Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “What noble words, Herminie! How proud M. Gerald must have been of your love! But as you have every chance of happiness, why these tears and your evident despair?”

  “Do you not think that I was more than justified in loving him?” asked the poor girl, trying hard to repress her sobs. “Was not mine a true and noble love. Oh, tell me, is it possible that any one can accuse me—”

  But Herminie could not finish the sentence, for sobs choked her utterance.

  “Accuse you? Mon Dieu! Accuse you of what? Are you not as free as M. Gerald? Does he not love you as much as you love him? Are your positions not equal?”

  “No, no, our positions are not equal,” replied Herminie, dejectedly.

  “What is that you say?”

  “No, our positions are not equal, alas! and that is my chief misfortune, for in order to equalise our positions apparently, Gerald deceived me as to his real station in life.”

  “Great Heavens! Who is he, then?”

  “The Duc de Senneterre.”

  “The Duc de Senneterre!” exclaimed Ernestine, filled with terror for Herminie, as she remembered that Gerald was one of the three suitors for her — Ernestine’s — hand, and that she was to meet him at the ball on the following Thursday. Consequently, he must have deceived Herminie in the most shameless manner, as he was, at that very time, endeavouring to marry a rich heiress.

  Herminie attributed her friend’s intense dismay and astonishment entirely to the startling revelation that had just been made, however, and asked:

  “Tell me, Ernestine, am I not, indeed, unfortunate?”

  “But such a deception on his part was infamous. How did you discover it?”

  “M. de Senneterre himself, feeling unable to endure the life of deceit his first falsehood imposed upon him, but not daring to make the confession himself, entrusted the unpleasant task to M. Olivier.”

  “It should be some comfort to you that M. de Senneterre at least made this confession of his own accord,” said Ernestine.

  “Yes, and, in spite of the grief it has caused me, I see in it a proof of the loyalty I so admired in him.”

  “Loyalty!” exclaimed Ernestine, bitterly. “Loyalty, and yet he deserts you!”

  “Deserts me? Far from it. On the contrary, he renews his offer of his hand.”

  “He, M. de Senneterre?” exclaimed Ernestine, in even greater astonishment “But, in that case, why are you so unhappy, Herminie?” she added.

  “Because a penniless orphan like myself can make such a marriage only at the cost of the bitterest humiliation.”

  Herminie could say no more, for just then the door-bell rang again.

  “Forgive me, my dear Ernestine,” she exclaimed, drying her tears. “I think I know who it is that has just rung. I am obliged to see this visitor and—”

  “Then I will leave you, Herminie,” said Ernestine, rising hastily. “I am sorry, though, to leave you in such grief.”

  “At least wait until my visitor comes in!”

  “Go and open the door, then, Herminie, while I put on my hat.”

  The duchess started towards the door, then, recollecting M. de Maillefort’s deformity, she returned, and said to her friend:

  “My dear Ernestine, in order to spare the person I am expecting the slight annoyance which the expression of your face, when you first perceived his affliction, might cause him, I must warn you that this friend of mine is a hunchback.”

  On hearing this, Mlle. de Beaumesnil suddenly recollected that her governess had told her that the Marquis de Maillefort had asked for Herminie’s address, and a vague fear led her to ask:

  “Who is this friend?”

  “A most estimable man who made my acquaintance by the merest chance, for he is one of the greatest of grands seigneurs. But I must not delay too long in opening the door. Excuse me for one moment, my dear Ernestine.”

  And Herminie disappeared, leaving Ernestine overwhelmed with consternation.

  A grim presentiment whispered that M. de Maillefort was about to enter and find her in Herminie’s home, and though Mlle. de Beaumesnil owed her resolve to learn the truth, at any cost, to the Marquis de Maillefort’s ironical remarks, and though her feelings towards him had undergone an entire change, she was not yet sure to what extent she could rely upon him, and the prospect of such a meeting was most unwelcome.

  Ernestine’s fears were realised.

