by Eugène Sue
“But no, however frank you may be, however great a lover of truth, your sincerity, I am sure, would not exceed certain limits—”
“Those you yourself prescribe, mademoiselle; no others.”
“Are you in earnest?”
“I am, I assure you.”
“The question I am about to put to you, monsieur, will seem so peculiar, so bold, perhaps.”
“Then, mademoiselle, I shall tell you that it seems strange and bold, that is all.”
“I don’t think I shall ever dare—”
“Ah, mademoiselle, you seem to be afraid of frankness, in your turn,” said Olivier, laughing.
“Say, rather, that I tremble for your sincerity; it will have to be so great, so rare, to stand my test.”
“You need have no fears, I will vouch for it, mademoiselle.”
“Well, monsieur, what do you think of my appearance?”
“Mademoiselle,” stammered Olivier, who was not in the least prepared for such a brusque and embarrassing question; “really — I—”
“Ah, you see that you dare not say what you think, monsieur,” exclaimed Ernestine, gaily. “But wait, to put you quite at your ease, let us suppose that on leaving this entertainment you should meet one of your friends, and in telling him about the young ladies you danced with, what would you say about me if you should happen to remember that I was one of your partners?”
“Well, mademoiselle,” responded Olivier, who had partially recovered from his surprise, “I should merely say to my friend, ‘I saw a young lady whom nobody asked to dance. This interested me in her, so I engaged her for the next quadrille, not supposing that our conversation would prove particularly interesting, for not knowing the young lady at all, I had nothing but commonplaces to say to her. But quite the contrary. Thanks to my partner, our conversation was extremely animated, and the time passed like a dream.’”
“And what if your friend should perhaps ask if this young lady was pretty or ugly?”
“I should say that I had not been able to distinguish her features very well from a distance,” replied Olivier, intrepidly, “but on seeing her closer, and looking at her more attentively, and more particularly after I had heard her talk, I found her face so gentle and kind and characterised by such an expression of winning frankness that I ceased to think that she was not pretty. But I should add, still speaking to my friend, of course: ‘Do not repeat these remarks made to you in confidence, for it is only women of great good sense and amiability who ask for, or forgive, sincerity.’ It is consequently only to a very discreet friend that I should say this, mademoiselle.”
“I thank you so much, monsieur. I am grateful, you have no idea how grateful, for your frankness,” said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in such a sincere and earnest voice that Olivier, surprised and touched in spite of himself, gazed at the girl with lively interest.
Just then the dance ended, and Olivier took Ernestine back to Herminie, who was waiting for her; then, impressed by the singular character of the young girl with whom he had just danced, he withdrew himself a little apart to think over their strange conversation.
“You enjoyed yourself very much, did you not, Ernestine?” asked Herminie, affectionately. “I knew it by your face. You talked all the time you were dancing.”
“M. Olivier is very pleasant; besides, knowing that you were so well acquainted with him made me feel perfect confidence in him at once.”
“And he deserves it, I assure you, Ernestine. No one could have a better heart or a nobler character. His most intimate friend” — and the duchess blushed almost imperceptibly— “tells me that M. Olivier works like a slave at the most uncongenial employment in order to utilise his leave and assist his uncle, a retired officer of marines, crippled with wounds, who resides in this same house and has only his pension to live on.”
“This doesn’t surprise me at all, Herminie. I knew that M. Olivier must have a kind heart.”
“He is as brave as a lion, too, with it all. His friend, who served in the same regiment, has told me of many deeds of wonderful valour on M. Olivier’s part.”
“That seems only natural to me. I have always believed that good and kind-hearted people were the bravest,” replied Ernestine. “You, for example, must be very courageous, Herminie.”
The conversation between the two young girls was again interrupted by a young man, who, after interchanging a quick glance with Herminie, politely invited Ernestine to dance.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil saw the look, and it made her blush and smile. Nevertheless, she made an engagement to dance the next quadrille, but as soon as the young man had walked away Ernestine gaily remarked to her new friend:
“You are making me a very dangerous person, my dear Herminie.”
“Why do you say that, Ernestine?”
“That invitation I just received—”
“Well, what of it?”
“Was all your work.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, you said to yourself, ‘This poor Ernestine must, at least, dance twice during the evening. Everybody is not as kind-hearted as M. Olivier, but I am queen here, and I will give orders to one of my subjects.’”
But just then Queen Herminie’s subject came to say that the quadrille was forming.
“Good-bye, Madame Sybil,” exclaimed Herminie, shaking her finger threateningly at Mlle. de Beaumesnil. “I’ll teach you not to be so proud of your wonderful powers of divination.”
The young girl had scarcely walked away with her partner before Olivier came up, and, seating himself beside the duchess, said:
“Who is that young girl I just danced with?”
“An orphan who supports herself by her embroidery, M. Olivier, and who is not very happy, I think, for you can not imagine the touching way in which she thanked me for my attention this evening. It was this that made us friends so quickly, for I never saw her until to-night.”
“That is what she meant, I suppose, by speaking so artlessly of what she called your compassion, and mine.”
