Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  On hearing this announcement, Macreuse and Ravil gave a violent start, and looked at each other, their faces livid with fear.

  “You are pretty certain to be sent to the galleys, I think,” continued the hunchback, coolly. “But M. de Macreuse can play the part of St. Vincent de Paul there, and excite the admiration of his red-capped colleagues by his Christian virtues.”

  The sound of footsteps was heard in the room of Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s governess.

  “The commissioner of police has taken the trouble to come for you, as you don’t seem inclined to go down,” remarked the marquis. “It is certainly very kind in him.”

  The door opened almost at that very instant, and a commissioner of police, followed by several members of the force, entered, and said to Macreuse and Ravil:

  “I arrest you in the name of the law, and I shall now proceed in your presence to draw up an official report of the criminating facts in the case.”

  “Come, my dear children,” said the marquis to Ernestine and Herminie, “let us leave these gentlemen to attend to their own affairs while we go up to Madame de la Rochaiguë’s apartments to await the return of your guardian.”

  “The testimony of these young ladies will be indispensable, M. le marquis,” said the commissioner, “and I shall do myself the honour to call upon them for it presently.”

  An hour afterwards, the founder of the St. Polycarpe Mission and his accomplice were both placed in prison, to answer to the charge of having entered an occupied house at night by means of false keys, and of having attempted to intimidate the inmates by threats and violence.

  On the return of the baron and baroness, it was decided that Ernestine and Herminie should share Madame de la Rochaiguë’s room the rest of the night.

  As the hunchback took leave of the young girls, he smilingly remarked to them:

  “I have accomplished a good deal since I last saw you. The marriage contracts are drawn up, and they will be signed at Herminie’s home at seven o’clock to-morrow evening.”

  “At my home? How glad I am!” said the duchess.

  “Is it not always customary to sign the contract at the house of the bride?” asked the marquis. “And as you and Ernestine are so devoted to each other that you are almost the same as sisters—”

  “Exactly the same as sisters, you mean.”

  “It is only proper that Ernestine’s marriage contract should be signed at the home of her elder sister.”

  So all the next day, Herminie, radiant with happiness, was making important preparations in her pretty, dainty room for the signing of the marriage contracts of the richest heiress in France, and of the adopted daughter of M. le Marquis de Maillefort, Prince Duc de Haut-Martel, — an adoption of which the poor musician had not as yet the slightest suspicion.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  AN EVENTFUL DAY.

  HERMINIE WAS NOT the only person who was busily engaged in preparations for the signing of these contracts.

  A joyous excitement pervaded a modest little home in the Batignolles, also.

  Commander Bernard, Gerald, and Olivier had insisted upon dining together that evening under the same arbour where the opening scene of this story had occurred several months before.

  At the conclusion of the repast all three were to repair to Herminie’s for the signing of the marriage contract.

  A superb autumn afternoon had favoured the realisation of this project, and Madame Barbançon had surpassed herself in her culinary achievements.

  Notified in advance this time, she had tended with the utmost solicitude a triumphant pot au feu, which was to be followed by some juicy cutlets, a fine roast chicken, and a boiled custard, where the snowy whites of the eggs floated in immaculate whiteness upon a rich vanilla cream.

  Poor Madame Barbançon considered this decidedly commonplace menu the ne plus ultra of culinary magnificence.

  But, alas! in spite of the excellence of the repast, the three guests did little honour to it. Joy had deprived them of their appetites, and the worthy housekeeper, in her disappointment, could not help comparing this disheartening indifference with the zest with which Gerald and Olivier had devoured two helpings of her hastily improvised vinaigrette several months before.

  Madame Barbançon had just removed the fowl almost untouched, and as she placed the snow custard on the table, she muttered between her teeth:

  “They’ll clean this dish sure. One doesn’t have to be hungry to eat this. It is the very food for lovers.”

