by Eugène Sue
Herminie could not repress a movement of astonishment, mingled with anxiety.
“Yes, I know,” continued the hunchback. “You loved Madame de Beaumesnil devotedly. Your grief at her death was the sole cause of your illness.”
“Monsieur,” cried Herminie, terrified to see her secret, or rather that of her mother, almost at the mercy of a stranger, “I do not know what you mean. I conceived for Madame de Beaumesnil, during the brief time we were together, the respectful affection she deserved. Like all who knew her, I deeply deplored her death, but—”
“It is only right and natural that you should answer me thus, my dear child,” said the marquis, interrupting Herminie. “You cannot have much confidence in me, not knowing who I am, not knowing even my name. I am M. de Maillefort.”
“M. de Maillefort!” exclaimed the young girl, remembering that she had written a letter addressed to the marquis for her mother.
“You have heard my name before, then!”
“Yes, monsieur. Madame la Comtesse de Beaumesnil, not feeling strong enough to write herself, asked me to do it in her stead, and the letter you received on the night of her death—”
“Was written by you?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Then you must feel, my dear child, that you owe me your entire confidence. Madame de Beaumesnil had no more devoted friend than myself, — and it was upon the strength of this friendship of more than thirty years’ standing, that she felt she could rely upon me sufficiently to entrust me with a sacred mission.”
“Can he mean that my mother confided the secret of my birth to him?” thought Herminie.
The marquis, noticing Herminie’s increasing agitation, and confident that he had at last found Madame de Beaumesnil’s illegitimate daughter, continued:
“The letter you wrote for Madame de Beaumesnil requested me to come to her even at that late hour of the night. You remember this fact, do you not?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“I obeyed the summons as soon as I received it. The countess felt that her end was fast approaching,” continued the hunchback, in a voice that trembled with suppressed emotion. “After commending her daughter Ernestine to my care, Madame de Beaumesnil implored me to — to do her a last service. She entreated me to — to divide my care and interest between her daughter and — and another young girl no less dear to her—”
“He knows all,” Herminie said to herself, with a sinking heart. “My poor mother’s sin is no secret to him.”
“This other young girl,” continued the hunchback, more and more overcome, “was an angel, the countess told me. Yes, those were her very words, — an angel of virtue and courage, a brave and noble-hearted girl,” added the marquis, his eyes wet with tears. “A poor, lonely orphan, who, though destitute alike of friends and resources, had struggled bravely on against a most adverse fate. Ah, if you could have heard the accents of despairing tenderness in which that most unhappy woman and unfortunate mother spoke of that young girl; for I divined — though she made no such admission, deterred, doubtless, by the shame of such an avowal — that only a mother could speak thus and suffer thus on thinking of her daughter’s fate. No, no, it was not a stranger that the countess commended to my care with so much earnestness on her death-bed.”
The marquis, overcome by emotion, paused an instant and wiped his tear-dimmed eyes.
“Oh, my mother,” Herminie said to herself, making a brave effort at self-control, “then your last thoughts were indeed of your unhappy daughter!”
“I made the dying woman a solemn promise that I would fulfil her last request, and divide my solicitude between Ernestine de Beaumesnil and the young girl the countess implored me so earnestly to protect. Then she gave me this purse,” continued the hunchback, drawing it from his pocket, “which contains, she assured me, a small competence which she charged me to deliver to the young girl whose future would thus be assured. But, unfortunately, Madame de Beaumesnil breathed her last without having told me the orphan’s name.”
“Thank Heaven! He only has his suspicions, then!” Herminie said to herself, rapturously. “I shall not have to bear the anguish of seeing a stranger know my mother’s fault. Her memory will remain untarnished.”
“You can judge of my anxiety and chagrin, my dear child,” continued the marquis. “How was I to comply with Madame de Beaumesnil’s last request, ignorant of the young girl’s name? Nevertheless, I began my search, and, at last, after many fruitless attempts, I have found that orphan girl, beautiful, courageous, generous, as her poor mother said, and that girl is — is you — my child — my dear child,” cried the hunchback, seizing both Herminie’s hands.
