by Eugène Sue
And the two young men embraced each other with fraternal tenderness, while Commander Bernard, anxious to maintain his dignity as a grand relative, tried to conceal his emotion by puffing away lustily at his pipe; after which, Gerald left in hot haste to escort his mother to Herminie’s.
Olivier and his uncle were about to start themselves, when they were stopped by Madame Barbançon, who advanced towards them with measured steps, holding on the palms of her extended hands, for fear of soiling it, a superb white cravat starched to the last degree of stiffness and folded ready for wear.
“What the deuce is that, Mother Barbançon?” asked the veteran, who had already picked up his hat and cane, preparatory to departure.
“It is a cravat I have made for you, monsieur,” said the worthy housekeeper,— “a little surprise I ventured upon, as you have nothing but your black cravat to wear on this happy day — and — I — I thought that—”
And the worthy woman, quite overcome with excitement and emotion, burst into tears, unable to finish the sentence.
The old officer, though he positively loathed the idea of swathing his neck in this uncomfortable affair, was so deeply touched by this attention on the part of his housekeeper that his voice trembled with emotion, as he replied:
“Why, Mother Barbançon, Mother Barbançon, what extravagance! I really ought to scold you well.”
“See, there is a J and a B for Jacques Bernard, embroidered in each corner,” said the housekeeper, calling attention to this decoration with manifest pride.
“True, there are my initials. See, Olivier!” said the good man, delighted with this attention.
“Why, my dear, good woman, you have no idea what pleasure, what great pleasure you have given me!” he added.
“Oh, thank you, monsieur,” replied Madame Barbançon, as deeply touched and as joyfully as if she had received the most generous reward.
“But it is getting late,” she added. “Look, it is half past six. Quick, monsieur, let me put it on for you.”
“Put what on, Mother Barbançon?”
“Why, the cravat, monsieur.”
“On me? The deuce take me, if—”
But a meaning look from Olivier made the old officer realise how much chagrin he would cause the worthy housekeeper by refusing to don her gift.
On the other hand, the good man had never worn a white cravat in his life, and fairly shuddered at the idea of such a piece of neck-gear.
But his natural kindness of heart conquered, and, smothering a sigh, he yielded his neck to Madame Barbançon, saying, in order to complete his exclamation in a manner that would be more flattering to his housekeeper:
“I meant to say, the deuce take me if I refuse, Mother Barbançon, but it is much too fine for me.”
“Nothing can be too fine for such an occasion as this, monsieur,” said the housekeeper, carefully adjusting the cravat. “It is a great pity that you haven’t something better to wear than that old blue coat you’ve had at least seven years, but with your cross of the Legion of Honour and this handsome cravat,” — pulling out the ends of the cravat until they looked like two immense rabbits’ ears, and then eying her work complacently,— “you have no cause to blush for your appearance. Ah, monsieur,” she added, stepping back a little to see the effect better, “it makes you look twenty years younger, doesn’t it, M. Olivier? Besides, it is so — so stylish — it makes you look like a notary, indeed it does.”
The poor commander, with his neck imprisoned in the huge cravat that reached up to the middle of his cheeks, turned and looked in the little mirror that hung over the mantel in his bedroom, and it must be confessed that the effect was really very becoming.
“It’s a pity it prevents me from turning my head,” he said to himself, “but, as Mother Barbançon says, it is rather becoming — and decidedly professional looking,” he added, with just the least bit of foppishness.
And the old officer passed his hand rather complacently through his thick white hair.
“Come, uncle, it is quarter of seven,” said Olivier, with all a lover’s impatience, “and quite time we were off.”
“Very well, my boy, we will start at once. Give me my hat and cane, Mother Barbançon,” said the old officer, not daring to look either to the right or left, for fear of disarranging the wonderful rabbit-eared bow.
The evening was superb, and the distance from the Batignolles to the Rue de Monceau very short, so the commander and Olivier proceeded modestly on foot to Herminie’s home.
