Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Yes, her poverty, for, wounded to the heart by her mother’s death, and dangerously ill for six weeks, the young girl had been unable to give the music lessons which were her only means of support, and her little store of savings had been swallowed up in the expenses of her illness, so, while waiting for the pay for the lessons resumed only a few days before, Herminie had been obliged to pawn some silver purchased in an hour of affluence, and on the paltry sum thus obtained she was now living with a parsimony which want alone can teach.

  On seeing this pale but beautiful girl, whose clothing indicated extreme poverty, in spite of its scrupulous neatness, the baron and his wife exchanged glances of surprise.

  “I am Madame de la Rochaiguë, mademoiselle,” said the baroness. “What can I do for you?”

  “I came, madame, to rectify a mistake,” replied Herminie, blushing deeply, “and return this five hundred franc note which was sent to me by — by the late Madame de Beaumesnil’s notary.”

  In spite of her courage, Herminie felt the tears rush to her eyes on uttering her mother’s name, but making a violent effort to conquer her emotion, she held out the bank-note enclosed in an envelope, bearing this address:

  For Mlle. Herminie,

  Singing Teacher.

  “She Held Out the Bank-note”

  “Ah, yes, it was you, mademoiselle, who used to play and sing for Madame de Beaumesnil.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “I recollect now that the family council decided that five hundred francs should be sent to you for your services. It was considered that this amount—”

  “Would be a suitable, sufficient, and satisfactory remuneration,” added the baron, sententiously.

  “And if it is not, the complaint should be made to the notary, not to us,” added the baroness.

  “I have come, madame,” said Herminie, gently but proudly, “to return the money. I have been paid.”

  No one present realised or could realise the bitter sorrow hidden in these words:

  “I have been paid.”

  But Herminie’s dignity and disinterestedness, a disinterestedness which the shabby garments of the young girl rendered the more remarkable, made a deep impression on Madame de la Rochaiguë, and she said:

  “Really, mademoiselle, I can not praise too highly this delicacy and keen sense of honour on your part. The family did not know that you had been paid, but,” added the baroness, hesitatingly, for Herminie’s air of quiet dignity impressed her not a little,— “but I — I feel that I may, in the name of the family, beg you to keep this five hundred francs — as — as a gift.”

  And the baroness held out the bank-note to the young girl, casting another quick glance at her shabby garments as she did so.

  Again a blush of wounded pride mounted to Herminie’s brow, but it is impossible to describe the perfect courtesy and proud simplicity with which the girl replied:

  “Will you, madame, kindly reserve this generous gift for the many persons who must appeal to you for charity.”

  Then, without another word, Herminie bowed to Madame de la Rochaiguë, and turned towards the door.

  “Excuse me, mademoiselle,” cried the baroness, “one word more, just one.”

  The young girl, unable to entirely conceal the tears of humiliation repressed with such difficulty until now, turned, and said to Madame de la Rochaiguë, who seemed to have been suddenly struck with a new idea:

  “What do you wish, madame?”

  “I must ask you first to pardon an insistence which seems to have wounded your delicacy, and made you think, perhaps, that I wished to humiliate you, but I assure you—”

  “I never suppose that any one desires to humiliate me, madame,” replied Herminie, gently and firmly, but without allowing Madame de la Rochaiguë to finish her sentence.

  “And you are right, mademoiselle,” responded the baroness, “for it is an entirely different sentiment that you inspire. Now, I have a service, I might even say a favour, to ask of you.”

  “Of me?”

  “Do you still give piano lessons, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “M. de la Rochaiguë,” said the baroness, pointing to her husband, who was smiling according to his custom, “is the guardian of Mlle. de Beaumesnil, who is expected to arrive here this evening.”

  “Mlle. de Beaumesnil!” exclaimed Herminie, with a violent start; “she is coming here — to-day?”

  “As madame has just had the honour to say to you, we expect Mlle. de Beaumesnil, my much loved cousin and ward, will arrive this evening,” said the baron. “These apartments are intended for her,” he added, casting a complacent glance around the magnificent room, “apartments worthy in every respect of the richest heiress in France, for whom nothing is too good—”

  But the baroness, unceremoniously interrupting her husband, said to Herminie:

  “Mlle. de Beaumesnil is only sixteen, and her education is not yet entirely completed. She will need instruction in several branches, and if you can make it convenient to give Mlle. de Beaumesnil lessons in music we should be delighted to entrust her to you.”

  Though the possibility of such an offer had gradually dawned upon Herminie’s mind as the baroness proceeded, the thought that a most lucky chance was about to bring her in contact with her sister so overcame her that she would doubtless have betrayed herself if the baron, eager to improve this fresh opportunity to pose as an orator, had not slipped his left hand in the breast of his tightly buttoned coat, and, with his right hand oscillating like a pendulum, said:

  “Mademoiselle, though we feel it a sacred duty to select our dear ward’s instructors with the most scrupulous care, it is also an infinite satisfaction, pleasure, and happiness to us to occasionally meet persons, who, like yourself, are endowed with all the necessary attributes for the noble vocation to which they have dedicated themselves in the sacred interest of education.”