Then, in a transport of joy and ineffable tenderness, he exclaimed:
“You see I have indeed the right to call you my child. No, never was there any father prouder of his daughter!”
“Monsieur,” answered Herminie, in a voice she tried hard to make calm and firm, “though it costs me a great deal to destroy this illusion on your part, it is my duty to do it.”
“What!” cried the hunchback.
“I am not the person you are seeking, monsieur,” replied Herminie, firmly.
The marquis recoiled a step or two and gazed at the young girl without being able to utter a word.
To resist the influence of the revelation M. de Maillefort had just made to her, Herminie needed a heroic courage born of all that was purest and noblest in her character, — filial pride.
The young girl’s heart revolted at the mere thought of confessing her mother’s disgrace to a stranger by acknowledging herself to be Madame de Beaumesnil’s daughter.
For what right had Herminie to confirm this stranger’s suspicions by revealing a secret the countess herself had been unwilling to confess to her most devoted friend, a secret, too, which her mother had had the strength to conceal from her when clasped to her bosom, her child’s heart-throbs mingled with her own.
While these generous thoughts were passing swiftly through Herminie’s mind, the marquis, astounded by this refusal on the part of a young girl whose identity he could not doubt, tried in vain to discover the reason of this strange determination on her part.
At last he said to Herminie:
“Some motive, which it is impossible for me to fathom, prevents you from telling me the truth, my dear child. This motive, whatever it may be, is certainly noble and generous; then, why conceal it from me, your mother’s friend, a friend who feels that he is obeying your mother’s last wishes in coming to you?”
“This conversation is as painful to me as it is to you, M. le marquis,” Herminie replied, sadly, “for it brings to mind a person who treated me with the greatest kindness during the brief time I was called upon to minister to her as a musician, and in no other capacity, I give you my word. I think that this declaration should be sufficient, and that you should spare me further entreaties on this subject. I repeat that I am not the person you are seeking.”
On hearing this assurance again repeated, some of M. de Maillefort’s doubts returned; but unwilling to abandon all hope, he exclaimed:
“No, no, I cannot be mistaken. Never shall I forget Madame de Beaumesnil’s anxiety, nor her prayers for—”
“Permit me to interrupt you, M. le marquis, and to say to you that, under the painful influence of a scene that must have been particularly trying to you, you doubtless mistook the nature of the interest Madame de Beaumesnil felt in the orphan of whom you speak. To defend Madame de Beaumesnil’s memory against such a mistake, I have no other right than that of gratitude, but the respectful regard I and every one else felt for Madame la comtesse convinces me that this is an error on your part.”
This manner of looking at the matter accorded too well with M. de Maillefort’s own secret hopes for him to turn an entirely deaf ear to this argument. Still, remembering the terrible anguish of the countess when she commended the orphan to his protection, he said:
“This much is certain: no one would speak
in such terms of a stranger.”
“How do you know that, M. le marquis?” retorted Herminie, gaining ground inch by inch. “I have heard many instances cited of Madame de Beaumesnil’s boundless generosity. Her affection for some persons she assisted was, I have heard, as great as that she manifested for the orphan she asked you to protect, and as this girl, you say, is as deserving as she is unfortunate, it seems to me a sufficient explanation of the great interest the countess took in her. Possibly, too, she felt her protection to be a duty. Possibly some friend had confided the girl to Madame de Beaumesnil’s care, as that lady in turn confided her to yours.”
“But in that case, why should she have laid such stress upon concealing the name of the donor from the person to whom I was to deliver this money?”
“Because Madame de Beaumesnil, in this case, perhaps, as in many others, wished to conceal her benevolence.”
And Herminie having now entirely recovered her coolness and composure, presented these arguments with such readiness that the marquis at last began to think that he had been deceived, and that he had suspected Madame de Beaumesnil unjustly.