“Poor child! She must have been very unkindly treated, and is still, perhaps, to make her so grateful for the slightest show of interest.”
“Hers is certainly a very original character. You can’t imagine what a strange question she asked me, imploring me to be perfectly frank all the while.”
“No, I can not.”
“Well, she asked me whether I thought her pretty or ugly.”
“What a strange child! And what did you answer?”
“I told her the truth, as she insisted.”
“What! M. Olivier, did you really tell her that she wasn’t pretty?”
“I certainly did, adding, however, — and that, too, was the truth, — that she had such a frank and gentle manner that it made one quite forget that she was not pretty.”
“Great heavens! M. Olivier,” cried Herminie, almost in affright, “that wasn’t a pleasant thing for her to hear. And she did not seem hurt?”
“Not the least bit in the world. Quite the contrary, in fact, and that was what surprised me so much. When one asks questions of this nature, a request to be frank generally means that you are to lie; while she thanked me in such an earnest and pathetic way for my sincerity that I was really touched, in spite of myself.”
“Do you know what I think, M. Olivier? I really believe the poor child must have been very unkindly treated at home. She must have been told a hundred times that she was a monster of ugliness, and, finding herself for the first time in her life with some one she really felt that she could trust, she wanted to know the truth in regard to herself.”
“You are probably right, Mlle. Herminie, and what touched me, as it did you, was to see with what gratitude the poor girl welcomed the slightest sign of interest, provided it was sincere.”
“Would you believe it, I have seen big tears well up in her eyes more than once this evening, M. Olivier?”
“I, too, somehow fancied that her gaiety concealed a habitual melancholy. She was tr
ying to forget herself, perhaps.”
“And then her trade, which unfortunately requires such an expenditure of time and labour, is so unremunerative, poor child! If the trials of poverty should be added to her other troubles—”
“I fear that is only too probable, Mlle. Herminie,” said Olivier, feelingly. “She is, indeed, very much to be pitied!”
“Hush, here she comes,” said Herminie. Then she added: “But she is putting on her wrap; they must be taking her away.”
And in fact, Ernestine, behind whom Madame Laîné was walking with an imposing air, came to the door, and made a slight movement of the head to Herminie as if to indicate that she was leaving with regret.
The duchess hastened to her new friend. “What! you are going already?” she asked.
“I must,” answered Ernestine, with a meaning look at innocent Madame Laîné.
“But you will come next Sunday, will you not? You know we shall have a thousand things to say to each other.”
“I hope to come, my dear Herminie, I shall be so anxious to see you again.”
Then with a gracious bow to the young hussar, Ernestine said:
“Au revoir, M. Olivier.”
“Au revoir, mademoiselle,” replied the young soldier, with a bow.
An hour afterwards Mlle. de Beaumesnil and Madame Laîné were safe within the walls of the Hôtel de la Rochaiguë.
CHAPTER IV.
REASON ASSERTS ITSELF.
ON HER RETURN from Madame Herbaut’s little entertainment, mademoiselle opened her journal and wrote as follows:
“Thank Heaven, my darling mamma; the inspiration to which I yielded was a wise one!
“What a cruel lesson I received at first, then how much valuable information, and lastly what delightful compensation!
“Two persons with true, honest hearts manifested a genuine interest in me.
“A genuine, unselfish interest this time, for these persons, at least, have not even a suspicion that I am the richest heiress in France.
“On the contrary, they believe me to be poor, almost on the verge of absolute want, in fact; and then, what is more, they have been perfectly honest with me. I know it, I am certain of it!
“Judge of my happiness! I have met some one at last whom I feel I can trust, I, who have come to distrust everybody and everything, thanks to the fulsome flattery of those around me.
“At last I know what I am really worth — how I really appear in the eyes of others.
“I am far from pretty; there is nothing in the world about me worthy of the slightest notice. I am one of those persons who must pass through life unnoticed unless some compassionate heart should be touched by my naturally gentle and rather melancholy ways.
“The feeling I must really inspire, if I inspire any feeling at all, is that sort of affectionate commiseration that truly noble souls feel when they are brought into close contact with an inoffensive creature who is suffering from some hidden sorrow.
“If this commiseration ever attracts one of these noble natures to me, what it will find and love in me is sweetness of disposition combined with an intense longing for mutual sincerity.
“This, then, is precisely what I am, — nothing less, nothing more!
“And when I compare these slight attractions, the only ones I possess, with the marvellous charms and perfections with which my flatterers have endowed me; when I think of the sudden and irresistible passions I have inspired in persons who have scarcely exchanged a word with me; when I think of the sensation I create in fashionable circles, and then think of the modest entertainment this evening, where I was invited to dance only from a feeling of pity, and where I saw all the other young girls chosen in preference to me, because I was the least attractive one present, — oh, mother, I, who never hated any one in my whole life before, now feel that I hate as deeply as I despise these persons who have so shamefully deceived me by their base flattery.
“I am astonished at all the bitter, insolent, and opprobrious epithets which occur to me, and with which I long to crush my deceivers some day, or, rather, when a test to which I mean to subject them at that grand ball next Thursday has wholly convinced me of their deceitfulness and treachery.
