by Eugène Sue
These untiring young people were whirling swiftly around the room to the inspiring strains of a lively polka; and such was the magic of the strains that even the ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room, in spite of their age and the grave preoccupations of Pope Joan and loto, — the only games Madame Herbaut allowed, — moved their heads to and fro and kept time with their feet, in short, executed a sort of antiquated sitting polka, which testified to the skill of the musician at the piano.
And this musician was Herminie.
About a month had passed since her first meeting with Gerald. Had other meetings followed that interview begun under most unpleasant auspices and ending with a gracious forgiveness? We shall know in due time.
This evening, in a dress of some soft, pale blue material that cost, perhaps, twenty sous a yard, and a large bow of ribbon of the same delicate hue in her magnificent golden hair, the duchess was ravishingly beautiful.
A faint rose tint suffused her cheeks, her large blue eyes shone like stars, and her half smiling scarlet lips revealed a row of pearl-white teeth, while her girlish bosom rose and fell gently beneath the thin fabric that veiled it, and her little foot, daintily clad in a satin slipper, beat time to the strains of the lively polka.
To-day there could be no doubt that Herminie was very happy. Far from holding herself aloof from the amusements of her companions, Herminie greatly enjoyed seeing them enjoy themselves, and always did everything in her power to add to their pleasure, but this generosity of feeling would hardly suffice to explain the exuberance of life and youth and happiness which imparted an unusually radiant expression to the enchanting features of the duchess. One somehow felt that this charming creature knew how charming and lovely and refined she was, and that the knowledge made her, not proud, but happy, — happy like those generous possessors of wealth, who prize their wealth chiefly because it enables them to confer happiness on others.
Though the duchess was deeply interested in her polka and the dancers, she turned her head involuntarily several times on hearing the door open, but on seeing the persons who entered, she seemed rather to reproach herself for her inattention to the business in hand.
The door opened again, and again Herminie cast a quick, almost impatient glance in that direction.
The newcomer this time was Olivier, the commander’s nephew.
Seeing the young soldier leave the door open as if some one was following him, Herminie blushed slightly, and ventured another glance. But alas! in the doorway behind him there appeared a stout, rosy youth of eighteen, with an honest, artless face, and hands encased in green kid gloves.
It is difficult to say why Herminie seemed a little disappointed on the entrance of this youth, — perhaps it was because she hated green kid gloves, — but the disappointment betrayed itself in a charming pout and in the increasing vivacity of the strains to which her little foot was impatiently beating time.
The polka ended, Herminie, who had been at the piano ever since the beginning of the evening, was immediately surrounded, and thanked and complimented and furthermore invited to dance by a number of the young men, but she filled the souls of the aspirants with despair by pleading a slight lameness as an excuse for not dancing that evening.
And you should have seen the gait Herminie adopted, in support of this atrocious falsehood, decided upon the minute she saw Olivier come in alone! Certainly no wounded dove ever dragged her little pink foot along with a more distressed air.
Inconsolable at this accident which deprived them of the much coveted pleasure of dancing with the duchess, the aspirants, hoping for some compensation, offered their arm to the interesting cripple, but she had the cruelty to prefer the support of Madame Herbaut’s eldest daughter, and repaired with her to that lady’s room to rest and get a little fresh air, she said, as the windows of that apartment overlooked Commander Bernard’s garden.
Herminie had hardly left the room, leaning on Hortense Herbaut’s arm, when Mlle. de Beaumesnil arrived, accompanied by Madame Laîné.
The richest heiress in France wore a dress of simple white muslin, with a narrow blue sash, and her entrance was unnoticed, though it occurred during the interval between two quadrilles.
Ernestine was not pretty, neither was she ugly, so no one paid the slightest attention to her; and as the young girl compared this reception with the flattering eagerness with which people had crowded around her heretofore, her heart sank, and she began to realise the truth of M. de Maillefort’s words.
“They knew my name at the other entertainments,” Ernestine said to herself, “and it was only the heiress that they gazed at, and flattered, and besieged with attentions.”
Madame Laîné was just introducing Ernestine to Madame Herbaut when that lady’s eldest daughter, who had accompanied Herminie to the bedroom, said, after a glance into the drawing-room:
“I must leave you, my dear duchess. I notice that a lady has just come in who wrote to mamma this morning, asking permission to bring a young relative with her, so you see—”
“Why, go, of course, my dear Hortense. You must do the honours of your house, certainly,” replied Herminie, not sorry, perhaps, to be left alone awhile.
So Mlle. Herbaut rejoined her mother, who was welcoming Ernestine with simple cordiality.
“You will soon become used to our ways, my dear,” she was saying. “The young girls and the young men dance in the dining-room, while their mothers and fathers — when they come — play cards in the drawing-room, so you see each guest amuses himself to his liking.”
Then, to her daughter, she added:
“Hortense, take mademoiselle to the dining-room. You, my dear friend,” she continued, addressing the governess, “must come to the Pope Joan table. I know your taste, you see.”
As we said before, this introduction had taken place in the interval between the polka and a quadrille, and a young painter, a very good musician, having taken Herminie’s seat, now struck a few chords as a signal for the dancers to take their places.
