by Eugène Sue
“Ah, it is you, M. de Ravil; excuse me.”
He made a movement as if about to walk on, but De Ravil checked him by saying:
“M. de Macreuse, I feel sure that we are likely to understand and be of service to each other.”
“In what way, monsieur?”
“We hate the same man, that is something.”
“Whom?”
“M. de Maillefort.”
“So you, too, hate him?”
“With a deadly hatred.”
“Well, what of it, monsieur?”
“Well, having the same animosity, we may have the same interests.”
“I do not understand you, M. de Ravil.”
“M. de Macreuse, you are a much too gifted and energetic man to allow yourself to be discouraged by one setback.”
“What setback, monsieur?”
“So I will take you into my confidence. I had a fool of a friend, known to you as M. de Mornand, who had designs upon the same heiress that you did.”
“M. de Mornand?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, a few minutes after your hasty departure, that d — d marquis exposed him as he had exposed you. That is to say, he has rendered my imbecile friend’s marriage with the little Beaumesnil an impossibility.”
“But what difference does it make to you whether the heiress does or does not marry your friend?”
“The devil! A great deal of difference! I went into the affair with the expectation of getting a handsome percentage on the dowry, so that accursed hunchback ruined me in ruining Mornand. Do you understand now?”
“Perfectly.”
“Mornand is too much of a milksop — too blubbery, in short, to make any attempt to recover from his setback or even to console himself by revenge.”
“Revenge? Upon whom?”
“Upon that little ninny of an heiress, and indirectly upon that d — d hunchback. But let me assure you that I am not one of those blockheads who thirst for revenge alone; it is a profitable revenge I am after every time.”
“Profitable?”
“Yes, very profitable, and I can furnish the materials for it, too.”
“You? And what are your materials, pray?”
“Excuse me. I possess a very valuable secret.”
“In relation to Mlle. de Beaumesnil?”
“The same. I can work up this valuable secret alone, however, just as well.”
“And yet you offer—”
“To go shares with you? Nothing of the kind. You would think me a simpleton if I did, and you’ve no fondness for simpletons.”
“Then, monsieur, to what purpose — ?”
“You did not embark in such an important enterprise — as my imbecile friend the politician would say — you did not embark in such an important enterprise as your marriage with the greatest heiress in France without backers, without powerful intermediaries and without strong probabilities of success. One does not make such a blunder as that when one is the founder of the St. Polycarpe Mission, — a work, by the way, which has convinced me that you are a remarkably able man, and gained you my sincere admiration. This being the case, you are too high-spirited to submit quietly to such a setback to the atrocious treatment you have received from M. de Maillefort. You may, perhaps, have some means of retrieving your lost ground, or of obtaining your object in some other way, and so long as the little Beaumesnil remains single, a man like you does not abandon hope.”
“Well, so be it, monsieur; suppose I have not given up all hope, what then?”
“If you admit that, I will propose that we pool, you, your means of success, and I, my secret. If your hopes are realised, we will not make use of my secret; if they are not realised, my secret will remain a luscious, juicy pear to quench our thirst. In short, if you marry the heiress, you will give me a small percentage on her dowry; if you do not marry her, I will give you a part of the money my secret will gain for me, that is, if the aforesaid secret can not be made to render you valuable assistance in your new attempt.”
“All this is worthy of attention,” answered Macreuse, after a moment’s reflection, for he, too, was beginning to think that he and De Ravil were, indeed, congenial spirits. “But it would be well for me to know what this secret is, and what its influence is likely to be.”
“Give me your arm, my dear M. de Macreuse, I am going to state the case plainly to you, for I have nothing to gain by deceiving you, as you will soon see for yourself.”
The two men walked on arm in arm and were soon lost in the shadow of the tall houses that bordered one edge of the sidewalk.
CHAPTER XVI.
DISINTERESTED AFFECTION.
