by Eugène Sue
Madame de la Rochaiguë, without appearing to notice the hunchback’s preoccupation, continued, gaily:
“It is really very amusing to listen to all the rumours that are afloat concerning our ward’s inheritance, as well as the large but singular legacies left by the countess.”
“Indeed?”
“There is little or no foundation for these absurd reports,” continued the baroness, in supercilious tones, for she had always disliked Madame de Beaumesnil. “The countess left a few trifling legacies to three or four old retainers, and small gratuities to her other servants. That is all the magnificent legacies, of which everybody is talking, amount to. But while the countess was in such a generous mood, she ought not to have been guilty of the ingratitude of forgetting a poor girl to whom she certainly owed some recognition of her services.”
“To whom do you refer?” asked the marquis, concealing the pain he felt on hearing the baroness thus asperse Madame de Beaumesnil’s memory. “Of what young girl are you speaking?”
“You have not heard, then, that, during the last days of her life, the countess, at the advice of her physician, summoned to her bedside a young and talented musician, who assisted not a little in assuaging the lady’s sufferings?”
“It seems to me that I do recollect hearing this fact spoken of,” answered the marquis.
“Well, does it not seem monstrous that the countess did not leave even a slight legacy to this poor girl? It may have been an oversight on her part, but, to me, it looks exceedingly like ingratitude.”
The marquis knew Madame de Beaumesnil’s kindness and nobility of heart so well that he, too, was struck by this apparent forgetfulness of the young artiste’s claims.
After a moment of reflection, however, he vaguely felt that, inasmuch as such an oversight, if real, was inexplicable, there must have been something more than a mere failure of memory in the circumstance, so he said:
“You are sure, madame, that this young girl received no remuneration from Madame de Beaumesnil for her services? You are positive of it?”
“We were so unanimously convinced of the fact,” replied the baroness, delighted at this opportunity to show her generosity, “that, deploring this ingratitude on the part of the countess, we decided to send five hundred francs to the young girl.”
“That was only just.”
“I think so, too, but what do you think came of it?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Well, the young artiste brought the five hundred francs back to us and told us that she had been paid.”
“She must be a noble-hearted girl,” exclaimed the marquis; “but you see from that, that the countess had not forgotten the young musician, after all. Doubtless, she must have given her a suitable token of her gratitude while she was alive instead of leaving her a legacy.”
“You would not think so, monsieur, if you had seen how indicative of decent poverty the young girl’s garments were. She would certainly have been better dressed if she had been a recipient of Madame de Beaumesnil’s bounty. In fact, the young artiste, who, by the way, is wonderfully handsome, so excited my compassion and admiration by the delicacy of her conduct that I suggested she should come and give Ernestine music lessons.”
“You did? Why, that was very noble of you!”
“Your astonishment is not very flattering, marquis.”
“You mistake admiration for astonishment, baroness. I am not surprised in the least. I know the wonderful kindness and gentleness of your heart too well,” added M. de Maillefort, concealing his hope that he had at last found the desired clue under his usual persiflage.
“Instead of making fun of my kindness of heart, marquis,” replied Madame de la Rochaiguë, “you ought to imitate it by endeavouring to procure the poor young girl some pupils among your numerous acquaintances.”
“Certainly,” replied the marquis, rather indifferently, however; “I will do the best I can for your protégée, though I am not considered much of a musical connoisseur, I fear. But what is this young girl’s name, and where does she live?”
“Her name is Herminie, and she lives on the Rue de Monceau. I don’t remember the number, but I will ascertain and let you know.”
“I will secure some pupils for Mlle. Herminie if I can; but, in return, if I should ever ask your protection for some suitor for Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s hand, — some suitor whom I see getting the worst of it in the mêlée, you will grant my request, will you not?”
“You set a high value on your services, I must say, marquis,” replied the baroness, laughing in a very constrained way; “but I am sure we shall come to an amicable understanding.”
“You can not imagine how deeply I rejoice in advance at the touching harmony which is henceforth to exist between us, my dear baroness. Well, after all, let us admit that this little orgy of sincerity has been of immense advantage to us. We are full of confidence in each other now, are we not, my dear baroness?”
“Unquestionably, and mutual confidence, alas, is so rare!” exclaimed the baroness, with a sigh.
“But all the more precious when it is found, eh, my dear baroness?”
“Unquestionably, my dear marquis. Au revoir, then, if you must go. I shall hope to see you again very soon.”
“I trust so,” responded M. de Maillefort, as he left the room.
“Detestable man!” exclaimed Madame de la Rochaiguë, springing from the sofa, and beginning to pace the room excitedly, while she gave vent to her long-repressed feelings. “Every word that accursed hunchback uttered contained either a sarcasm or a threat,” she added, venomously.
“He’s a contemptible scoundrel! There isn’t the slightest doubt of it,” exclaimed the baron, suddenly drawing aside the portières at one of the doors opening into the drawing-room.
CHAPTER XXIII.
AN INVOLUNTARY AVERSION.