“Alas! my dear mother, suppose any one had told me a short time ago that I, who am naturally so timid, should make such a bold resolve some day!
“But the necessity of escaping the greatest of misfortunes imparts courage and determination even to the most timid.
“But, as I have said before, my dear mother, the cruel lesson I received was not without its compensations.
“In the first place, I have gained, I am sure, a generous and sincere friend. Seeing me slighted and neglected, a charming young girl took pity on me. She came to me, and endeavoured to console me with wonderful cleverness and kindness.
“I felt, or, rather, I feel, for her the tenderest gratitude.
“Oh, if you only knew, mother, how novel and pleasant and delightful it was for me, the richest heiress in France, to find some one who, upon seeing me neglected, and, as she supposed, unhappy, on that very account manifests the most touching interest in me, — who, in short, loves me for myself alone.
“To be sought out and to be loved on account of your supposed misfortunes, what ineffable happiness this is to a person who, up to that time, has been loved, apparently, only on account of the wealth she is known to possess.
“The sincere affection I have gained this time is unspeakably precious to me, because it gives me the hope of such a happy future. With a tried and trusted friend, what have I to fear? Ah, I have no fear of seeing this friend change some day when I tell her who I really am!
“What I have said in regard to Herminie, for that is her name, also applies to M. Olivier, who might be taken for this young girl’s brother, so great is his kindness of heart and his honesty. Seeing that no one had asked me to dance, it was he who invited me out of pity, and so great is his frankness that he did not deny that he was actuated by motives of compassion. Moreover, when I had the hardihood to ask him if he thought me pretty, he replied that he did not, but that I had a face which was interesting by reason of its gentle, rather sad expression.
“These honest words gave me inexpressible pleasure and satisfaction. I felt that they were true, for they reminded me of what you said to me once, my beloved mother, when you were speaking of my looks; besides, the words were addressed, not to the wealthy heiress, but to the little embroideress.
“M. Olivier is only a common soldier, I know; but he must have received an excellent education, for he expresses himself admirably and his manners are perfect. Besides, he is as kind-hearted and good as he is brave, for he evinces a truly filial devotion for his aged uncle, a retired naval officer.
“Oh, mother, what noble and courageous natures these are! How entirely at ease one feels with them! How their frankness and sincerity rejoices one’s heart! How healthy and wholesome to the soul such association is! What serenity and cheerful resignation they display under adverse circumstances, for both these young people are obliged to work hard, — Herminie, for a mere subsistence; M. Olivier, to increase his old uncle’s inadequate means.
“To work for a living!
“And yet Herminie told me if work should fail me at any time she would do her best to secure me employment from a large establishment for which she had occasionally worked herself, for I had no idea yet what a dreadful thing it was to be out of work.
“To be out of work!
“Great Heavens, that means to lack food! That means want, misery, death itself, perhaps!
“All the merry, laughing girls I saw at this little entertainment, girls who are, like Herminie, dependent entirely upon their own exertions for a livelihood, may know all the horrors of abject want to-morrow, if work should fail them!
“Is there no one to whom they can go and say, ‘I am brave and willing, only give me work?’
“But such a state of things is unjust! It is shameful! Is there no su
ch thing as pity for the woes of others in the world? Is it a matter of little or no consequence that there should be so many people in the world who do not know whether they will have food on the morrow?
“Oh, mother, mother, now I understand the vague fear and uneasiness I experienced when they told me I was so rich! I had good reason to say to myself, with something akin to remorse:
“Such vast wealth for myself alone? And why?
“Why should I have so much and others nothing?
“How did I acquire this immense fortune?
“Alas! I acquired it only by your death, my mother, and by your death, my father.
“So I had to lose those I held most dear in the world in, order to become so rich.
“In order that I may be so rich, it is necessary, perhaps, that thousands of young girls like Herminie should be always in danger of want, — happy to-day, filled with despair to-morrow.
“And when they have lost their only treasures, the lightheartedness and gaiety of youth, when they are old, and when not only work, but strength is lacking, what becomes of these unfortunates?
“Oh, mother, the more I think of the terrible difference between my lot and that of Herminie and so many other young girls — the more I think of the dangers that surround me, of all the nefarious schemes of which I am the object because I am rich, it seems to me that wealth imparts a strange bitterness to the heart.
“Now my reason has at last asserted itself, I must satisfy myself of the omnipotent power of wealth over venal souls; I must see to what depths of degradation I, a girl of sixteen, can make those around me stoop. Yes, for my eyes are open now. I realise with profound gratitude that M. de Maillefort’s revelations alone started this train of thought that is making everything more and more clear to me every minute.
“I do not know, but it seems to me, my dear mother, that I can express my thoughts more clearly now, that my mind is developing, that my faculties are awakening from a sort of stupor, that my character is undergoing a decided change in many respects, and that, while it remains keenly susceptible to all that is sincere and generous, it is becoming strongly antagonistic and aggressive to all that is false, base and mercenary.