MLLE. DE BEAUMESNIL had promised Herminie that she would come and see her Friday morning, or, in other words, on the day immediately following the ball which the richest heiress in France had attended at Madame de Mirecourt’s house, and where M. de Macreuse and M. de Mornand had seen their villainous projects exposed by the Marquis de Maillefort.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil had left the ballroom deeply distressed and terrified by the discoveries she made in relation to her suitors, discoveries which had been completed by Gerald’s frank confession concerning the manner in which an heiress was married off; and feeling quite as much contempt as aversion, now, for her guardian and his family, the young girl realised the necessity of taking some decisive action in the matter, her present relations with the Rochaiguës having become intolerable.
It was consequently necessary for her to ask the protection and counsel of some person outside of this family of sage advisers.
Ernestine knew only two persons whom she could trust, — Herminie and M. de Maillefort.
In order to open her heart to Herminie Mlle. de Beaumesnil would be obliged to confess who she really was, but though she had no intention of deferring this revelation much longer, she did long to enjoy once more the inexpressible happiness of receiving those evidences of tender friendship which the duchess supposed she was lavishing upon a poor orphan girl who had to work for her living.
“Heaven grant that she will love me just as much when she knows that I am rich!” thought the heiress, anxiously. “Heaven grant that this discovery may not impair the friendship that a person of Herminie’s proud and sensitive nature feels for me!”
Faithful to her promise, and rejoiced to know how entirely worthy Gerald was of Herminie’s love, Mlle. de Beaumesnil, accompanied by Madame Laîné, who was to wait for her in the cab, as usual, started early Friday morning for the home of the duchess, for it is needless to say that, after M. de Macreuse’s humiliation of the evening before, Mlle. Helena did not come to take her brother’s ward to church as usual.
As she neared her friend’s home, Ernestine became very uneasy, for though, since her conversation with M. de Senneterre the evening before, the young girl knew for a certainty how perfectly honourable Gerald’s intentions were, and how passionately he loved Herminie, Mlle. de Beaumesnil foresaw only too plainly the many difficulties to be overcome before a marriage between the young duke and a penniless music teacher could be brought about.
When Ernestine reached her friend’s house, Herminie sprang forward to meet her and embraced her tenderly.
“Ah, I was sure you would not forget your promise, Ernestine,” she cried, “for did I not tell you what a comfort your coming would be to me?”
“I trust it may prove so, indeed, my dear Herminie. Have you regained a little of your wonted courage? Are you not more hopeful?”
The duchess shook her head sadly.
“Alas! I can not say that I see any reason to hope,” she replied, “but don’t let us talk of my troubles now, Ernestine. We will discuss them again when the subject that is now on my mind has ceased to divert my thoughts from them.”
“To what subject do you refer?”
“It is a matter that concerns you, Ernestine.”
“Me?”
“It is a matter that may exert a very happy influence over your future, my poor, lonely child.�
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“What do you mean, Herminie?”
“I am not the proper person to explain this mystery to you. I was asked to do so, but fearing I might influence you by the manner in which I presented the case, I refused, wishing your decision to be unbiased by any outside influence, though I will express my opinion afterwards if you wish.”
“Good Heavens! What you say, Herminie, mystifies me more and more. What is this very important project?”
“The last time you were here, and while Commander Bernard was again expressing his fervent gratitude to you, M. Olivier begged me to see him the next day on a very important matter, he said. I complied with his request, and the matter was indeed one of grave importance, so grave, in fact, that he asked me to act as his intermediary with you, which I refused to do for reasons I have already explained.”
“Ah, then the matter has some connection with M. Olivier?”
“Yes, and I thought it would be better for him to make his wishes known himself, in my presence, if you have no objection.”
“And you advise me to grant M. Olivier a hearing, my dear Herminie?”
“I do, Ernestine, because whatever happens and whatever your decision may be, you will, I am sure, be both proud and happy to have heard what he has to tell you.”
“Then I am to see M. Olivier. But when, Herminie?”