ON SEEING M. de la Rochaiguë thus reappear near the sofa where she had sat during her conversation with M. de Maillefort, the baroness exclaimed:
“What, monsieur, were you there?”
“Certainly, for suspecting that your interview with M. de Maillefort would prove exceedingly interesting as soon as you two were left alone together, I slipped into the little salon, and have been listening there behind the portières close to you.”
“You heard what that detestable marquis said, then?”
“Yes, madame, and I also noticed that you were so weak as to ask him to come again, instead of giving him plainly to understand that his presence here was no longer desired. You had a fine opportunity to do it, and you should have availed yourself of it.”
“But, monsieur, is not the Marquis de Maillefort as dangerous in one place as another? He made me understand that very plainly; besides, one can not treat a man of M. de Maillefort’s lineage and importance in a rude manner.”
“What do you suppose would happen if you did?”
“This: the marquis would undoubtedly demand satisfaction of you for such an insult. Are you not aware that he has fought a number of duels, all of which resulted disastrously for his opponents, and have you not heard that only a few days ago he forced M. de Mornand to fight merely on account of an ill-timed jest in which the latter indulged?”
“But I, madame, am not as obliging and simple as M. de Mornand. I would not have fought.”
“Then, M. de Maillefort would have made your life a burden by his sneers and ridicule, until you would have been compelled to hide yourself from very shame.”
“But are there no laws to protect a man from such a monster? Ah, if I were in the Chamber of Peers such scandalous proceedings should not go unpunished! An honest man should not be at the mercy of the first cutthroat that happens to come along!” exclaimed the indignant baron. “But in heaven’s name, what is the matter with him, — what does this damned marquis want, anyhow?”
“You must have very little penetration, monsieur, for he certainly talked with almost brutal frankness, it seemed to me. Others wo
uld have resorted to circumlocution and even falsehood, but M. de Maillefort? — no, ‘You intend to marry off Mlle. de Beaumesnil,’ he says. ‘I intend to see in what manner and to whom you marry her, and if your choice does not please me I shall interfere.’ This is what he had the audacity to say to me, and he is in a position to carry out his threat.”
“Fortunately, Ernestine seems to have taken an intense dislike to this horrid hunchback, and Helena must tell her that he was the mortal enemy of the countess.”
“What good will that do? Suppose we should find a party that suited us and Ernestine, isn’t the marquis, by his sneers and sarcasms, quite capable of inspiring the innocent girl with an aversion for the very person we want her to marry? And it is not only here, in this house, that he can play us this shameful trick, — and many others that he is capable of concocting, — but he can do it anywhere and everywhere he meets Ernestine, for we cannot hide her. We shall be obliged to take her out into society.”
“Is it this that you fear most? I should be of the same opinion, perhaps, if—”
“Do you suppose I know what I fear? I would a hundred times rather have some real danger to contend with, no matter how threatening it might be, for then I should at least know what the danger was, and perhaps contrive to escape it, while now the marquis will keep us in a state of perplexity that may cause us to commit a thousand blunders, and hamper us in every way. Consequently there is nothing for us to do but look the situation straight in the face and say to ourselves: ‘Here is a man of wonderful discernment and diabolical cleverness, who sees, or will endeavour to see and know, all that we do, and who, unfortunately, has a thousand means of attaining his ends, while we have no means whatever of escaping his surveillance.’”
“I am more and more convinced that the opinion I expressed a short time ago is a just and correct one,” said the baron, complacently.
“What opinion?”
“That the marquis is an abominable scoundrel.”
“Good evening, monsieur,” said Madame de la Rochaiguë, wrathfully, starting towards the door.
“What, you are going like that when we are in such desperate straits, and without coming to any decision!”
“Decision about what?”
“Why, about what we shall do in the matter.”
“I know one thing!” exclaimed Madame de la Rochaiguë, completely beside herself, and stamping her foot angrily, “this abominable hunchback has demoralised me completely, and you — you finish by utterly stupefying me with your asinine remarks.”
And Madame de la Rochaiguë flounced out of the room, slamming the door violently in the baron’s very face.
During the conversation between Madame de la Rochaiguë and M. de Maillefort, Helena had taken Mlle. de Beaumesnil back to her own room. As she was about to leave the young girl she said:
“Sleep well, my dear Ernestine, and pray to the Saviour that he will not allow the face of that frightful M. de Maillefort to trouble your dreams.”
“I really don’t know why it is, mademoiselle, but he almost terrifies me.”
“The feeling is very natural,” replied the devotee, gently; “more natural than you suppose, for if you knew—”
As Helena paused, the young girl said:
“You did not finish, mademoiselle.”
“There are some things which it pains one to say against one’s neighbour, even though he may deserve it,” remarked the devotee, with a saintly air. “This M. de Maillefort—”
“Well, mademoiselle?”
“I am afraid of paining you, my dear Ernestine—”
“Go on, I beg of you, mademoiselle.”
“Ah, well, as you insist, I am compelled to tell you that this Marquis de Maillefort has always been one of your mother’s bitterest enemies.”
“My mother’s?” cried Mlle. de Beaumesnil, wonderingly.