  This speech, or rather this tirade, which the baron uttered in a single breath, fortunately afforded Herminie time to recover her composure, and it was with comparative calmness that she turned to Madame de la Rochaiguë, and said:

  “I am deeply touched, madame, by the confidence you manifest in me. I shall try to prove that I am worthy of it.”

  “Very well, mademoiselle, as you accept my offer I will notify you as soon as Mlle. de Beaumesnil is ready to begin her lessons, for she will probably need several days in which to recover from the fatigue of her journey.”

  “I will wait, then, until I hear from you before coming to Mlle. de Beaumesnil,” said Herminie. Then she bowed and withdrew.

  It was in an ecstasy of delight that the girl returned to her humble home.

  Delicacy, a truly laudable pride, and filial love of the purest and most elevated kind would prevent Herminie from ever revealing to her sister the bond of union between them, even as these same sentiments had given her strength to keep silence before Madame de Beaumesnil; but the prospect of this speedy meeting plunged the young artiste into a transport of delight, and brought her the most unexpected consolation.

  Moreover, her natural sagacity, together with a vague distrust of both M. and Madame de la Rochaiguë, whom she had just seen for the first time, told Herminie that this child of sixteen summers, this sister whom she loved without even knowing her, should have been entrusted to the care of very different persons; and if her expectations did not deceive her, the affection she hoped to arouse in her sister’s heart might be made to exert a very beneficial influence.

  It is almost unnecessary to say that, in spite of her very straitened circumstances, it never once occurred to Herminie to compare the almost fabulous wealth of her sister with her own condition, which was that of a poor artiste exposed to all the trying vicissitudes of sickness and poverty.

  Proud and generous natures diffuse around them a radiance which not unfrequently melts even the thick ice of selfishness and egotism, as in the preceding interview, when Herminie’s dignity, exquisite grace,
and simplicity of manner had awakened so much interest and extorted such respect from M. and Madame de la Rochaiguë, — worldly-minded and unsympathising though they were, — that they had entirely of their own accord made the young girl the offer that so rejoiced her heart.

  The baron and his wife and sister, left alone after Herminie’s departure, went up to their own apartments to hold a conference on the subject of Ernestine de Beaumesnil’s arrival and the tactics that should be pursued.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE SOLEMN COMPACT.

  THEY HAD SCARCELY reached the drawing-room on the floor above before Helena de la Rochaiguë, who had seemed very thoughtful ever since Herminie’s arrival, remarked to the baroness:

  “I think, sister, that you did wrong to select that girl for Ernestine’s music-teacher.”

  “Wrong? And why?” demanded the baroness.

  “The girl seems to me to be very proud,” replied Helena, placidly. “Did you notice how haughtily she returned that bank-note, though the shabbiness of her clothing showed conclusively that she was in great need?”

  “It was that very thing that influenced me,” answered the baroness. “There is something so interesting in such a proud refusal on the part of a poor person; besides, this young girl had such a charming dignity of manner that I was forced, even against my better judgment, to make her the offer you censure, my dear sister.”

  “Pride should never be considered other than reprehensible,” said Helena, sanctimoniously. “It is the worst of the seven great sins. Pride is the exact opposite of Christian humility, without which there is no salvation,” she added, “and I fear this girl will exert a most pernicious influence over Ernestine de Beaumesnil.”

  Madame de la Rochaiguë smiled faintly as she stole a furtive glance at her husband, who gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, which indicated pretty plainly how little respect he felt for Helena’s opinions.

  Long accustomed to regard this devotee as a nonentity, the baron and his wife never for a moment supposed that this narrow-minded, bigoted old maid, who never lost her temper, no matter how great the provocation might be, and who did not utter a dozen words in the course of a day, could ever have a thought beyond those connected with the performance of her religious duties.

  “We will think over your suggestion, my dear sister,” said the baroness, suavely. “After all, we have made no binding contract with this young person. Your remarks, however, seem to form a natural introduction to the subject of this conference.”

  Instantly the baron sprang up, and turned his chair around so he could rest his hands upon the back of it, and also ensure himself the ample space which his parliamentary attitudes and oratorical gestures demanded. Already, slipping his hand in the breast of his coat, and swaying his right arm to and fro, he was preparing to speak, when his wife said, impatiently:

  “Pardon me, M. de la Rochaiguë, but you must really do me the favour to let your chair alone and sit down. You can express your opinion without any flights of oratory. It will be much better to talk this matter over in a plain matter-of-fact way without indulging in any perorations. Reserve your oratorical powers for the tribune which you are sure to reach sooner or later, and resign yourself to-day to talking like a man of tact and common sense. If you do not, I shall interrupt you every other minute.”

  The baron knew by experience how deeply his wife loathed a speech, so he turned his chair around again and subsided into it with a sigh.

  “Ernestine will arrive this evening, so we must decide upon the course we are to pursue,” began the baroness.

  “Yes, that is absolutely necessary,” replied the baron, “for everything depends upon our harmonious action. We must have the blindest, most entire, most implicit confidence in each other.”