Fortunately the exercise this involved softened the rigid folds of the commander’s cravat a little, and though he may have looked a little less imposing when he reached his destination, this fact did not impair in the least the noble expression of his honest, manly face.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE SIGNING OF THE MARRIAGE CONTRACTS.
ON THE VERY evening that the two marriage contracts were to be signed, M. Bouffard, the owner of the house that sheltered Herminie, his pianist, as he had styled her ever since the young girl began giving lessons to his daughter, — M. Bouffard came after dinner to make his usual tour of inspection, for rent day was close at hand.
He reached the house about half-past six in the evening, and seated himself in Madame Moufflon’s room to question her in regard to the supposed financial condition of the tenants, and to ascertain if any of them showed signs of uneasiness as the dread moment approached.
“Why, no, M. Bouffard. I can’t say that any of them do,” replied Madame Moufflon, “that is, except the new tenant on the third floor.”
“Well, what about him?” inquired M. Bouffard, anxiously.
“When he came here, three months ago, he was as pompous as a lord, but in proportion as rent day approaches, he is becoming polite, distressingly polite to me.”
“I shall have to watch the fellow closely, then, Madame Moufflon, that is a very bad sign. Ah, what a pity it is that that handsome young fellow who paid my pianist’s rent didn’t take to those rooms on the third floor. He wouldn’t have—”
M. Bouffard never finished the sentence, for there came two or three such violent knocks at the porte-cochère that Madame Moufflon and her employer both bounded out of their chairs.
“Well, well, who is it that knocks as I, the owner of the house, would not think of knocking?” exclaimed M. Bouffard. “Let me see who this ill-mannered fellow is,” added M. Bouffard, stepping to the door, as the portress pulled the rope.
“The doors, please!” cried a stentorian voice, thus announcing that both doors of the porte-cochère must be opened to admit a carriage.
M. Bouffard and the portress, amazed at this unheard-of demand, stood as if petrified on seeing a tall powdered footman, attired in a bright blue livery trimmed with silver braid, emerge from the shadow.
“Open both doors, quick!” said this liveried giant, authoritatively.
M. Bouffard was so overcome that he bowed low to the lackey.
“Will you never get the doors open? This is outrageous! The prince is waiting—”
“The prince!” gasped M. Bouffard, with another even more profound bow to the footman.
Just then another no less imperious blow of the knocker resounded.
Madame Moufflon drew the cord with an automatic movement exactly as before, and again a voice cried from under the archway:
“Both doors, please!”
And another footman, clad in green and gold livery this time, stepped up to the door of the porter’s lodge, at which an acquaintance must have been standing, for he exclaimed:
“What, Lorrain, is that you? I just saw your master’s carriage. What’s the matter here? Why don’t they open the doors? Are the porter and portress asleep?”
“One would think they had glass eyes. Look at them, they don’t move.”
“And it is madame la duchesse they’re keeping waiting. She never gets impatient, oh, no!”
“Madame la duchesse!” repeated M. Bouffard, more and more astounded, but sti
ll motionless.
“Mille tonnerres! will you open the doors sometime to-night?” demanded one of the footmen.
“But who do you wish to see?” asked M. Bouffard, awakening from his stupor.
“Mlle. Herminie,” said the tallest lackey, with an evident respect for the person his master was about to visit.
“Yes, Mlle. Herminie,” replied the other.
“The small door to the left, under the archway,” said the portress, more and more amazed. “I’ll open the doors at once.”
“A prince and a duchess, visiting my pianist!” gasped M. Bouffard.
Soon came another knocking, much more gentle this time, and another footman in brown livery, with blue trimmings, came to complete the assemblage of lackeys, exclaiming:
“Is everybody stone-deaf here? The doors, why don’t you open the doors, I say?”
M. Bouffard, desperate now, resolved to play a heroic part, so, while the portress was tidying herself up a little so as to usher in Herminie’s aristocratic visitors, the ex-grocer rushed out to open the double doors of the porte-cochère. This menial task performed, he had barely time to draw back close to the wall to prevent himself from being crushed by the broad breasts of two superb gray horses attached to an elegant dark blue coupé that dashed in, and, skilfully guided by a tall coachman, stopped short at a sign from one of the footmen, who had stationed himself at Herminie’s door.
