by Eugène Sue
“And I thank you for it,” said Ernestine, offering her hand to her companion. “You have no idea how grateful I am, too, for your sincerity.”
“And, as you insist upon my being perfectly frank, I must tell you that you have no idea how deeply you pained me just now,” said Herminie, pressing the proffered hand cordially.
“I?”
“Yes; for when I remarked what a sad thing it must be to strive as hard for enjoyment as some people do, you replied, in accents that touched me to the heart, ‘Yes, it must be as sad as trying to find true affection when nobody cares for you.’ Have I not set you an example of frankness? Can you not be equally frank with me?”
“It is true, mademoiselle, that I do not seem to follow your example in this respect,” said Ernestine, hesitatingly.
“Ah, well, let me ask you just one question, and pray do not attribute it to mere idle curiosity. Can it be that you do not find among your own relatives the affection you long for?”
“I am an orphan,” replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in such a touching voice that Herminie’s sympathy increased.
“An orphan!” she repeated; “an orphan! Alas! I understand, for I, too—”
“You, too, are an orphan?”
“Yes.”
“How glad I am!” exclaimed Ernestine, naïvely. Then thinking how cruel or, at least, how strange the remark must have sounded, she added:
“Forgive me, mademoiselle, forgive me, but—”
“Ah, I think I read your feelings in my turn,” responded Herminie. “Your exclamation simply meant: ‘She knows how sad the lot of an orphan is, and she will love me, perhaps. Perhaps in her I shall find the affection I have failed to find elsewhere.’ Am I right?” added Herminie, offering her hand in her turn. “Have I not read your thoughts aright?”
“Yes, that is true,” replied Ernestine, yielding more and more to the singular charm that pervaded her companion’s every word and look. “You have been so kind to me; you seem so honest and sincere that I do indeed long for your affection, mademoiselle. It — it is an ambition only. I dare not call it a hope, for you scarcely know me,” concluded Ernestine, timidly.
“But do you know me any better than I know you?”
“No, but with you it is very different.”
“And why?”
“Because I am already under deep obligations to you, and yet I ask an even greater favour.”
“But how do you know that I will not be very glad to give you the friendship you ask in exchange for yours? You seem to me well worthy of it,” said Herminie, who, on her side, was beginning to feel an increasing fondness for Ernestine.
Then, suddenly becoming thoughtful, she added: “Do you know that this is very strange?”
“What, mademoiselle?” asked Ernestine, a little worried by the seriousness of her companion’s face.
“We have known each other barely half an hour. I do not know your name, you do not know mine; yet here we are almost exchanging confidences.”
“But why should you be surprised to see affection and confidence spring up suddenly between a benefactress and the person obliged, mademoiselle?” asked Ernestine, timidly, almost imploringly, as if fearing Herminie might regret the interest she had manifested in her up to this time. “I am sure nothing could bring two persons together so quickly and so closely as compassion on one side and gratitude on the other.”
“I am too anxious to believe you not to yield to your arguments very readily,” Herminie answered, half laughingly, half seriously.
“But my reasoning is true, mademoiselle,” said Ernestine, encouraged by her success, and anxious to make her companion share her convictions; “besides, the similarity in our situations helps to bring us together. The fact that we are both orphans is surely a bond between us.”
“It is indeed,” said the duchess, pressing Ernestine’s hand affectionately.
“Then you will really grant me your affection some day?”
“A few minutes ago, without even knowing you, I was touched by your painful position,” replied Herminie. “Now I feel that I love you because it is so evident that you have a kind and noble heart.”
“Oh, if you only knew what pleasure your words give me! I will never prove ungrateful, I swear it, mademoiselle!”
Then as if bethinking herself, she added, “Mademoiselle? It seems to me that it will be very difficult for me to call you that now.”
“And equally difficult for me to reply in the same ceremonious way,” responded the duchess. “So call me Herminie and I will call you—”
“Ernestine.”