“To-day, now, if you desire it.”
“Where is he?”
“Out in the garden. Counting upon a visit from you this morning, I said to him: ‘Come Friday morning. You will not mind waiting in the garden awhile, and if Ernestine consents to see you, I will send for you.’”
“Very well, then, Herminie, have the goodness to send M. Olivier word that I should be pleased to see him.”
A moment afterwards M. Olivier Raymond was ushered into the room by Madame Moufflon, the concierge.
“M. Olivier,” said Herminie, “Ernestine is ready to listen to you. You know my friendship for her. You know, too, how highly I esteem you, so I trust my presence will prove no restraint.”
“I particularly desire your presence, Mlle. Herminie, as I shall, perhaps, find it necessary to appeal to your memory in support of some of my statements,” replied Olivier. Then, turning to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, he continued, without making any attempt to conceal his emotion:
“Mademoiselle, permit me to say, first of all, that I must have perfect confidence in the rectitude of my intentions to venture upon the rather peculiar step I am about to take.”
“I am certain, in advance, M. Olivier, that this step is worthy of you, of me, and of the friend that is listening to us.”
“I think so, too, mademoiselle, so I am going to speak to you in all sincerity, for you may recollect that once before you expressed yourself as grateful to me for my frankness.”
“I was certainly deeply touched by it, as Herminie will tell you, M. Olivier.”
“Mlle. Herminie can also testify to the deep interest you inspired in my heart, mademoiselle, I will not say from the time of the charity dance,” added Olivier, with a faint smile, “but rather from the time of the conversation I had with you that evening.”
“It is perfectly true, my dear Ernestine,” said Herminie, “that, after your departure, M. Olivier seemed to be deeply touched by the strange mixture of melancholy, frankness, and originality, that he had noticed in your conversation, and his interest seemed to be greatly increased when I told him, without committing any breach of confidence, I trust, that I felt sure your life was far from happy.”
“The truth is never a breach of confidence, my dear Herminie. Though one ought, of course, to conceal one’s unhappiness from the indifferent, one should at least have the consolation of confessing it to one’s friends.”
“Then you may be able to understand, mademoiselle,” said Olivier, “that, by reason of the very peculiar circumstances of our first interview, there sprang up in my heart, not one of those sudden and violent emotions one sometimes experiences, — I should be uttering an untruth if I asserted this, — but an emotion full of sweetness and charm, together with a lively solicitude for you, a solicitude which memory and reflection rendered more and more keen. Such were my feelings, mademoiselle, when you, at the risk of your own life, saved the uncle whom I love as a father from a horrible death. Then, gratitude and the admiration which so noble an act richly merited were added to the sentiments I already entertained for you, but I should, probably, never have dared to give expression to these feelings had it not been for the unexpected good fortune that has befallen me.”
After pausing an instant, as if uncertain whether he had better go on, Olivier added:
“And now, mademoiselle, I find myself again obliged to remind myself and to remind you that you love sincerity above all things.”
“Yes, M. Olivier, I do both love and appreciate sincerity above all things.”
“Well, mademoiselle, to speak frankly, you are not happy, and the persons with whom you live are not congenial to you. Is this not so?”
“Yes, M. Olivier. The only happiness I have known since my parents’ death dates from the hour of my entrance into Madame Herbaut’s house.”
“I do not wish to sadden you, mademoiselle,” continued Olivier, kindly, even tenderly. “I am loath, too, to remind you how hard and precarious the life of a young girl who is dependent upon her own exertions is, and yet, mademoiselle, however courageous and industrious you may be, you cannot forget that you are an orphan, surrounded by selfish, hard-hearted persons, who would cruelly desert you, perhaps, if want or sickness should be your portion, or manifest a humiliating pity towards you which would be even more hard to bear than heartless desertion.”
“You are perfectly right, monsieur. Privations, disdain, desertion, these are all I have to expect from the persons around me if I should become really destitute.”