  “The devil! Mother Barbançon,” said the commander, gaily, “here’s a dish that reminds me of the snow-banks of Newfoundland. What a pity it is that none of us are the least bit hungry!”

  “It is, indeed, for Madame Barbançon has proved herself to be a veritable cordon bleu to-day,” remarked Gerald.

  “It is the finest snow custard that was ever concocted,” added Olivier. “We can at least devour it with our eyes.”

  The housekeeper, who could not believe that she was to be subjected to this last cruel affront, said, in constrained tones:

  “You gentlemen must be jesting.”

  “Jesting about such a sacred thing as your snow custard, Mother Barbançon? The devil take me if I should dare to be as sacrilegious as all that,” said the commander. “But as we’re not in the least hungry, it is impossible for us to taste your chef-d’œuvre.”

  “Yes, absolutely impossible,” repeated the two young men.

  The housekeeper did not utter a word, but a sudden contraction of her features betrayed the violence of her resentment plainly enough.

  Seizing a soup plate, she emptied nearly half the contents of the dish into it; then, placing it in front of the astonished commander, said, in tones of authority:

  “You — you will eat it, monsieur.”

  “But listen, Mother Barbançon—”

  “It is no use to ‘Mother Barbançon’ me. This is only the second time in ten years that I have had occasion to make a snow custard. I made this in honour of M. Olivier’s and M. Gerald’s marriages. There are no ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ about it; you are going to eat it.”

  The unfortunate veteran, seeing only hostile faces around him, — for Gerald and Olivier, the traitors, pretended to uphold the housekeeper, — attempted a compromise.

  “All right. I will eat it to-morrow, Mother Barbançon,” he said.

  “As if a snow custard would keep until to-morrow!” retorted the housekeeper, shrugging her shoulders. “You’re going to eat it now, this minute.”

  “I won’t do anything of the kind,” exclaimed the veteran, testily. “I’m not going to kill myself for anybody.”

  “Kill yourself with a snow custard made by me!” exclaimed the housekeeper, as sadly and reproachfully as if her employer had mortally insulted her. “Ah, me! I little expected — after ten years of faithful service — and on such — such a happy day — the day when M. Olivier is to take a wife — to find myself — treated — like — this.”

  And the worthy woman began to sob violently.

  “What on earth is the woman crying about?” exclaimed the veteran, in despair. “You are crazy, my dear woman! Upon my word of honour, you must be crazy!”

  “Kill you! Ah, I shall not forget those words for many a long year, I can tell you.”

  “Oh, come, come now! I’ll eat the — Look, don’t you see that I am eating it now?” said the unfortunate commander, hastily swallowing a few spoonfuls. “It is delicious, divine, this custard of yours. Are you satisfied now?”

  “Yes, monsieur; yes, that satisfies me,” said the housekeeper, drying her tears. “It was a nice custard. I said to myself while I was stirring it, ‘I certainly must give my recipe to M. Olivier’s little wife.’ I must, mustn’t I, M. Olivier?”

  “Of course you must, Madame Barbançon, for Mlle. Ernestine is going to prove a model housekeeper, I’m sure.”

  “And the grand pickles I’ll teach her to make, — green as grass and crisp as hazelnuts. Oh, you shall see w
hat nice little dishes we will fix up for you, your little wife and I.”

  Gerald, to whom M. de Maillefort had been obliged to confide the secret of Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s masquerade, could not help laughing heartily at the idea of Madame Barbançon giving her cooking recipes to the richest heiress in France.

  “What are you laughing at, M. Gerald?” asked the housekeeper. “Have you no confidence in my recipes?”

  “I believe in them as I believe in the gospels. I am laughing just because I am so happy, I suppose. That is only natural, I imagine, on one’s marriage day.”

  “There have been monsters who were more ferocious than ever on their marriage day,” responded Madame Barbançon, with a gloomy and profoundly mysterious air.

  “Nonsense!”

  “Think, M. Gerald. Don’t you recollect how he conducted himself on the day of his marriage with Marie Louise? — the scoundrel!”