Then a new idea occurred to him, and he exclaimed:
“But even admitting that the merit and the misfortunes of this orphan are her only claim, do not these conditions seem especially applicable in your own case? Why should it not be you the countess meant?” he asked.
“I knew Madame de Beaumesnil too short a time for me to deserve any such mark of her bounty, M. le marquis; besides, as the countess did not designate me by name, how can I, — I appeal to your own delicacy of feeling, — how can I accept a large sum of money on the mere supposition that it may have been intended for me?”
“All that would be very true if you did not deserve the gift.”
“And in what way have I deserved it, M. le marquis?”
“By your attentions to the countess, and the alleviation of suffering she secured through you. Why is it at all unlikely that she should have desired to compensate you as she did others?”
“I do not understand you, monsieur.”
“The will of the countess contained several legacies. You seem to be the only person who was forgotten, in fact.”
“I had no right to expect any bequest, M. le marquis. I was paid for my services.”
“By Madame de Beaumesnil?”
“By Madame de Beaumesnil,” answered Herminie, firmly.
“Yes, you said as much to Madame de la Rochaiguë on so nobly returning—”
“Money that did not belong to me, M. le marquis, that is all.”
“No!” exclaimed M. de Maillefort, his former convictions suddenly regaining the ascendency. “No, I was not mistaken, — instinct, reason, conviction, all tell me that you are—”
“M. le marquis,” said Herminie, interrupting the hunchback, for she was anxious to put an end to this painful scene, “one word more, and only one. You were Madame de Beaumesnil’s most valued friend, for on her death-bed she entrusted her daughter to your care. Would she not also have told you in that supreme moment if she had another child?”
“Great Heaven, no!” exclaimed the marquis, involuntarily. “The unhappy woman would have shrunk from the shame of such an avowal.”
“Yes, I am sure of that,” thought Herminie, bitterly. “And is it I who will make the disgraceful confession from which my poor mother shrank?”
The conversation was here interrupted by M. Bouffard’s entrance. The emotion of the marquis and of the young girl was so great that they had not noticed the opening of the hall door.
The once ferocious landlord seemed to be in a very different mood. Something must have appeased his wrath, for his coarse and brutal manner had vanished, and his rubicund visage was wreathed with a crafty smile.
“What do you want?” demanded the marquis, curtly. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to make my excuses to mademoiselle.”
“Your excuses?” said the young girl, greatly surprised.
“Yes, mademoiselle, and I wish to make them before monsieur, as I reproached you for not paying me in his presence, so I now declare before him, — I swear it in the presence of God and man, — I swear that I have been paid all that mademoiselle owed me.”
“You have been paid!” cried Herminie, in amazement; “and by whom, monsieur?”
“Oh, you know very well, mademoiselle,” responded M. Bouffard, with the same coarse laugh. “You know very well! What a sly one you are!”
“I have no idea what you mean, monsieur,” said Herminie, indignantly.
“Bah!” cried M. Bouffard, shrugging his shoulders, “I suppose you’re not going to try to make me believe that handsome young men pay the rent for pretty blondes merely for the love of God!”
“Some one has paid my rent for me, monsieur?” demanded Herminie, blushing scarlet.
“Yes, some one has paid it, and in shining yellow gold,” replied M. Bouffard, drawing several gleaming coins from his pocket and tossing them up in the air. “Look at the yellow boys, ain’t they pretty, eh?”
“And this gold, monsieur,” said Herminie, unable to believe her own ears,— “this gold — who gave it to you?”
“Oh, don’t try to play innocent, my dear. The person who paid me is a handsome fellow, tall, and dark complexioned, with a brown moustache. That description would answer for his passport, if he wanted one.”
The marquis had listened to M. Bouffard first with surprise, and then with utter dismay.