“Ernestine,” exclaimed Herminie, remembering that this was her sister’s name, — the name the Comtesse de Beaumesnil had mentioned several times in the young musician’s presence when speaking of her beloved daughter; “you are called Ernestine? You spoke of one bond between us just a moment ago; this is another.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lady to whom I was deeply attached had a daughter who was also named Ernestine.”
“You see how many reasons there are that we should love each other, Herminie,” said Mlle. de Beaumesnil; “and as we are friends now, I am going to ask you all sorts of impertinent questions.”
“Proceed, then!” said Herminie, smiling.
“Well, in the first place, what do you do for a living? What is your profession, Herminie?”
“I give lessons on the piano and in singing.”
“How lucky your pupils are! How kind you must be to them!”
“No, indeed, I am very severe,” replied the duchess, gaily. “And you, Ernestine, what do you do?”
“I — I do embroidery and tapestry work,” Mlle. de Beaumesnil answered, somewhat embarrassed.
“And do you have plenty of work, my dear child?” asked Herminie, with almost maternal solicitude; “work of that kind is usually so very scarce at this season of the year.”
“I came from the country only a short time ago to join my relative here,” replied poor Ernestine, more and more confused; then gathering a certain amount of courage from the very exigency of the situation, she added: “So you see, Herminie, that I have never lacked work yet.”
“If you ever should, I think I might be able to procure it for you, my dear Ernestine.”
“You! and how?”
“I, too, have done embroidery for some of the large shops, when — well, one may surely confess it to a friend — when pupils were scarce, and I had to eke out a living in that way; so as they were very well satisfied with my work at the establishment of which I speak, — one of the largest in town by the way, — I am still on good terms with them, and feel sure that a recommendation from me would ensure you work if you need it.”
“But as you embroider, too, Herminie, I should be depriving you of one of your resources, and if pupils should become scarce again, what would you do?” asked Ernestine, deeply touched by Herminie’s generous offer.
“Oh, I have other resources now,” answered the other girl, proudly. “I copy music, too. But the important thing, you see, Ernestine, is to be certain of work, for you, too, alas! know, perhaps, that it is not enough for those who labour for their daily bread to have energy and determination; they must have employment as well.”
“Certainly, and that is very hard to find sometimes,” said Ernestine, sadly, thinking for the first time of the sad lot of many young girls, and reflecting that her new friend had doubtless been in the deplorable situation of which she spoke.
“Yes, and it is terrible for one to see oneself nearing the end of one’s resources, no matter how willing to work and how courageous one may be,” replied Herminie, sadly. “And it is for this very reason that I will do everything in my power to spare you such misery as that, my poor Ernestine. But tell me, where do you live? I will call and see you sometime when I am out giving lessons, that is, if it is not too far out of my way, for I have to be very saving of my time.”
Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s embarrassment was
very great, and it was still farther augmented by the painful necessity of being compelled to utter a falsehood, so it was with no little hesitation that she replied:
“I should be very glad to see you, my dear Herminie, but — but my relative—”
“Poor child, I understand,” said Herminie, quickly, unconsciously coming to Ernestine’s assistance. “You are not in your own home, of course, and your relative makes you painfully conscious of the fact, sometimes, perhaps.”
“That is it exactly,” said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, delighted with this excuse. “My relative is not bad at heart, but so peevish, and such a grumbler. I don’t believe there was ever another such grumbler in the world,” she added, smiling.
“That is enough for me,” exclaimed Herminie, laughing in her turn. “If she’s a grumbler, she’ll never have a visit from me. The only way out of the difficulty, Ernestine, is for you to come and see me whenever you have time.”
“I was just going to ask you to grant me that privilege.”
“Yes, yes, you shall come and see how pretty my room is,” said the duchess.
Then remembering that her new friend was not as comfortably housed, Herminie added:
“When I say that, I don’t really mean it. My room is really very unpretentious.”