  “Otherwise we shall lose all the advantages we ought to derive from this guardianship,” added the baroness.

  “For of course one does not act as guardian merely for the pleasure of it,” interpolated the baron.

  “On the contrary, we ought to derive both pleasure and profit from the connection,” said the baroness.

  “That is precisely what I meant,” retorted the baron.

  “I do not doubt it,” replied the baroness. Then she added: “Let us agree in the first place that, in all matters relating to Ernestine, we will never act without a full understanding with one another.”

  “That resolution is adopted!” cried the baron.

  “And is eminently just,” remarked Helena.

  “As we long ago broke off all connection with the Comtesse de Beaumesnil, — a woman I never could tolerate,” — continued the baroness, “we know absolutely nothing about Ernestine’s character, but fortunately she is barely sixteen, and in a couple of days we shall be able to read her like a book.”

  “You may trust to my sagacity for that,” said the baron, with a truly Machiavelian air.

  “I shall trust to your penetration, of course, but just a little to my own as well,” responded the baroness. “But whatever kind of a girl Ernestine may be, there is but one course for us to pursue. We must lavish every attention upon her, gratify her slightest wish, try to ascertain her tastes; in short, flatter her, satisfy her every whim, please her in every possible way. We must do all this if we would succeed. As for the means, they will be found when we become acquainted with Ernestine’s habits and tastes.”

  “The sum and substance of the whole matter is this,” began the baron, rising majestically from his chair.

  But at a glance from his wife, he reseated himself, and continued, much more modestly:

  “Ernestine must think and see and act only through us. That is the main thing.”

  “The end justifies the means,” added Helena, devoutly.

  “We are perfectly agreed upon the proper course of action,” remarked the baroness. “Ernestine cannot but feel grateful to us for going up-stairs and giving her possession of the entire lower floor, which it has cost nearly fifty thousand francs to renovate, decorate, and furnish for her use.”

  “And the improvements and furniture will revert to us, of course, as the house is ours,” added the baron; “and you know it was decided in the family council that the richest heiress in France must be suitably housed.”

  “But a much more important and delicate question remains to be discussed,” continued the baroness, “the question as to what is to be done in regard to the suitors who are sure to spring up on every side.”

  “Certain to,” said the baron, avoiding his wife’s eye.

  Helena said never a word, but listened with all her ears.

  “Ernestine is sixteen, nearly old enough to be married,” continued the baroness, “so the relation we hold to her will give us a prodigious amount of influence, for people will think — and rightly — that we shall virtually decide her in her choice of a husband. This fact is already apparent, for, since you were appointed guardian to Ernestine, any number of persons of high position and noble birth have made, and are still making, all sorts of advances and friendly overtures to me in order to get into my good graces, as the saying is.”

  “And I, too, have noticed that people I haven’t seen for ages, and with whom I was never on particularly friendly terms, are endeavouring to renew their acquaintance. The other day, at Madame de Mirecourt’s, I had a crowd around me, I was literally surrounded, beset on every side,” said the baron, complacently.

  “And even the Marquis de Maillefort, whom I have always hated, is no exception to the rule,” added the baroness.

  “And you are right,” exclaimed the baron. “There is no one in the whole world I hate as I hate that infernal hunchback!”

  “I have seen him twice,” Helena said, piously, in her turn. “Every vice seems to be written on his face. He looks like Satan himself.”

  “Well, one day this Satan suddenly dropped down from the clouds, as cool as you please, though he hadn’t set foot in my house for five or six years, and he has called several times since.”
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br />   “If he has taken to flattering you and paying court to you it can hardly be on his own account.”

  “Evidently not, so I am convinced that M. de Maillefort has some ulterior motive, and I am resolved to discover this motive.”

  “I’m sorry to learn that he’s coming here again,” said M. de la Rochaiguë. “He is my greatest antipathy, my bête noire.”

  “Oh, don’t talk nonsense,” exclaimed the baroness, impatiently; “we have got to put up with the marquis, there’s no help for it. Besides, if a man of his position makes such advances to you, how will it be with others? This is an incontestable proof of our influence. Let us endeavour to profit by it in every possible way, and by and by, when the girl is ready to settle down, we shall be stupid indeed if we cannot induce her to make a choice that will be very advantageous to us.”

  “You state the case admirably, my dear,” said the baron, apparently much impressed, while Helena, who was evidently no less deeply interested, drew her chair closer to that of her brother and his wife.

  “And now had we better hasten or retard the moment when Ernestine makes her choice?” asked the baroness.

  “A very important question,” said the baron.

  “My advice would be to defer any decision upon this subject for six months,” said the baroness.

  “That is my opinion, too,” exclaimed the baron, as if this statement of his wife’s views had given him great inward satisfaction.

  “I agree with you perfectly, my brother, and with you, my sister,” said Helena, who had listened silently and with downcast eyes to every word of the conversation.

  “Very well,” said the baroness, evidently well pleased with this harmony of feeling. “And now there can be no doubt that we shall be able to conduct the affair to a successful termination, for we will all take a solemn oath, by all we hold most dear, to accept no suitor for Ernestine’s hand, without warning and consulting one another.”