by Eugène Sue
“How infamous!” thought Ernestine. “To attract my attention, or, rather, to excite my interest, this man made a pretence of being charitable, virtuous, devout, and a most devoted son; now he denies his virtues, his charity, his mother, and even his God, to please me, and attain his object, viz., to marry me for my money, while the detestable faults I affect do not shock him in the least; he even praises and exalts them.”
Mlle. de Beaumesnil, who was little versed in dissimulation, and who had been obliged to exercise the greatest self-restraint in order to enact the rôle which would assist her in unmasking M. de Macreuse, could no longer conceal her scorn and disgust, and, in spite of all her efforts, her face betrayed her real feelings only too plainly, as she listened to M. de Macreuse’s last words.
That gentleman, like all the disciples of his school, made a constant study of the countenance of the person he wished to deceive or convince; and the quick contraction of Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s features, her smile of bitter disdain, and a sort of impatient indignation that she made little or no attempt to conceal at the moment, were a sudden and startling revelation to M. de Macreuse.
“I am caught,” he said to himself. “It was a trap. She distrusted me and wanted to try me. She pretended to be silly, capricious, vain, heartless, and irreligious, merely to see if I would have the courage to censure her, and if my love would survive such a discovery. Who the devil would have suspected such cunning in a girl of sixteen? But if she has feigned all these objectionable proclivities, her real instincts must be good and generous,” this beloved disciple of Abbé Ledoux said to himself. “And if she was anxious to put me to the test she must have had some idea of marrying me. All is not lost. I must recover my lost ground by a bold stroke.”
These reflections on the part of the pious youth lasted only for an instant, but that instant sufficed to prepare him for another transformation.
The same brief interval had also given Mlle. de Beaumesnil time to calm her indignation, and summon up courage to end this interview by covering Macreuse with shame and confusion.
“So you are really willing to sacrifice all your virtues on my account?” exclaimed Ernestine. “Few persons are as obliging as all that. But the quadrille is ended. Instead of escorting me back to my seat, won’t you take me to that conservatory I see at the other end of the room?”
“I am all the more pleased to comply with your request, mademoiselle, as I have a few words, very serious words they are, too, that I wish to say to you.”
M. de Macreuse’s tone had changed entirely. It was grave now, even stern.
Ernestine glanced at the pious young man in astonishment. His expression had become as sad as at the beginning of the quadrille, but the sadness was no longer of a melancholy, touching character, but stern, almost wrathful.
More and more amazed at this sudden metamorphosis which Macreuse intensified, so to speak, during their walk through the salon to the conservatory, Mlle. de Beaumesnil asked herself what could be the cause of this strange change in her companion.
The long gallery, enclosed in glass, which they entered, was bordered on each side with masses of flowering plants and palms, and at the farther end was an immense buffet loaded with the choicest viands. As nearly all the gentlemen were engaged in escorting their partners to their seats, there were very few people in the gallery at the time, so M. de Macreuse had an excellent opportunity to say all he had to say.
“May I ask, monsieur,” asked the orphan, flippantly, seeing that she must not yet abandon her rôle— “may I ask what very important thing you have to say to me. Grave is about the same thing as being tiresome, it seems to me, and I have a horror of everything that is tiresome, you know.”
“Grave or tiresome, you will, nevertheless, have to listen to these words, which are the last you will ever hear from my lips, mademoiselle.”
“The last during this quadrille, evidently.”
“They are the last words I shall ever say to you in my life, mademoiselle.”
There was something so sad and yet so proud in the voice, face, and bearing of this model young man that Mlle. de Beaumesnil was overwhelmed with astonishment.
Nevertheless, she continued, still trying to smile:
“What, monsieur, I am never to see you again after all — all Mlle. Helena has said about — about—”
“Listen, mademoiselle,” said M. de Macreuse, interrupting her; “it is impossible for me to keep up this farce any longer — or to express any longer sentiments that are and ever will be farthest from my thoughts.”
