Rue des Martyrs.”

  Madame de Beaumesnil then summoned a trusty maid who waited upon her exclusively, and as soon as she came in, said to her:

  “Madame Dupont, you will take a carriage and deliver this letter yourself to the person to whom it is addressed. In case M. de Maillefort is not at home, you are to wait for him.”

  “But what if madame la comtesse should need anything during my absence?” said the maid, evidently much surprised at this order.

  “Attend to my commission,” replied Madame de Beaumesnil. “Mademoiselle here will, I am sure, be kind enough to perform any service I may require.”

  Herminie bowed her assent.

  The countess proceeded to repeat her instructions to her attendant, and while she was thus engaged, Herminie feeling comparatively safe from observation, gazed at Madame de Beaumesnil with a world of love and anxiety in her eyes, saying to herself the while, with touching resignation:

  “I dare not gaze at her except by stealth, and yet she is my mother. Ah, may she never suspect that I know the unhappy secret of my birth.”

  CHAPTER IX.

  THE PRIVATE INTERVIEW.

  IT WAS WITH an expression of almost triumphant satisfaction that Mme. de Beaumesnil watched her maid depart.

  The poor mother felt sure now of at least an hour alone with her daughter.

  Thanks to this happiness, a faint flush overspread her pallid cheeks, her dim eyes began to sparkle with a feverish light, and the intense prostration gave place to an unnatural excitement, for the countess was making an almost superhuman effort to profit by this opportunity to talk with her daughter alone.

  The door had scarcely closed upon the attendant when Madame
de Beaumesnil said:

  “Mademoiselle, will you have the goodness to pour into a cup five or six spoonfuls of that cordial there on the mantel?”

  “But, madame, you forget that the physician ordered you to take this medicine only in small doses,” protested Herminie, anxiously. “At least, it seems to me I heard him give those directions yesterday.”

  “Yes, but I am feeling much better now, and this potion will do me a wonderful amount of good, I think — will give me new strength, in fact.”

  “Madame la comtesse is really feeling better?” asked Herminie, divided between a desire to believe Madame de Beaumesnil and a fear of seeing her deceived as to the gravity of her situation.

  “You can scarcely credit the improvement I speak of, perhaps. The sad rites you witnessed a few minutes ago frightened you, I suppose, and very naturally. But it was only a precaution on my part, for the consciousness of having fulfilled my religious duties, and of being ready to appear before God, gives me a serenity of soul to which the improved condition of which I speak is doubtless due, at least in some measure. I feel sure, too, that the cordial I asked you for just now, but which you refuse to give me,” added Madame de Beaumesnil, smiling, “would do me a great deal of good, and enable me to listen once again to one of the songs which have so often assuaged my sufferings.”

  “As madame insists, I will give her the cordial,” said Herminie.

  And the young girl, reflecting that a larger or smaller dose of the cordial would probably make very little difference, after all, poured four spoonfuls into a cup and handed it to Madame de Beaumesnil.

  The countess, as she took the cup from Herminie, managed to touch her hand, then, rejoiced to have her daughter so near her, sipped the cordial very slowly and then gave such a sigh of weariness as to almost compel Herminie to ask:

  “Is madame la comtesse fatigued?”

  “Rather. It seems to me that if I could sit bolt upright for a little while I should be more comfortable, but I am hardly strong enough to do that.”

  “If madame la comtesse would — would lean upon me,” said the young girl, hesitatingly, “it might rest her a little.”

  “I would accept your offer if I did not feel that I was imposing upon your kindness,” replied Madame de Beaumesnil, delighted at the success of her little ruse.

  Herminie’s heart swelled almost to bursting as she seated herself upon the side of the bed and pillowed the invalid’s head upon her daughter’s bosom.

  As they found themselves for the first time in each others’ arms, so to speak, the mother and daughter both trembled with emotion. Their position prevented them from seeing each others’ faces; but for that Mme. de Beaumesnil, in spite of her vow, might not have been able to guard her secret any longer.

  “No, no, there must be no guilty weakness on my part,” thought Madame de Beaumesnil. “My poor child shall never know this sad secret, I have sworn it. Is it not a piece of unlooked-for good fortune for me to be the recipient of her affectionate care, which I owe to her kindness of heart rather than to filial instinct, of course?”

  “Oh, I would rather die than allow my mother to suspect that I know I am her daughter,” thought Herminie, in her turn. “Possibly she is ignorant of the fact herself. Perhaps it was chance, and chance alone, that brought about my present relations with Madame de Beaumesnil; perhaps I am really only a stranger in her eyes.”

  “I thank you, mademoiselle,” said Madame de Beaumesnil, after a while, but without venturing a glance at Herminie. “I feel more comfortable, now.”

  “Will madame la comtesse allow me to arrange her pillows for her before she lies down again?”

  “If you will be so good,” replied Madame de Beaumesnil, for would not this little service keep her daughter beside her a few seconds longer?

  Mademoiselle and madame la comtesse! If one could but have heard the tone in which the mother and daughter interchanged these cold and ceremonious appellations which had never before seemed so icy in character!