A hunchback and a stout man, both dressed in black, alighted from this handsome equipage, and Madame Moufflon made haste to announce to M. Bouffard’s pianist:
“M. le Prince Duc de Haut-Martel.”
“M. Leroi, notary.”
The first carriage had hardly left the door before a handsome landau drove up.
Two ladies and a young man descended from this vehicle, and Madame Moufflon, who thought she must be dreaming, announced to M. Bouffard’s pianist:
“Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre.”
“Mlle. Berthe de Senneterre.”
“M. le Duc de Senneterre.”
An elegant brougham having followed these carriages, another guest alighted, and Madame Moufflon announced:
“M. le Baron de la Rochaiguë.”
A few minutes afterwards the portress ushered into Mlle. Herminie’s apartment the following less pretentious personages:
“Commander Bernard.”
“M. Olivier Raymond.”
“Mlle. Ernestine Vert-Puis.”
“Madame Laîné.”
These last two persons had come in a modest cab.
These duties performed, Madame Moufflon rejoined her employer, who was pacing vehemently to and fro, under the porte-cochère, — his forehead covered with big drops of sweat, so intense was his excitement, — saying to himself:
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What can these great lords and ladies be doing in my pianist’s room? What do you suppose all this means, Mother Moufflon?”
“I don’t know what to think, — my brain fairly whirls. I see stars, and I’m so afraid of a stroke of apoplexy, I’m going to put my head under the water spigot to cool it off.”
“I have it!” suddenly exclaimed the ex-grocer, triumphantly. “My pianist is giving a concert.”
“I don’t think so, for the last time I looked in I saw the ladies had laid their wraps on the piano, which was closed, and the entire company was standing in a row, while a notary—”
“What notary? Is there a notary here?”
“Yes, monsieur, the tall, stout man, — with a stomach twice as big as yours. I announced him as ‘M. Leroi, notary.’ Well, he was seated at Mlle. Herminie’s table, with a pile of papers in front of him, and a candle on each side — like a juggler.”
“Perhaps he is one,” exclaimed M. Bouffard, “or, possibly, a fortune teller.”
“But, as I told you just now, I announced him as a notary.”
“True, true! Oh, well, I will stay awhile, and perhaps I shall be able to find out something when they leave.”
Such a brilliant assemblage had never honoured Herminie’s modest little home before, and the young girl experienced the liveliest satisfaction and happiness at this unexpected dénouement of a love that had seemed so hopeless. But the pleasure of welcoming Mlle. Berthe de Senneterre, Gerald’s sister, and the eldest daughter of the duchess, filled her cup of joy to overflowing.
“Ah, madame,” Herminie had said to the duchess, in a voice trembling with emotion, — for she appreciated the delicacy of this proceeding on the part of Gerald’s mother, and felt that it was intended to serve as some reparation for the cruel words of the evening before,— “ah, madame, if I had been asked my most earnest desire, it would have been to see Mlle. de Senneterre here, — that is, if I had dared to hope for the honour.”
“Berthe takes too deep an interest in her brother’s happiness not to wish to be the first to welcome her new sister-in-law,” replied Madame de Senneterre, in gracious, even affectionate tones.
Then Mlle. de Senneterre, a charming girl, for she strongly resembled Gerald both in appearance and character, had said to Herminie, with delightful affability:
“Yes, mademoiselle, I was anxious to be the first to thank you, for my brother is so happy, and I feel and know that he has a thousand reasons to be.”
“I wish I were more worthy to offer M. de Senneterre the only family happiness he can lack,” replied Herminie, gently.
And while the two young girls continued this interchange of affectionate words, thus prolonging a little scene in which Herminie gave convincing proof of perfect tact, rare distinction of manner, and a modest and graceful dignity, the hunchback, more and more charmed with his adopted daughter, said, in a whispered aside to Madame de Senneterre:
“Tell me frankly; do you think it would be possible for any person to do better under the circumstances?”