“To what farce do you allude, monsieur?”
“I came here, mademoiselle, expecting to find in you the pious, sensible, generous, kind-hearted, honest young girl of whom Mlle. Helena has always spoken in terms of the highest praise. It was to such a girl that my first remarks were addressed, but the frivolous, sneering manner in which they were received disappointed and even shocked me.”
“Can I believe my ears?” thought Ernestine. “What on earth does he mean?”
“Then a terrible doubt seized me,” continued M. de Macreuse, with a heavy sigh. “I said to myself that perhaps you did not possess those rare virtues which I so greatly admire and which I was confident I should find in you, but I could not and would not believe it at first, preferring to attribute your words to the thoughtlessness of youth. But alas! your frivolity, vanity, hardness of heart, and impiety became more and more apparent as our conversation proceeded. I wished to convince myself thoroughly, however, and though my heart bled each moment, I wanted to overcome your insensibility to all that is pitiable, your contempt for all that is sacred. I even went so far as to seem to scoff at that which is dearest to me in life, — my religion and the memory of my mother.”
And a tear glistened on the lashes of the abbé’s disciple.
“It was a test, then, in his case, as in mine,” thought Ernestine.
“I feigned the most pernicious sentiments,” continued M. de Macreuse, waxing more and more indignant, “and you did not utter a word of censure or even of surprise! At last I pushed flattery, cowardice, and baseness to their utmost limits, and you remained calm and approving instead of crushing me with the scorn I deserved. It has been a terrible ordeal for me, for the blow to my hopes is as unexpected as it is overwhelming. All is over now. Pardon a severity of language to which you are little accustomed, mademoiselle, but understand, once for all, that I will never devote my life to any woman, who is not worthy both of my love and my respect.”
And with a stern and dignified air M. de Macreuse bowed low to Ernestine, and walked away, leaving her speechless with astonishment.
“I thank God that I was mistaken,” thought the poor child, with a feeling of profound relief. “Such hypocrisy, deceit, and unscrupulousness are an impossibility. M. de Macreuse was horrified by the sentiments I expressed, consequently he must possess a sincere and upright soul.”
The reflections of this artless girl, who was so ill fitted to cope with the wily founder of the St. Polycarpe mission, were interrupted by Mesdames de Rochaiguë and de Senneterre, who, having seen Mlle. de Beaumesnil enter the gallery in company with M. de Macreuse, had hastened after her, thinking the young girl intended to partake of some refreshments, but the two ladies found her alone.
“Why, what are you doing here, my own dearest?” inquired Madame de la Rochaiguë.
“I came here for a little fresh air, madame; it is so warm in the ballroom.”
“But the gallery is just as much too cool, my dear child, and you run a great risk of taking cold. You had better come back to the ballroom at once.”
“As you please, madame,” replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil.
As she reëntered the ballroom, in company with the two ladies, she saw M. de Macreuse give her a despairing look; but he turned quickly away, as if he feared the young girl would perceive the sorrowful emotion to which he was a prey.
CHAPTER XIII.
AN HONEST CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL.
MLLE. DE BEAUMESNIL, on reëntering the ball-room, also noticed Gerald de Senneterre standing near one of the doorways. He was very pale, and looked extremely sad.
The sight of him reminded Ernestine of her friend’s despair, and she asked herself why Gerald, in spite of his love for Herminie and his desire to marry her, had come to this ball where a meeting with her, Ernestine, had been arranged by Madame de la Rochaiguë.
As she conducted the richest heiress in France back to her seat, Madame de la Senneterre said to her, with the utmost affability:
“Mademoiselle, I am deputised to ask a favour of you in behalf of my son.”
“What is it, madame?”
“He begs that you will give him the next quadrille, though he is not dancing this evening, for he has been, and is still, quite indisposed, so much so, in fact, that it required almost superhuman courage on his part to come at all. But he hoped to have the honour of meeting you here, mademoiselle, and such a hope as that works wonders.”