The Herbaut girls, being daughters of the house, and being also extremely pretty and good-natured, seldom lacked for partners, and Olivier, wearing with much grace the dashing uniform which would have sufficed to distinguish him from the other men, even if he had not been remarkably prepossessing in appearance, approached Mlle. Herbaut just as she was entering the dining-room, in company with Ernestine, and said:
“You haven’t forgotten, I hope, that this quadrille belongs to me, Mlle. Hortense. Don’t you think we had better take our places?”
“I will be at your service in a second, M. Olivier,” replied Hortense, who was conducting Mlle. de Beaumesnil towards a long couch, on which several other young girls were seated.
“I hope you will pardon me for leaving you so soon,” she remarked to Ernestine, “but I am engaged for this dance. Won’t you take a seat here on the couch. I’m sure you will not lack for partners.”
“Pray do not trouble yourself any further about me, mademoiselle,” replied Ernestine.
The sounds of the piano becoming more and more peremptory, Hortense Herbaut hurried off to join her partner, and Mlle. de Beaumesnil seated herself on the couch.
The test on which Ernestine had so courageously resolved was beginning in earnest. Near her sat five or six young girls, the least attractive, it must be admitted, of the guests, and who, not having been engaged in advance, like the belles of the ball, were modestly waiting for an invitation to take part in the quadrille.
Either because Ernestine’s companions were prettier than she was, or because their manner was more attractive, she saw one after another of them invited, without any apparent notice being taken of her.
Only one very plain-looking young girl was sharing Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s neglected condition when some one exclaimed:
“Another couple is needed! We must have another couple here!”
The youth so gorgeously adorned with the apple-green kid gloves was anxious to do his part towards filling the vacan
cy, so, seeing two young girls still unengaged, he rushed forward to invite one of them, but instead of making his choice unhesitatingly, so as to spare the one that was left the petty humiliation of feeling herself weighed in the balance only to be found wanting, he stood for a few seconds as if undecided, and then selected Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s neighbour, his preference being, doubtless, due to the greater showiness of her apparel.
Trivial as this incident seems, perhaps, it would be difficult to describe the intense anguish that wrung Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s heart.
On seeing several of the other young girls invited in turn, Ernestine’s natural modesty had excused the preference thus evinced, but in proportion as the number of her companions diminished, and when she at last found herself left alone with this unprepossessing companion, whose homeliness was not even redeemed by any pretensions to elegance of manner, her heart sank within her, but when she saw herself disdained, as it were, after having been compared with her companion, she experienced a terrible shock.
“Alas!” she said to herself, with infinite sadness, “if I cannot stand comparison with these young girls around me, and particularly with this last one, nobody can ever care for me, and any one who tries to convince me to the contrary must be — I see plainly now — actuated only by base and mercenary motives. All these young girls who have been preferred to me can, at least, feel assured that the preference is sincere, — there are no cruel doubts to mar the pleasure of their innocent triumph; but I — I shall never know even this slight happiness.”
And Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s grief at the thought was so poignant that she had all she could do to repress her tears.
But though these tears did not flow, her pale face betrayed such painful emotion that two generous-hearted people each noticed it in turn.
The quadrille was going on while mademoiselle abandoned herself to these gloomy reflections, and Olivier, who was dancing with Mlle. Hortense Herbaut, found himself directly opposite Ernestine, and thus in a position to observe the humiliating situation in which she was placed, as well as the almost heart-broken expression of her face. Olivier was so deeply touched that he asked:
“Who is that young lady sitting alone over there? I have never seen her here before, I think.”
“No, M. Olivier, she is a stranger. One of mamma’s friends brought her this evening.”
“She is not pretty, and she doesn’t seem to know anybody. At least nobody has asked her to dance. Poor little thing, how dull it must be for her!”
“If I had not been engaged for this dance, I should have stayed with her, but—”
“Of course, Mlle. Hortense, you have your duties as hostess to attend to, but I will certainly ask her to dance the next quadrille with me. I don’t like to see her so neglected.”
“Mother and I will both feel exceedingly grateful to you, M. Olivier. It would be a real deed of charity,” said Hortense.
Almost at the same instant that Olivier first noticed Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s isolation, Herminie entered the salon from the adjoining bedroom, and, walking up to one of the card-tables, leaned over the back of Madame Herbaut’s chair to watch the game. From where she stood she could look straight out into the dining-room through the folding doors, and, chancing to raise her eyes, she exclaimed:
“Why, who is that young girl sitting there alone on the couch, and looking so sad?”
Madame Herbaut, glancing up from her cards, answered:
“It is a young girl one of my friends over there at the Pope Joan table brought with her this evening. She doesn’t know anybody here, and, not being at all pretty, it is not surprising that she has no partner.”
“But the poor child can’t be allowed to sit there alone all the evening,” said Herminie, “so, as I can’t dance myself, I’ll try to entertain the stranger and make the time seem less tedious to her.”