“It is really wonderful. She has an air of the most perfect breeding, combined with marvellous tact, and an apparent familiarity with all the rules and customs of the very best society. In short, she is a born duchess; that is all there is about it.”
“And what do you think of Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s betrothed, — Gerald’s friend and former comrade?”
“You are subjecting me to a hard test, marquis,” replied Madame de Senneterre, smothering a sigh, “but I am forced to admit that he is a charming and exceedingly distinguished-looking man, and that I can see little, if any, difference between this gentleman and a member of our own set in manner and bearing. It seems inconceivable to me that people of this class can be so polished and refined. Ah, marquis, marquis, what are we coming to?”
“We are coming to the signing of the contracts, my dear duchess; but I beg of you,” added the hunchback, in a low tone, “not a word that would lead Gerald’s friend to suppose that that simply dressed girl is Mlle. de Beaumesnil.”
“You need feel no fears on that score, marquis. Incomprehensible as this mystery seems to me, I shall not say a word. Have I not maintained the strictest secrecy on the subject of Herminie’s adoption? My son is still ignorant of your intentions, but all these mysteries will necessarily be cleared up when the marriage contracts are read.”
“I will attend to that, my dear duchess,” replied the hunchback. “All I ask of you is that you will keep the secret until I authorise you to speak.”
“Oh, I promise you I will do that.”
Leaving Madame de Senneterre, who had seated herself beside her daughter, and near Herminie, the hunchback rejoined the notary, and said a few words, to which that official replied with a smile of assent; after which, the marquis said aloud:
“We should now give our attention to the reading of the contracts, I think.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Madame de Senneterre.
The different actors in the scene were grouped as follows:
Herminie and Ernestine were seated side by side. On Herminie’s right sat Madame and Mlle. de Senneterre, while to the left of Ernestine sat Madame Laîné, who was playing her mod
est rôle in a very satisfactory fashion.
Standing behind Herminie and Ernestine were Gerald, Olivier, Commander Bernard, and Baron de la Rochaiguë, whose presence astonished Olivier very much, and caused him no little vague uneasiness, though he was still far from suspecting that Ernestine, the little embroideress, and Mlle. de Beaumesnil were one and the same person.
M. de Maillefort had remained at the other end of the room, seated beside the notary, who, taking up one of the documents, said to the hunchback:
“We will begin, if agreeable to you, M. le marquis, with M. le Duc de Senneterre’s contract.”
“Certainly,” replied the hunchback, smiling. “Mlle. Herminie is older than Mlle. Ernestine, so she is entitled to this honour.”
Whereupon the notary, bowing slightly to his auditors, was about to begin the reading of Herminie’s marriage contract, when M. de le Rochaiguë, assuming one of his most imposing parliamentary attitudes, said, impressively:
“I ask this honourable assembly’s permission to make a few remarks prior to the reading of these contracts.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE BARON HAS HIS REVENGE.
OLIVIER RAYMOND, WHO had marvelled greatly at the baron’s presence before, became decidedly uneasy on hearing this request.
“M. le Baron de la Rochaiguë has the floor,” responded M. de Maillefort, smiling.
“In heaven’s name, what business has that man here?” Olivier whispered to his friend.
“I haven’t the slightest idea, upon my word,” replied the young duke, with the most innocent air imaginable, “but if we listen we shall soon find out, I suppose.”
The baron cleared his throat, slipped his left hand in the bosom of his coat, and said, in his most impressive tones:
“In behalf of certain interests that have been entrusted to me, I beg M. Olivier Raymond to be good enough to answer a few questions I should like to put to him.”
“I am at your orders, monsieur,” replied Olivier, more and more astonished.
“In that case, I have the honour to ask M. Olivier Raymond if I did not recently offer him, — being empowered, authorised, and commissioned to do so in the capacity of Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s guardian, — if I did not offer him, I repeat, the hand of my ward, Mlle. de Beaumesnil?”