by Eugène Sue
“You will think me very changeable, I fear, mademoiselle,” said the countess, at last; “but if it is all the same to you, I would prefer to postpone the music until about ten o’clock. That is usually my worst time, though perhaps I shall escape it to-night. If I do not, I should regret having exhausted a resource which has so often relieved me. Nor is this all; after having admitted that I am whimsical, I fear that you will now accuse me of having entirely too much curiosity.”
“And why, madame?”
“Come and seat yourself here beside me,” said the countess, affectionately, “and tell me how it is that you who can not be more than seventeen or eighteen years of age—”
“Eighteen years and six months, madame la comtesse.”
“Well, then, how it is that you are such an accomplished musician at your age?”
“Madame la comtesse judges me too flatteringly. I have always had a great love for music, and I had very little trouble in learning it.”
“But who was your instructor? Where did you learn music?”
“I was taught in the school I attended, madame la comtesse.”
“In Paris, then, I suppose?”
“No; I have attended school in other places besides Paris.”
“Where?”
“In Beauvais. I lived there until I was ten years old.”
“And after that?”
“I was placed in a Parisian school.”
“And how long did you remain there?”
“Until I was sixteen and a half.”
“And after that?”
“I left school and began to give lessons in singing and on the piano.”
“And ever since that time you have — ?”
Madame de Beaumesnil hastily checked herself, then added, with no little embarrassment:
“I am really ashamed of my inquisitiveness — nothing but the deep interest I take in you could excuse it, mademoiselle.”
“The questions madame la comtesse deigns to address to me are evidently so kindly meant that I am only too glad to answer them in all sincerity.”
“Well, then, with whom did you make your home after leaving school?”
“With whom did I make my home, madame?”
“Yes; I mean with what persons?”
“I had no one to go to, madame.”
“No one?” exclaimed Madame de Beaumesnil, with truly heroic courage. “You had no relatives? No family?”
“I have no relatives, madame la comtesse,” replied Herminie, with a courage equal to that of her mother. “I have no relatives.”
“I am sure now that she does not know that I am her daughter,” Herminie said to herself. “If she did, she certainly would not have had the courage to ask me such a question.”
“Then with whom have you lived since that time?” asked the countess.
“I have lived alone.”
“Entirely alone?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Forgive me this one more question, for at your age — such a position is so unusual — and so very interesting — have you always had scholars enough to support you?”
“Oh, yes, madame la comtesse,” replied poor Herminie, bravely.
“And you live entirely alone, though you are so young?”
“What else could I do, madame? One can not choose one’s lot; one can only accept it, and by the aid of industry and courage try to make one’s existence, if not brilliant, at least happy.”
“Happy!” exclaimed Madame de Beaumesnil, in accents of irrepressible delight; “you are really happy?”
As she uttered these words her countenance, as well as her voice, betrayed such intense joy and relief that Herminie’s doubts returned, and she said to herself:
“Perhaps she does know that I am her daughter. If she does not, why should she be so pleased to learn that I am happy. It matters little, however. If she does know that I am her daughter, I must reassure her so as to save her from vain regrets, and perhaps remorse. If I am a stranger to her, it is no less necessary for me to reassure her, else she may think I wish to excite her commiseration, and my pride revolts at the idea of that.”
Meanwhile, Madame de Beaumesnil, longing to hear Herminie repeat an assurance so precious to a mother’s heart, exclaimed:
“And you say you are happy — really and truly happy?”
“Yes, madame,” answered Herminie, almost gaily, “very happy.”
Seeing her daughter’s charming face thus radiant with innocent joy and youthful beauty, the countess was obliged to make a violent effort to keep from betraying herself, and it was with a fair imitation of Herminie’s gaiety that she replied:
“Don’t laugh at my question, mademoiselle, but to us, who are unfortunately accustomed to all the luxuries and superfluities of wealth, there are many things that seem incomprehensible. When you left school, however modest your wants may have been, how did you manage to supply them?”
“Oh, I was rich, then, madame la comtesse,” said Herminie, smiling.
“How was that?”
“Two years after I was placed at a Parisian school, the remittances which had, up to that time, been received for my schooling ceased. I was then twelve years old, and the principal of the school was very fond of me. ‘My child,’ she said to me one day, ‘your friends have ceased to pay for you, but that makes no difference; you shall stay on just the same.’”