  Her friend returned, accompanied by the marquis. Fortunately, Herminie, noticing that the curtains of the alcove were open, hastened to close them according to her habit, so, as her back was turned towards Ernestine and M. de Maillefort for several seconds, she did not notice the evident shock that her two friends experienced at the sight of each other.

  M. de Maillefort gave a sudden start of astonishment on recognising Mlle. de Beaumesnil. Intense curiosity, mingled with uneasiness, was apparent in every feature. He could not believe his eyes, and he was about to speak, when Ernestine, pale and trembling, clasped her hands with such a beseeching air that the words died upon his lips.

  When Herminie turned, M. de Maillefort’s face no longer expressed the slightest astonishment, and, doubtless, with the intention of giving Mlle. de Beaumesnil time to recover herself, he said to Herminie:

  “I am intruding, I am sure, mademoiselle. My visit is inopportune, perhaps.”

  “Believe me, monsieur, no visit of yours will ever be inopportune here,” responded the duchess, earnestly. “I only ask your permission to show my friend to the door.”

  “I beg you will do so,” answered the marquis, bowing. “I should be miserable if you stood on the slightest ceremony with me.”

  Mlle. de Beaumesnil was obliged to exercise all her self-control to maintain even an appearance of calmness, but, fortunately, the little hall-way leading to Herminie’s room was dark, so the sudden alteration in Ernestine’s features escaped the notice of her friend, as she said:

  “Ernestine, after all I have just confided to you, I need not tell you how necessary your presence will be to me. Alas! I did not think I should so soon put your friendship to the test. In pity, Ernestine, do not leave me long alone! If you only knew how I shall suffer, for I cannot hope to see Gerald again, or, rather, the hope is so uncertain that I dare not even think of it, so I beseech you not to let any length of time pass without my seeing you.”

  “You may rest assured that I shall return as soon as I can, and that it will not be any fault of mine if—”

  “Alas! I understand. Your time must be devoted to your work, because you are obliged to work in order to live. It is the same with me. In spite of my mental anguish, I shall have to begin my round of lessons one hour from now. My lessons, great Heavens! and I scarcely know what I am doing. But with people like us, we are not only obliged to suffer, but also to live.”

  Herminie uttered these last words with such despairing bitterness that Mlle. de Beaumesnil threw her arms around her friend’s neck, and burst into tears.

  “Come, come, I will not be so weak again, Ernestine,” said Herminie, returning the embrace; “I promise you I will not. I will be content with whatever time you can give me. I will wait and think of you,” added the duchess, forcing a smile. “Yes, to think of you, and to await your return, will be some consolation.”

  “Farewell, Herminie, farewell,” said Mlle. de Beaumesnil. “I shall soon see you again, — just as soon as I possibly can, I promise you, — day after to-morrow, if possible. Yes, I will manage it somehow,” added the orphan, resolutely, “day after to-morrow, at the same hour, you can count upon seeing me.”

  “Thank you, thank you!” exclaimed Herminie, embracing Ernestine effusively. “Ah, the compassion I showed to you your generous heart returns in liberal measure.”

  “Day after to-morrow, then, it shall be, Herminie.”

  “Again I thank you with my whole heart.”

  “And now good-bye,” said the orphan.

  It was in a deeply agitated frame of mind that she wended her way
back to the spot where her governess was waiting for her in the cab. As she left the house, she met a man who was walking slowly up the street, casting furtive glances at the house in which Herminie lived.

  This man was Ravil, who, as we have said before, frequently hung about the home of the duchess, of whom he had retained a vivid and extremely tantalising recollection ever since the day he so insolently accosted her, when she was on her way to the Beaumesnil mansion.

  De Ravil instantly recognised the richest heiress in France, who, in her agitation, did not even glance at this man, whom she had met but once, at the Luxembourg, where M. de la Rochaiguë had taken her.