  Madame Barbançon evidently thought it entirely superfluous to mention the object of her execration by name.

  “Come, Mother Barbançon, you had better give us our coffee now,” interposed the commander. “It is nearly six o’clock.”

  “Well, monsieur, that wretch whom you admire so much, on the day of his marriage with Marie Louise, behaved more cruelly than any tiger to that darling little King of Rome, who, clasping his tiny hands, pleaded in his fresh, sweet voice: ‘Papa Emperor, do not desert poor Mamma Josephine.’”

  “Oh, yes, yes; I remember it very well,” replied Gerald, with wonderful sang-froid. “You are speaking of the King of Rome, Josephine’s son.”

  “Certainly, M. Gerald; there were no other children. But, after all, that is nothing in comparison to what the wretch had the audacity to do to the Holy Father, on the very steps of the altar at Notre-Dame.”

  “What was it he did? I have forgotten.”

  “It seems,” began Madame Barbançon, sententiously, “it seems that at coronations the Pope always takes the crown and places it on the head of the monarch he is crowning. You can imagine how much this must have angered your Bû-û-onaparte, who was already in a huff because he had had to kiss the Pope’s toe in the middle of the Carrousel, before those swaggering guards of his. But he kissed it, the scoundrel! He had to. If he hadn’t, the petit homme rouge, who was against Roustan, and for the pope, would have wrung his neck that very night.”

  “The Pope’s?” asked Gerald.

  “Roustan’s?” inquired Olivier.

  “No, no, gentlemen, not theirs, but Bû-û-onaparte’s. Still, no matter about that. What I was going to say was that when the Holy Father was about to crown him, what did that Corsican ogre you are so fond of do — like the low common grocer that he was — but grab the crown from the hands of the poor Holy Father and put it on his head with one hand, while with the other he gave the Holy Father a sound rap on the skull, as if to say to the French people: ‘Down with religion, the clergy, and all! It is only to me you must bow the knee.’ It was such a blow that he gave the poor Holy Father that he reeled and fell headlong on the steps of the altar with his cap down over his eyes, and there he gave thanks in Latin, that angel of a man! This goes to prove, M. Olivier,” added the housekeeper, as a sort of conclusion and moral, “that marriage only renders Corsican ogres still more ferocious, while I am sure your and M. Gerald’s marriage to such dear girls as your sweethearts must be will only make you still more kind and amiable.”

  And the worthy woman hurried off to bring the coffee and serve it while Commander Bernard filled his big Kummer pipe.

  The hilarity caused by Madame Barbançon’s story soon gave place to graver and nobler thoughts.

  “In spite of her peculiarities, this good woman is right in reminding us that our marriage ought to increase whatever good we have in us,” remarked Gerald. “I hardly see how it can fail to do so, do you, Olivier?”

  Then perceiving that his friend had fallen into a sort of reverie, Gerald laid a hand affectionately on his shoulder and asked:

  “What are you thinking about, Olivier?”

  “I was thinking, my dear Gerald, that it was while we were seated at this table, just six months ago, that I spoke to you for the first time about the charming girl everybody here called the duchess, and that you replied: ‘Duchesses, don’t talk to me of duchesses. I’ve had enough of them!’ and now, thanks to you, she is a real duchess, the Duchesse de Senneterre. How strangely things come about in this world of ours!”

  “You are right, my dear boys,” said the old naval officer, “and when the present is all that one can desire, it is very pleasant to look back upon the past. Six months ago, for example, who would have guessed that my brave Olivier would now be on the eve of marrying a dear, sweet girl who had saved my life at the risk of her own?”

  “And who ever would have supposed that the Mlle. de Beaumesnil we talked so much about, and upon whom I had matrimonial designs myself, would ever have fallen in love with Olivier?” added Gerald, with a keen look at his friend.

  “Oh, don’t say any more about that foolish affair, Gerald. It was a mere whim on the part of a spoiled child, — a whim that is probably forgotten even now.”