But Ernestine understood Herminie’s disposition and character pretty well already, so she said, smiling:
“Be honest, Herminie.”
“About what?”
“Your room is charming, and you only retracted your words because you thought I would feel badly because I hadn’t a room as pretty as yours.”
“Do you know, Ernestine, that you would be a very dangerous person to have around if any one had a secret, for you seem to divine everything.”
“I was sure of it! Your room is charming. How I shall enjoy seeing it.”
“You must not say how I shall enjoy seeing it. You must say, ‘Herminie, I am coming to take a glass of milk with you some morning, soon.’”
“Oh, I’ll say that with all the pleasure in life.”
“And I accept your offer with equal pleasure. Only when you come, Ernestine, don’t let it be any later than nine o’clock, for I begin my round of lessons at ten. And now what day will you come?”
Mlle. de Beaumesnil was rescued from this embarrassing situation by Providence in the shape of a handsome non-commissioned officer of hussars, who was no other than Olivier.
Faithful to the promise made to Mlle. Herbaut, the kind-hearted fellow had come to ask Ernestine to dance the next quadrille with him, so, after having greeted Herminie in the most cordial and respectful manner, he bowed low before Ernestine, with the stereotyped phrase:
“Will mademoiselle do me the honour to dance the next quadrille with me.”
CHAPTER III.
A BOLD QUESTION.
MLLE. DE BEAUMESNIL was doubly surprised, as the invitation must have been premeditated, inasmuch as she was not then in the ball-room, so having no answer ready in her astonishment, Herminie came to her assistance by saying gaily to the young soldier:
“I accept your invitation in mademoiselle’s name, M. Olivier, for she is quite capable of depriving herself of the pleasure of dancing merely to keep me company.”
“As mademoiselle has accepted for me,” added Ernestine, smiling, “I can but follow her example.”
Olivier bowed again, and turning to Herminie remarked:
“Unfortunately I arrived very late this evening, mademoiselle, for I found you had not only ceased playing, but had also abandoned all idea of dancing.”
“You did come very late, M. Olivier, for I recollect seeing you come in at the conclusion of the last polka I played.”
“Alas! mademoiselle, you see in me a victim of my own patience and another’s unpunctuality. I was waiting for a friend who intended to come with me.”
Herminie blushed slightly and averted her eyes.
“But this friend did not come,” Olivier added.
“Possibly he is ill, M. Olivier,” said the duchess, with feigned indifference.
“No, mademoiselle, he is perfectly well, for I saw him only a few hours ago, but I think his mother must have detained him, for the kind-hearted fellow never opposes her in anything.”
The words seemed to dispel the slight cloud which had gathered, now and then, on the brow of the duchess during the evening, and she answered, gaily:
“Then you do very wrong to blame your friend if he has such a good excuse for his absence, M. Olivier.”
“I am not blaming him in the least, Mlle. Herminie. I am only pitying him for not having come, and pitying myself for arriving so late, as I might, perhaps, have had the pleasure of dancing with mademoiselle sooner,” added Olivier, addressing Mlle. de Beaumesnil, so she would not feel that she was left out of the conversation.
Suddenly the words, “Take your places!” resounded through the room, accompanied by a few chords on the piano.
“I am at your service, mademoiselle,” said Olivier, offering his arm to Ernestine.
The girl arose to accompany Olivier, but Herminie caught her by the hand, and whispered:
“One moment, Ernestine, let me arrange your sash. It needs pinning.”
And the duchess, with charming solicitude, straightened a disordered fold in the sash, fastened it with a pin she took from her own girdle, smoothed out a slight wrinkle in Ernestine’s corsage, — rendered her, in short, all those little kindly services which two devoted sisters are always performing for each other.
“Now, mademoiselle,” remarked Herminie, with kindly gravity, after another brief survey of Ernestine’s toilet, “I will let you go and dance, but you must promise to enjoy yourself immensely.”