  “What does this mean?” Ravil said to himself, in the utmost astonishment. “Here is the little Beaumesnil dressed almost like a grisette, coming out alone, pale and evidently frightened half to death, from a house in this miserable part of the town. I’ll follow her cautiously at a distance, and see where she goes. The more I think of it, the more inclined I am to believe that it is the devil himself who sends me such a piece of good luck as this! Yes, this discovery may be the goose that lays the golden eggs for me. It rejoices my heart. The mere thought of it awakens golden visions like those which haunt that big ninny, Mornand.”

  While Ravil was following the unsuspecting Ernestine, Herminie returned to M. de Maillefort.

  CHAPTER X.

  DESPAIR.

  M. DE MAILLEFORT awaited Herminie’s return in a state of deep perplexity, wondering in vain what strange combination of circumstances had brought these two young girls together. The marquis had desired this rapprochement greatly, as we shall soon discover, but the hunchback had not yet devised any way to bring it about, so Ernestine’s presence in Herminie’s home, the secrecy with which she must have gone there, the secrecy, too, which Mlle. de Beaumesnil, by an imploring gesture, had begged him to preserve, all combined to excite his curiosity as well as his anxiety to the highest pitch.

  So, on the return of Herminie, who apologised for having absented herself so long, the marquis said, with the most careless air imaginable:

  “I shall be very sorry if you do not always treat me with that perfect freedom permissible between devoted friends, my dear child, and nothing could be more natural, I am sure, than a desire to exchange a few parting words with one of your young acquaintances, for this young lady is, I suppose—”

  “One of my friends, monsieur, or rather my dearest friend.”

  “Ah, indeed,” answered the marquis, smiling. “It must be a friendship of long standing, then, I suppose?”

  “Very recent, on the contrary, monsieur. In fact, this friendship, though so true and tried, was conceived very suddenly.”

  “I have sufficient confidence in your powers of discernment and your nobility of heart to feel sure that you have chosen your friend wisely, my dear child.”

  “A single incident, which occurred scarcely an hour ago, monsieur, will give convincing proof of my friend’s courage and nobility of soul. At the risk of her own life, — for she escaped serious injury only by a hair’s breadth, — she rescued an aged man from certain death.”

  And Herminie, proud of her friend, and anxious to see her appreciated as she deserved to be, proceeded to describe Ernestine’s courageous rescue of Commander Bernard.

  The emotion of the marquis on hearing this unexpected revelation, which revealed Mlle. de Beaumesnil in a new and most attractive light, can be imagined.

  “She certainly displayed wonderful courage and generosity of heart!” he cried. Then he added: “I was sure of it! You could not choose your friends other than judiciously, my dear child. But who is this brave young girl?”

  “An orphan like myself, monsieur, who supports herself by her own exertions. She is an embroiderer.”

  “Ah, an embroiderer! But as she, too, is an orphan, she lives alone, I suppose?”

  “No, monsieur, she lives with a relative, who took her, last Sunday evening, to a small entertainment, where I met her for the first tame.”

  The marquis knit his brows. For an instant he was almost tempted to believe that one of the Rochaiguës was implicated in this mystery, but his implicit faith in Herminie caused him to reject that idea, though he wondered how Mlle. de Beaumesnil had managed to absent herself from her guardian’s house for an entire evening, without the knowledge of the baron or his family. He asked himself, too, with no less astonishment, how Ernestine had managed to secure several hours of entire freedom that very morning, but fearing he would arouse Herminie’s suspicions by questioning her further, he remarked:

  “It is pleasant for me to know that you have a friend so worthy of you, and it seems to me,” added the hunchback, “that she could not have come more opportunely.”

  “And why, monsieur?”

  “You know you have given me the privilege of being perfectly frank with you.”

  “Certainly, monsieur.”

  “Very well, then, it seems to me that you are not in your accustomed good spirits. You look pale, and it is very evident that you have been weeping, my poor child.”