“It is just like you to think of doing such a kind and generous act,” replied Madame Herbaut, laughing, “and I assure you I shall be very grateful to you, for Hortense and Claire have so many other duties on their hands, and I fear there isn’t much likelihood of this young girl’s securing any partners.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, madame,” replied Herminie. “I’m sure I shall be able to save her from any discomfort on that account.”
“How will you do it, my dear duchess?”
“Oh, that is my affair,” laughed Herminie.
And still limping slightly, — deceitful creature that she was, — she walked towards the couch on which Mlle. de Beaumesnil was sitting.
CHAPTER II.
THE DUCHESS ENTERTAINS ERNESTINE.
MLLE. DE BEAUMESNIL, on seeing Herminie approach, was so struck by her remarkable beauty that she entirely failed to notice the slight lameness which the duchess had feigned in order to avoid dancing that evening.
So what was Ernestine’s surprise, when the duchess, seating herself beside her, said, in the most friendly manner:
“I am deputised by Madame Herbaut to come and keep you company for a little while, in place of her daughters, who, of course, have many duties to perform.”
“So some one at least pities me,” thought Mlle. de Beaumesnil, deeply humiliated.
But Herminie’s voice and manner were so sweet and engaging, and the expression of her face was so kind, that Ernestine, reproaching herself for the bitterness of her first thought, replied:
“I thank you very much, mademoiselle, but I fear that by thus detaining you, I shall deprive you of the pleasure of—”
“Of dancing?” asked Herminie, smilingly. “I assure you, mademoiselle, that my foot hurts me too much this evening to permit of my enjoying myself in that way, so I trust you will grant me your companionship as a compensation for my misfortune.”
“Really, mademoiselle, you quite overpower me by your kindness.”
“I am only doing what you would gladly do for me, I am sure, mademoiselle, if you should see me sitting alone, as frequently happens when one attends a little entertainment like this for the first time.”
“I do not believe, mademoiselle,” replied Ernestine, smiling, and now made entirely at ease by these gracious advances,— “in fact, I am sure that you would never be left alone even the first time you went anywhere.”
“Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, it is you who are overwhelming me with compliments now,” laughingly protested Herminie.
“I assure you that I am only saying what I really think,” Ernestine replied so artlessly that the duchess, appreciating the artless flattery, replied:
“I thank you for your very flattering words. I am sure that they are sincere; as for their being really deserved, — that is an entirely different thing. But tell me, what do you think of our little party?”
“It is charming, mademoiselle.”
“I think so, too. Everybody is so gay and animated! Each guest seems determined to make the most of every minute of time. Nor is it strange. Sunday comes only once a week for all of us here, and enjoyment is really enjoyment, while to many people it is a fatiguing occupation. Surfeited with pleasure, they do not even know what it is to be amused; and it seems to me that nothing could be more sad than to be always trying hard to amuse oneself.”
“Oh, yes, it must be sad, as sad as trying to find true affection, when nobody cares for you,” Ernestine answered, unconsciously revealing the thought uppermost in her mind.
There was such an intense melancholy in the girl’s tone and in her face, that Herminie was deeply touched by it.
“Poor child!” she said to herself, “probably she is not a favourite at home, and that makes her all the more sensitive to slights when she is out in company.”
Something Herminie noticed just then seemed to confirm this suspicion, for the progress of the dance having brought the green-gloved youth and his partner directly opposite Ernestine, the duchess saw the favoured one cast several compassionate and rather patronising glances at the less fortunate damsel.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil al
so noticed these glances, and fancied that she must be an object of pity to every one. The thought, of course, wounded her deeply, so one can judge of her gratitude, when Herminie said, with a smile:
“Are you willing to waive all ceremony between us, mademoiselle?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, I find it dreadfully warm here. Would you mind going with me to Madame Herbaut’s chamber to stay awhile?”
“Oh, thank you, mademoiselle, thank you,” exclaimed Ernestine, gratefully, rising eagerly as she spoke.
“But why do you thank me?” asked Herminie, drawing the younger girl’s hand through her arm. “On the contrary, it is I who should thank you for consenting to leave the ballroom on my account.”
“I thank you because I understand your motive, mademoiselle,” replied Ernestine, as they entered Madame Herbaut’s chamber, which they found entirely deserted.
“Well, now that we are alone, explain again why you thanked me a minute ago,” said Herminie, when they had seated themselves.
“Mademoiselle, you are very generous, so you must be equally frank,” began Ernestine.
“Frankness is one of my greatest virtues — or failings, mademoiselle,” replied Herminie, smiling. “But why this appeal to my frankness?”
“Just now, when you asked me to accompany you here because the other room was too warm, you were impelled to do it merely by your kindness of heart. You said to yourself: ‘This poor girl is neglected. No one asks her to dance because she is so unattractive. If she remains here, she will become an object of ridicule, and the knowledge will wound her deeply. I will save her from this humiliation by getting away under some pretext or other.’ That was exactly what you said to yourself. Is it not so?” insisted Mlle. de Beaumesnil, making no effort to conceal her tears this time. “Confess that what I say is only the truth?”
“It is,” said Herminie, with her accustomed honesty. “Why should I not admit that your unpleasant position excited my sympathy?”