Then she added, with touching naïveté:
“Some one must have deceived you, mademoiselle. My mother could not have had any enemies.”
In a tone of tender commiseration, Helena replied, shaking her head:
“My dear child, such artlessness does your heart credit; but, alas! the best and most inoffensive people are exposed to the animosity of the wicked. Have not the gentle lambs ravening wolves for enemies?”
“But how had my mother ever wronged M. de Maillefort, mademoiselle?” asked Ernestine, with tears in her eyes.
“Why, in no way. Just Heaven! one might as well say that an innocent dove would attack a tiger.”
“Then what was the cause of M. de Maillefort’s animosity?”
“Alas! my poor child, I cannot tell you that. It would be too revolting — too horrible,” answered Helena, sighing heavily.
“Then I have good cause to loathe this man, and yet I blamed myself for yielding to my involuntary aversion.”
“Ah, my dearest child, may you never have a less justifiable aversion,” said the devotee, sanctimoniously, lifting her eyes heavenward.
Then she added:
“I must leave you, now, my dear Ernestine. Sleep sweetly. To-morrow morning, at nine o’clock, I will come for you to go to church.”
“Good-bye until to-morrow, mademoiselle; but, alas! you leave me with sad thoughts, — my mother had an enemy.”
“It is best to know the real character of the wicked, my dear Ernestine, for then one can at least guard against their evil doing. And now good-bye until to-morrow morning.”
“Good night, mademoiselle.”
So Mlle. de la Rochaiguë departed, proud of the perfidious cunning with which she had aroused a cruel distrust of M. de Maillefort in Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s heart.
Ernestine left alone, rang for her governess, who also acted as her personal attendant.
Madame Laîné entered.
She was about forty years of age, with a somewhat insipid face, and a pleasant, though rather obsequious manner, in which there was a touch of servility that made it very different from the devotion of a faithful nurse, which is always instinct with the dignity of disinterested affection.
“Does mademoiselle wish to retire?” asked Madame Laîné.
“No, my good Laîné, not yet. Bring me my writing-desk, please.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
The desk having been brought from Ernestine’s chamber, her governess said:
“There is something I wish to tell mademoiselle.”
“What is it?”
“Madame has hired two other maids for mademoiselle, and—”
“I have told you that I require no other personal attendants than you and Thérèse.”
“I know it, mademoiselle, and I said as much to madame, but she thinks you are not sufficiently well served.”
“You satisfy me perfectly.”
“But madame says these young women are to stay in case you should need them, and this suits all the better as madame dismissed her own maid recently, and these women are to attend her in the meantime.”
“That is all very well,” responded Ernestine, indifferently.
“Mademoiselle desires nothing?”
“No, I thank you.”
“Does mademoiselle find herself comfortable here?”
“Very comfortable.”
“The apartments are certainly superb, but there is nothing too good for mademoiselle. Every one says so.”
“My good Laîné, you may put out what I shall require for the night,” said Ernestine, without paying any attention to the governess’s remark. “I can undress without your assistance, but I would like you to wake me a little before eight to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
Madame Laîné turned as if to leave the room, but as Ernestine opened her desk to write, the governess paused, and said:
“I have a favour to ask of mademoiselle.”
“What is it?”
“I should be very grateful to mademoiselle if she would have the goodness to spare me a couple of hours to-morrow, or t
he day after, to go and see a relative of mine, Madame Herbaut, who lives in the Batignolles.”
“Very well, go to-morrow morning, while I am at church.”
“I thank mademoiselle for her kindness.”
“Good-night, my good Laîné,” said Ernestine, thus dismissing her governess, who seemed inclined to continue the conversation.
This interview gives a pretty correct idea of the relations that existed between Mlle. de Beaumesnil and Madame Laîné.
The latter had often endeavoured to establish herself on a more familiar footing with her young mistress, but at the very first effort in this direction Mlle. de Beaumesnil always put an end to the conversation, not haughtily nor curtly, but by giving some order in a kindly way.
After Madame Laîné’s departure, Ernestine remained lost in thought for some time; then, seating herself at the table, on which her desk had been placed, she opened it and took out a small book bound in Russia leather, the first leaves of which were already filled.
The history of this book was simple but touching.
On her departure for Italy, Ernestine had promised her mother to write every day a sort of diary of her journey. This promise the girl had kept until the sorrowful days that immediately followed her father’s fatal accident, and the even more terrible days that followed the news of the Comtesse de Beaumesnil’s death; and now that she had rallied a little from these crushing blows, Ernestine found a sort of pious consolation in continuing to write to her mother every day, keeping up the both pleasant and cruel illusion by continuing these confidential revelations.
The first part of this book contained copies of the letters Ernestine had written to her mother while that lady was living.
The second part, separated from the first by a black cross, contained the letters which the poor child had, alas! had no need to recopy.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil seated herself at the table, and, after she had wiped away the tears which the sight of this book always evoked, she wrote as follows:
“I have not written to you, my darling mamma, since my arrival at M. de la Rochaiguë’s house, because I wished to analyse my first impressions carefully.