“But if M. de Senneterre does not feel able to dance, madame, what is the use of my making an engagement with him?”
“That is a secret which I will divulge when the crowds of young men that are going to besiege you with invitations to dance are disposed of. Merely remember that the next quadrille belongs to my son, that is, if you are so kind as to grant him the favour he asks.”
“With the greatest pleasure, madame.”
“Keep my seat for me, my dear,” the duchess said to Madame de la Rochaiguë, rising as she spoke, “I must go and tell Gerald.”
While awaiting M. de Senneterre’s coming, Mlle. de Beaumesnil was also reflecting with all the satisfaction of a truly honest heart that M. de Macreuse had not deserved her distrust. The more she reflected on the subject, the more the young man’s conduct pleased her by reason of its very rudeness. In fact, his austere frankness seemed to her almost as noble as the sentiment she fancied she had discerned in Olivier’s breast, when he gave her such a peculiar but meaning look on so unexpectedly hearing that he had been made an officer.
“They are both noble men,” she said to herself.
But Mlle. de Beaumesnil was not allowed to enjoy these pleasant and consoling thoughts long, for she had scarcely seated herself before she was besieged with invitations to dance, as Madame de Senneterre had predicted. Resolved to observe and judge for herself, as much as possible, the heiress accepted quite a number of these invitations, among them one from M. de Mornand.
Eager to discover M. de Senneterre’s intentions, and to ascertain why he had engaged her for a quadrille if he did not feel able to dance, Ernestine awaited the time for Gerald’s approach with no little interest and curiosity. At last she saw him leave his place, after exchanging a few words with M. de Maillefort, whom Ernestine had not seen since she met him so unexpectedly at Herminie’s home.
On seeing the hunchback, the orphan could not help blushing, but, as she cast another glance at him, she was touched by the expression of tender solicitude with which he was regarding her, and the meaning smile he bestowed upon her reassured her completely in regard to that gentleman’s discretion.
The time for forming the quadrille having arrived, Gerald approached Mlle. de Beaumesnil and said:
“I have come to thank you for the promise you so kindly made to my mother.”
“And I am ready to fulfil it, monsieur, as soon as I know—”
“Why I engaged you for this quadrille when I am not able to dance?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“It is an innovation, mademoiselle, that would prove very popular, I am sure, if it were adopted,” said Gerald, smiling in spite of his melancholy.
“And this innovation, monsieur?”
“For many persons, and I confess that I am one of the number, a quadrille is merely a pretext for a quarter of an hour’s tête-à-tête. Then why not say in so many words: ‘Madame, or mademoiselle, will you do me the honour to talk with me for the next quarter of an hour?’ and as one can talk much more comfortably sitting on a sofa than standing, why, let us sit through this dance and talk.”
“I think the idea a very happy one, monsieur.”
“And you consent?”
“Certainly,” replied Ernestine, moving a little closer to Madame de la Rochaiguë, and thus making room for Gerald beside her.
The dancers having taken their places on the floor, most of the seats were vacant; and Gerald, having no neighbour on the other side, could talk to Ernestine without any danger of being overheard, especially as Madame de la Rochaiguë, in order to give her ward greater freedom, moved a little farther from Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and a little nearer to Madame de Senneterre.
Up to this time, M. de Senneterre had been talking in a light, half jesting tone, but as soon as he found himself virtually alone with Mlle. de Beanmesnil, his manner changed entirely, and his features and accents alike indicated the deepest interest and anxiety.
“Mademoiselle,” he said earnestly, almost solemnly, “though I am far from well, I came here this evening to do my duty as an honourable man.”
Mlle. de Beanmesnil experienced a feeling of intense relief. Gerald had no intention of deceiving Herminie, then, and doubtless he was about to explain why he had not relinquished all pretensions to her — Ernestine’s — hand.