  “I have to thank you once again, mademoiselle,” said the countess, after she had lain down. “I find myself more and more comfortable, thanks to your kind attentions. The cordial, too, seems to have done me good, and I feel sure that I shall have a very comfortable night.”

  Herminie glanced dubiously at her hat and mantle. She feared that she would be dismissed on the maid’s return, for it was quite likely that Madame de Beaumesnil would not care to hear any music that evening.

  Unwilling to renounce her last hope, the young girl said, timidly:

  “Madame la comtesse asked me to bring some selections from ‘Oberon’ this evening, but perhaps she does not care to listen to them.”

  “Quite the contrary, mademoiselle,” said Madame de Beaumesnil, quickly. “You know how often your singing has mitigated my sufferings, and this evening I am feeling so well that music will prove, not an anodyne, but a genuine pleasure.”

  Herminie cast a quick glance at Madame de Beaumesnil, and was struck by the change in that lady’s usually drawn and pallid countenance. A slight colour tinged her cheeks now, and her expression was calm, even smiling.

  On beholding this metamorphosis, the girl’s gloomy presentiments vanished. Hope revived in her heart, and she almost believed that her mother had been saved by one of those sudden changes so common in nervous maladies.

  So inexpressibly pleased and relieved, Herminie took her music and walked to the piano.

  Directly over the instrument hung a portrait of a little girl five or six years of age, playing with a magnificent greyhound. She was not pretty, but the childish face had a remarkably sweet and ingenuous expression. This portrait, painted about ten years before, was that of Ernestine de Beaumesnil, the Comtesse de Beaumesnil’s legitimate child.

  Herminie had not needed to ask who the original of this portrait was, and more than once she had cast a timid, loving glance at this little sister whom she did not know, and whom she would never know, perhaps.

  On seeing this portrait now, Herminie, still under the influence of her late emotion, felt even more deeply moved than usual, and for a minute or two she could not take her eyes off the picture. Meanwhile, Madame de Beaumesnil was tenderly watching the girl’s every movement, and noted her contemplation of Ernestine’s portrait with keen delight.

  “Poor Herminie!” thought the countess. “She has a mother and a sister, and yet she will never know the sweetness of those words: my sister — my mother.”

  And furtively wiping away a tear, Madame de Beaumesnil said aloud to Herminie, whose eyes were still riveted upon the portrait:

  “That is my daughter. She has a sweet face, has she not?”

  Herminie started as if she had been detected in some grievous crime, and blushed deeply as she timidly replied:

  “Pardon me, madame; I — I—”

  “Oh, look at it, look at it all you please,” exclaimed Madame de Beaumesnil, hastily. “Though she is nearly grown now, and has changed very much in some respects, she still retains that same sweet, ingenuous expression. She is not nearly as handsome as you are,” said the poor mother, with secret pride, and well pleased to be able to thus unite her two daughters in the same comparison, “but Ernestine’s face, like yours, possesses a wonderful charm.”

  Then, fearing she had gone too far, Madame de Beaumesnil added, sadly:

  “Poor child! Heaven grant she may be better now!”

  “Are you really very anxious about her health, madame la comtesse?”

  “She has not been at all well for some months past. She grew so rapidly that we were very anxious about her. The physicians advised us to take her to Italy, but my own health would not permit me to accompany her. Fortunately, the latest reports from her are very encouraging. Poor, dear child! She writes every day a sort of journal for me. You can not imagine anything more touching than her artless confessions. I will let you read some extracts from these letters. You will love Ernestine, then; you could not help loving her.”


  “I am sure of that, madame, and I thank you a thousand times for your promise,” said Herminie. “As the last news received from your daughter is so reassuring, pray do not worry any more about her. Youth has so many chances in its favour anywhere, and under the beautiful skies of Italy she is sure to recover her health.”

  A bitter thought flitted through Madame de Beaumesnil’s mind.

  Remembering the expensive journey, the constant care, and the heavy outlay Ernestine’s feeble health had necessitated, the countess asked herself with something closely akin to terror what Herminie would have done — poor, deserted creature that she was! — if she had found herself in Ernestine’s position, and if her life could have been saved only by the assiduous care and expensive travel which the wealthy alone can command.

  This thought excited in Madame de Beaumesnil’s breast a still keener desire to know how Herminie had overcome the many difficulties of her precarious position, for the countess had known absolutely nothing in regard to the girl’s life up to the time when a mere chance had brought the mother and daughter together.

  But how could she solicit these revelations without betraying herself? To what agony she might subject herself by asking her daughter for the story of her life!

  This reflection had always prevented Madame de Beaumesnil from questioning Herminie, heretofore, but that evening, either because the countess felt that the apparent improvement in her condition was a precursor of the end, or because a feeling of tenderness, increased by the events of the evening, proved too strong for her powers of resistance, Madame de Beaumesnil resolved to question Herminie.

  CHAPTER X.

  REVELATIONS.

  WHILE MADAME DE Beaumesnil was silently revolving in her mind the surest means of inducing Herminie to tell the story of her past life, the girl stood turning the pages of her music book, waiting for the countess to ask her to begin.