This young girl, in whom he had taken so deep an interest, had suddenly become hateful in his eyes; so coldly bowing to Herminie, he walked silently to the door, with an expression of bitter disappointment on his face.
“Ah,” he thought, “still another lost illusion!”
“Remain, monsieur,” cried the young girl, running after him, all of a tremble, and overcome with shame, “I entreat you — I implore you to remain!”
CHAPTER XXIX.
HUMILIATION AND CONSOLATION.
ON HEARING HERMINIE’S appeal, M. de Maillefort turned and asked, coldly and sternly:
“What do you want, mademoiselle?”
“What do I want, monsieur?” the girl exclaimed, her cheeks on fire, her eyes sparkling with tears of wounded pride and indignation. “What I want is to tell this man in your presence that he lies.”
“I?” snorted M. Bouffard, indignantly. “Really, this is a little too much, when I have the yellow boys right here in my pocket.”
“But I tell you that you lie!” cried the girl, advancing towards him, with a commanding gesture. “I have given no one the right to pay you, or to make me the victim of such an insult.”
In spite of the coarseness of his nature, M. Bouffard was not a little impressed by this display of fiery indignation, so retreating a step or two, the owner of the house stammered by way of excuse:
“But I swear to you, mademoiselle, upon my sacred word of honour, that, as I was going up-stairs a few minutes ago, I was stopped on the first landing by a handsome, dark-complexioned young man who gave me this gold to pay your rent. I’m telling you the honest truth; upon my word I am!”
“Oh, my God, to be humiliated and insulted like this!” cried the young girl, her long repressed sobs bursting forth at last.
After a moment, turning to the hunchback, a silent witness of the scene, Herminie said, in entreating tones, her beautiful face bathed with tears:
“Oh, in pity, do not believe that I have merited this insult, M. le marquis.”
“A marquis!” muttered M. Bouffard, hastily removing his hat, which he had kept upon his head up to that time.
M. de Maillefort, turning to Herminie, his face beaming as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his heart, took her by the hand as a father might have done, and said:
“I believe you, I believe you, my dear child! Do not stoop to justify yourself. Your tears, and the evident sincerity of your words, as well as your just indignation, all satisfy me that you are speaking th
e truth, and that this insulting liberty was taken without your knowledge or consent.”
“I am certainly willing to say this much,” said M. Bouffard, “though I’ve been in the habit of coming to the house almost every day, I never saw this young man before. But why do you feel so badly about it, my dear young lady? Your rent is paid, and you may as well make the best of it. There are plenty of other people who would like to be humiliated in the same way. Ha, ha, ha!” added M. Bouffard, with his coarse laugh.
“But you will not keep this money, monsieur?” cried Herminie. “I beg you will not; sell my piano, — my bed, — anything I possess, but in pity return this money to the person who gave it to you. If you keep it, the shame is mine, monsieur!”
“How you do go on!” exclaimed M. Bouffard. “I didn’t feel insulted in the least in pocketing my rent. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, you know. Besides, where am I likely to find this handsome young man to return him his money? He is a stranger to me. I haven’t the slightest idea who he is or where he came from; but it can easily be arranged. When you see the fellow you can tell him that it was against your wishes that I kept his money, but that I am a regular old Shylock and all that. Put all the blame on me, I don’t mind; I’ve got a thick hide.”
“Mademoiselle,” said M. de Maillefort, addressing Herminie, who, with her face buried in her hands, was silently weeping, “will you consent to take my advice?”
“What would you have me do, monsieur?”
“Accept from me, who am old enough to be your father, — from me, who was the devoted friend of a person for whom you had as much respect as affection, — accept from me a loan sufficient to pay this gentleman. Each month you can pay me in small instalments. As for the money monsieur has already received, why, he must do his best to find the stranger who gave it to him. If he fails, he must give the money to some local charity.”
Herminie listened to this proposal with the liveliest gratitude.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, M. le marquis,” she exclaimed. “I accept your kind offer gladly, and am proud to be under obligations to you.”