  “I assure you, monsieur—”

  “And all this is the more noticeable because you seemed so perfectly happy the last two or three times I saw you. Yes, contentment could be read on every feature; it even imparted to your beauty such a radiance and expansiveness that — as you may perhaps remember, from the rarity of the thing — I complimented you upon your radiant beauty. Think of it! I, who am the very poorest flatterer that ever lived!” added the hunchback, probably in the hope of bringing a smile to Herminie’s lips.

  But the girl, unable to conquer her sadness, replied:

  “The change in my appearance which you speak of is probably due to the fright that Ernestine’s narrow escape caused me, monsieur.”

  The marquis, sure now that Herminie was suffering from some grief that she wished to conceal, insisted no further, but said:

  “It is as you say, doubtless, but the danger is over now, my dear child, so I may as well tell you that my visit this morning is important, very important. You know that I have made it a point of honour not to say anything to you of late in relation to the grave matter that first brought me here.”

  “Yes, monsieur, and I am grateful to you for not having again referred to a subject that is so painful to me.”

  “I am compelled to speak again, if not of Madame de Beaumesnil, at least of her daughter,” said the marquis, casting a keen, searching look at Herminie, in order to discover — though he was almost certain to the contrary — if the young girl knew that her new friend was Mlle. de Beaumesnil; but he did not feel the shadow of a doubt of Herminie’s ignorance on the subject when she promptly replied, without the slightest embarrassment:

  “You say you must speak of Madame de Beaumesnil’s daughter, monsieur?”

  “Yes, my dear child. I have made no attempt to conceal my devoted friendship for Madame de Beaumesnil, nor her dying requests in relation to the young orphan whom I have not yet discovered, in spite of the most persistent efforts. I told you, too, of the no less urgent request of the countess concerning her daughter, Ernestine. For divers reasons which, believe me, do not affect you in the least, I am very desirous, solely on Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s account, understand, that you two young girls should become acquainted.”

  “But how could that be brought about, monsieur?” asked Herminie, eagerly, thinking what happiness it would give her to know her sister.

  “In the easiest way imaginable — a way that was even suggested to you, I believe, when you so nobly returned that five hundred franc note to Madame de la Rochaiguë.”

  “Yes, monsieur, Madame de la Rochaiguë did give me some reason to hope that I might be employed to give Mlle. de Beaumesnil music lessons.”

  “Well, my dear child, that has been arranged.”

  “Really, monsieur?”

  “Yes, I had a talk with the baroness last evening, and either to-day or to-morrow she is going to mention the matter to Mlle. de Beaumesnil. I d
o not doubt that she will accept the proposition. As for you, my dear child, I do not apprehend any refusal on your part.”

  “Far from it, monsieur.”

  “Besides, what I ask for this young girl, I ask in the name of the mother to whom you were so devotedly attached,” said the marquis, with deep emotion.

  “You can not doubt the interest I shall always feel in Mlle. de Beaumesnil, monsieur, but the relations between, us will, of course, be confined to our lessons.”

  “Not by any means.”

  “But, monsieur!”

  “You must understand, my dear child, that I should not have taken all this trouble to bring about an acquaintance between Mlle. de Beaumesnil and yourself, if it was to be confined to the lessons given and received.”

  “But, monsieur—”

  “There are important interests at stake, interests which I feel can be safely intrusted to your hands.”

  “Explain, monsieur, I beg of you.”

  “I will do that after you have seen your new scholar,” replied the marquis, thinking what a delightful surprise it would be to Herminie when she recognised Mlle. de Beaumesnil in the poor embroideress, her best friend.

  “In any case, you may be sure that I shall consider it a sacred duty to fulfil your instructions, monsieur, and that I shall hold myself in readiness to go to Mlle. de Beaumesnil as soon as I am sent for.”

  “I will introduce you to her, myself.”

  “So much the better, monsieur.”

  “And if agreeable to you, next Saturday at this hour, I will come for you.”

  “I shall expect you monsieur, and I thank you very much for sparing me the embarrassment of presenting myself alone.”