Mlle. de Beaumesnil was so touched by Herminie’s little attentions that, before accepting Olivier’s arm, she found an opportunity to imprint a light kiss on the cheek of the duchess, and whisper:
“Thanks again! Many, many thanks!”
And really happy for the first time since her mother’s death, Ernestine left Herminie, took the arm Olivier offered, and accompanied him into the ball-room.
The young hussar was remarkably handsome and distinguished-looking, cordial in his manner towards men, and extremely deferential to women. This, together with the fact that he wore his showy uniform, decorated with the cross he had so bravely won, with easy grace, made him a great favourite at Madame Herbaut’s entertainments, so Ernestine excited not a little envy and jealousy when she appeared in the ball-room on Olivier’s arm.
Even the most artless and ingenuous women are quick to discern the effect they produce upon other women.
And in Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s case, these powers of penetration were united with a firm determination to observe every incident of the evening with the closest attention, so, on perceiving the envy which Olivier’s preference excited, the young girl’s gratitude increased.
She did not doubt in the least that Olivier, out of the kindness of his heart, had wished to avenge the painful, almost humiliating slight she had received earlier in the evening, and a natural feeling of gratitude made Mlle. de Beaumesnil treat Olivier with less reserve, perhaps, than was quite proper in the extremely delicate position in which she was placed.
Olivier, in promising Mlle. Herbaut that he would ask Ernestine to dance, had merely yielded to a generous impulse, for, seeing Mlle. de Beaumesnil such a long way off, he had thought her almost ugly. He had never exchanged a word with her, he did not know whether she was clever or stupid, so, glad to find a topic of conversation in the warm friendship that seemed to exist between Herminie and Ernestine, he remarked to the latter, in one of the pauses of the dance:
“You seem to know Mlle. Herminie very well, mademoiselle. What a charming young lady she is!”
“I agree with you perfectly, monsieur, though I met Mlle. Herminie this evening for the first time.”
“Indeed!”
“Our sudden intimacy surprises you, does it not, monsieur? But why should
it? Sometimes the richest are the most generous. They do not wait to be asked; they offer their largess to you of their own accord. That was the case with Herminie this evening.”
“I understand, mademoiselle. You knew no one here, and Mlle. Herminie—”
“Seeing me alone, had the goodness to come to me. This can not surprise you very much, however.”
“Why not, mademoiselle?”
“Because a moment ago you, monsieur, were actuated by the same charitable impulse in asking me to dance.”
“Charitable? What an expression to use in this connection, mademoiselle!”
“It is the right one, however.”
“Quite the contrary, mademoiselle.”
“Come, admit it, monsieur. You ought always to tell the truth, you know.”
“Frankly, mademoiselle,” responded Olivier, smiling in his turn, “should I be performing an act of charity — allow me to make this comparison — in culling a forgotten or unseen flower?”
“Say, rather, a rejected one.”
“So be it, mademoiselle. But might this not merely show the poor taste of a person who would prefer a big red poppy to a modest violet.”
And Olivier cast a laughing glance at the buxom lass whose gaudy attire did seem to justify the comparison.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil could not help smiling, but she answered, with a shake of the head:
“Ah, monsieur, kind as your reply is, it proves that I am doubly right.”
“How is that, mademoiselle?”
“You took compassion on me, and you still have sufficient compassion to be unwilling to admit the fact.”
“You do right to insist upon frankness, mademoiselle. It is a thousand times better than compliments.”
“And what I certainly expect of you, monsieur.”
“Well, yes, mademoiselle; seeing that you were the only person not dancing, I thought how dull it must be for you, and I resolved to engage you for the next quadrille. I hope my sincerity has not offended you, but you insisted—”
“Certainly, monsieur; and I am so grateful for your sincerity that if I dared—”
“Do not hesitate, I beg of you, mademoiselle.”