  “You are mistaken, Olivier,” replied Gerald, gravely. “I have seen Mlle. de Beaumesnil and talked with her, and though she is no older than your Ernestine, she is not a spoiled or capricious child by any means, but a young woman full of good sense and discernment.”

  “My opinion is that Mlle. de Beaumesnil is at least a young lady of excellent taste, as she was so much pleased with my Olivier,” exclaimed the commander, gaily. “But it was too late; the fortress had already surrendered to our dear little Ernestine, who isn’t overburdened with money, it is true, but who has the very bravest and noblest heart in the world.”

  “You are right, uncle,” replied Olivier. “The fortress had surrendered, surrendered unconditionally, but even if I had not—”

  “What do you mean?” asked Gerald, looking at his friend rather anxiously. “If your affections had been fancy free, wouldn’t you have married Mlle. de Beaumesnil?”

  “You’re mad, Gerald; of course I wouldn’t.”

  “But why?”

  “Do you remember what you said here, at this very table, a few months ago: that when an immensely wealthy man marries an attractive girl because she is charming and worthy of him nobody disapproves of it; but that when a man who has nothing, marries a woman who brings him an enormous fortune, it is disgraceful. Those were almost his very words, were they not, uncle?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “One moment,” exclaimed Gerald, unable to control his growing anxiety, “you should also recall the arguments you yourself used, Olivier, to overcome my scruples on the subject of Mlle. de Beaumesnil: if, in spite of her immense fortune, it is evident that you love this young lady as much as you would have loved her had she been poor and obscure, the most suspicious person could not disapprove of such a marriage. Wasn’t that what Olivier said, commander, and didn’t you agree with him?”

  “That is true, M. Gerald; and I am sure nothing could be more just and reasonable, but, thank Heaven, we have no such delicate question to deal with in this instance. Olivier only acted like any other honourable man in refusing to make a wealthy marriage because he loved elsewhere; it was all perfectly natural, it seems to me. I am sure neither you nor I ought to be at all surprised, for you are making a love match as well as Olivier.”

  “A love match! That is the very word for it!” exclaimed the young officer, enthusiastically. “Ernestine is as gentle and kind as she is ingenuous; and then the dear girl is so grateful that a fine gentleman like myself should be generous enough to marry her!” added Olivier, smiling. “Ah, if you only knew what a charming letter she wrote me yesterday, telling me that her relative consented to everything, and that, if my intentions had not changed, the marriage contract could be signed to-day. You cannot imagine anything more artless, and yet more exquisitely modest and touching than this letter. It proves Ernestine to be the
very person I judged her to be from her countenance.”

  “I have never seen a more attractive face according to my ideas,” said the old officer.

  “Is it not, my dear uncle? Her features are not so remarkably regular, it is true, but what a gentle expression she has, and what a charming smile, with her little white teeth. And then what superb chestnut hair she has, and such a slender waist and such a pretty little hand, and the tiniest foot imaginable!”

  “Olivier, my boy,” said the old officer, pulling out his watch, “you are so engaged in enumerating your sweetheart’s charms, that you forget it is almost time to join her, to say nothing of the fact that M. Gerald must have time to go home for his mother so as to take her with him to Mlle. Herminie’s house.”

  “We shall have plenty of time, commander,” said Gerald, “but I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see Olivier so deeply in love with his Ernestine.”

  “Deeply in love, unquestionably, my dear Gerald, to say nothing of the fact that I love her all the more devotedly because she is your dear Herminie’s most intimate friend.”

  “Really, Olivier, it is enough to turn one’s head completely, to think of so much happiness and felicity, after so many obstacles and difficulties! Come, my friend, my brother, — for is it not almost as if we were marrying two sisters, or they were marrying two brothers; upon my word, the tears come to my eyes in spite of me, when I think of it! — come, embrace me here before we start. We should look too absurd doing it before all the grand relatives!”