“You exposed to disdain and privations, never!” exclaimed Olivier. “No, you must not, you shall not, be treated thus,” he continued. “I know that you can count upon Mlle. Herminie’s devoted friendship; but poor and honest people like ourselves must not deceive ourselves. Mlle. Herminie may need your aid herself some day. Besides, two devoted friends are better than one, so I would gladly offer myself as well, if I only knew that you had half as much confidence in me as I have true and faithful affection for you.”
“Monsieur,” said Ernestine, trembling, and casting down her eyes, “I do not know — I am not sure that I ought—”
“Listen one moment, mademoiselle. If I were still a common soldier, for to be a common soldier and a non-commissioned officer really amount to the same thing, I should not have spoken to you on this subject. I should have tried to forget, not my gratitude, but the sentiment that renders it doubly dear to me. Whether I should have succeeded or not, I cannot say. But now I am an officer, and that means a competence to me. Will you allow me to offer this competence to you?”
“Such a future far exceeds my wildest hopes,” replied Ernestine, only partially concealing the intense joy Olivier’s words caused her.
“Ah, mademoiselle, if you should make me happy by an acceptance of this offer, far from feeling that I was released from a sacred obligation, I should realise that I had only contracted another, — for I should owe the happiness of my life to you, though this debt, at least, I should be certain to pay by my love and devotion. Yes, for why should I not say it, there can be no love deeper or more honourable than mine. There is no cause more holy and generous than that which lies so near my heart.”
On hearing Olivier utter these words, in tones of intense earnestness and profound sincerity, Mlle. de Beaumesnil experienced a rapturous emotion hitherto unknown to her, and a vivid blush dyed her throat and brow as she cast a timid glance at Olivier’s handsome, manly face, now radiant with love and hope.
So Ernestine had not been mistaken as to the meaning of Olivier’s look when he heard, in her presence, of his promotion. The girl saw and felt that she was loved, ardently loved. The proofs o
f it were so unmistakable, the causes that had produced it were so noble, that she could not doubt its reality.
And to believe, understand, and appreciate all that is noble, tender, and charming in such a love, is that not equivalent to sharing it, above all when one has lived, like Mlle. de Beaumesnil, a prey to apprehensions which recent events had more than justified, and to a distrust which had threatened to destroy all her hopes of future happiness?
And what inexpressible joy it was for her to be able to say to herself:
“It is I, the poor, nameless, penniless orphan, that he loves, because I have proved myself to be sincere, brave, and generous. And I am so truly loved that he offers a life of comparative ease, and an honourable position to me, who seemed destined to a life of poverty, if not absolute want.”
And Mlle. de Beaumesnil, agitated by a thousand new emotions, blushing and smiling at the same time, seized the hand of Herminie, by whom she was sitting, and, thus avoiding the necessity of any direct reply to Olivier’s proposal, exclaimed:
“You were right, Herminie; I have, indeed, good reason to be proud of M. Olivier’s offer.”
“And do you accept this offer, Ernestine?” asked Herminie, certain what her friend’s reply would be.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil, with a graceful, almost childish movement, threw her arms around the neck of the duchess, kissed her tenderly, and said, almost in a whisper:
“Yes — I accept it.”
But she still kept her face almost hidden on her friend’s bosom, while Herminie, scarcely able to restrain her tears of sympathetic emotion, turned to the young officer, who was himself deeply moved by this charming scene, and said:
“Ernestine accepts, M. Olivier. I am delighted both on your account and hers, for from this time I feel that her happiness is certain.”
“Ah, yes, mademoiselle,” cried Olivier, his face radiant with joy, “for from this moment I have the right to devote my life to Mlle. Ernestine.”
“I believe in you, and in my future happiness, M. Olivier,” said mademoiselle, shyly, raising her head until it rested on Herminie’s shoulder. Then, with cheeks slightly flushed, and her beautiful eyes sparkling with purest joy, the girl timidly extended her little hand to the young man.