“Do you know how an heiress is married off, mademoiselle?” asked Gerald.
And as Mlle. de Beaumesnil gazed at him in surprise, without making any reply, Gerald continued:
“I will tell you, mademoiselle, and this knowledge may serve to protect you from many dangers. A certain mother, my mother, for example, — one of the best women in the world, — hears that the richest heiress in France is in the matrimonial market. My mother, dazzled by the advantages that such a union would afford me, does not trouble herself in the least about the character or personal appearance of this heiress. She has never even seen her, for the rich orphan is still in a foreign land. But that makes no difference; this enormous fortune must be secured for me if possible, it matters not by what means. My mother, yielding to an aberration of maternal love, hastens to the wife of this orphan’s guardian, and it is decided that, on the arrival of the heiress, an inexperienced child of sixteen, weak and defenceless, and ignorant of the ways of the world, she shall be so surrounded and influenced that her choice is almost certain to fall upon me. This shameful bargain is concluded; the way in which I am to first make her acquaintance, apparently by chance, is decided upon, even to the more or less becoming costume I am to wear on that occasion! Everything has been arranged, though I hear and know nothing about it. The heiress, too, who is still a hundred leagues from Paris, knows no more about it than I do. At last she arrives. Then, for the first time, my mother informs me of her plans, sure that I will accept with joy the piece of good fortune offered me. Nevertheless, I decline it at first, saying that I have no taste for married life, and that I should be certain to prove a bad husband. ‘What difference does that make?’ says my mother. ‘Marry her, in spite of that — she is rich.’ And yet my mother is as honourable and as widely honoured as any woman. But you do not know the baneful, yes, fatal, influence of money!”
“Can you hear what they are saying, my dear?” the duchess whispered to Madame de la Rochaiguë as this conversation was going on.
“No,” replied that lady, likewise in a whisper, “but the child seems to be listening with a great deal of interest. I just stole a glance at her when she was not looking, and her face was positively radiant.”
“I was sure of Gerald. He can be irresistible when he chooses!” exclaimed the delighted duchess. “The girl is ours. And to think I was simpleton enough to fly into a passion just because that miserable Macreuse asked her to dance!”
“As I remarked a few minutes ago, I acted the part of an honourable man and refused to think of this marriage at first,” Gerald continued; “but unfortunately my mother’s entreaties, my fear of grieving her, and last, though not least, my indignation on h
earing of the nefarious schemes of an unscrupulous rival, and possibly my own unconscious longing for such colossal wealth, induced me to reconsider, and I finally decided to try to marry the heiress, even at the risk of making her the most wretched of women, for a mercenary marriage is sure to end disastrously.”
“Well, monsieur, have you kept this resolution?”
“A subsequent conversation with two dear friends of mine, high-minded, noble-hearted men, opened my eyes. I saw that I was pursuing a course unworthy of me and of those who loved me. It was decided, however, that, out of consideration for my mother’s wishes, I should meet the heiress, and if, after seeing her and knowing her, I loved her as much as I would have loved a penniless and nameless young girl, I would do my best to win her.”
“Well, monsieur, have you seen this heiress?
“Yes, mademoiselle; but when I saw her it was too late.”
“Too late?”
“A love as sudden as it was honourable and sincere for a person who was worthy of it no longer permitted me to appreciate, as she, I am sure, deserves, the young lady my mother wished me to marry.”
On hearing this honest but delicately worded confession, Mlle. de Beaumesnil could not repress a joyous movement. Gerald loved Herminie as she deserved to be loved, and he had just given fresh proof of his nobility of character by the generosity of his conduct towards Ernestine.
The orphan’s joyous start had not escaped the watchful eyes of Madame de la Rochaiguë, and that lady said, in a low tone, to the duchess:
“All is well! Look at Mlle. de Beaumesnil! See what a brilliant colour she has, and how her eyes sparkle!”