“Noble woman!”
“She was the best woman that ever lived, madame la comtesse, but, unfortunately, she is dead now,” said Herminie, sadly.
Then, unwilling to leave the countess under a painful impression, she added, smilingly:
“But the kind-hearted woman had not taken my greatest fault into consideration in making these plans. For, as you ask me to be perfectly frank with you, madame, I am forced to admit that I have one great and deplorable fault.”
“And what is it, may I ask?”
“Alas! madame, it is pride.”
“Pride?”
“Yes; so when our kind-hearted principal offered to keep me out of charity, my pride revolted, and I told her I would accept her offer only upon condition that I was allowed to pay by my work for what she offered me gratuitously.”
“You said that at the age of twelve. What a little braggart she must have thought you. And how did you propose to pay her, pray?”
“By superintending the practising of the younger music pupils, for I was very far advanced for my age, having always had a passion for music.”
“And did she accept your proposal?”
“Gladly, madame la comtesse. My determination to be independent seemed to touch her deeply.”
“I can readily understand that.”
“Thanks to her, I soon had a large number of pupils, several of them much older than myself, — my pride is continually cropping out, you see, madame. In this way, what was at first child’s play became a vocation, and, later on, a valuable resource. At the age of fourteen, I was the second piano teacher, with a salary of twelve hundred francs, so you can form some estimate of the wealth I must have amassed at the age of sixteen and a half.”
“Poor child! So young, and yet so full of indomitable energy and noble pride!” exclaimed the countess, unable to restrain her tears.
“Then why did you leave the school?” she continued, after she had conquered her emotion.
“Our noble-hearted principal died, and another lady — who unfortunately did not resemble my benefactress in the least — took her place. The newcomer, however, proposed that I should remain in the institution upon the same terms. I accepted her offer, but, at the end of two months, my great fault — and my hot head — caused me to sever my connection with the school.”
“And why?”
“My new employer was as hard and tyrannical as the other had been kind and affectionate, and one day—”
Herminie’s beautiful face turned a vivid scarlet at the recollection, and she hesitated a moment.
“One day,”
she continued, at last, “this lady made a remark to me that cut me to the quick.”
“What did the wicked creature say to you?” demanded Madame de Beaumesnil, for Herminie had paused again, unwilling to wound the countess by repeating the insulting and heartless words:
“You are very proud for a bastard that was reared by charity in this very house.”
“What did that wicked woman say to you?” insisted Madame de Beaumesnil.
“I beg that you will not insist upon my repeating her heartless words,” replied Herminie. “Though I have not forgotten, I have at least forgiven them. But the very next day I left the house with my little savings. With these I fitted up my modest ménage, for since that time I have lived alone, in a home of my own.”
Herminie uttered the words, “in a home of my own,” with such a proud and satisfied air, that Madame de Beaumesnil, with tears in her eyes, despite the smile upon her lips, pressed the young girl’s hand affectionately, and said:
“I am sure this home of yours must be charming.”
“Oh, yes, madame, there is nothing too elegant for me.”
“Come, tell me all about it. How many rooms are there in your apartment?”
“Only one, besides a tiny hall; but it is on the ground floor, and looks out upon a garden. The room is small, so I could afford a pretty carpet and curtains. I have only one armchair, but that is velvet. I have but little furniture, it is true, but that little is in very good taste, I think. There is one thing more that I aspire to, however, and that ambition will soon be realised.”
“And what is that?”
“It is to have a little maid, — a child thirteen or fourteen years of age, whom I shall rescue from misery and want, and who will be as happy as the day is long with me. I have heard of an orphan girl, about twelve years old, a dear, obedient, affectionate child, they say, so you can judge how pleased I shall be when I am able to take her into my service. It will not be a useless expense, either, madame la comtesse, for then I shall not be obliged to go out alone to give my lessons, — and that is so unpleasant, for, as you must know, madame, a young girl who is obliged to go out alone—”
Herminie’s voice faltered, and tears of shame filled her eyes as she thought of the insult she had just received from M. de Ravil, as well as other annoyances of a like nature to which she had often been subjected in spite of her modest and dignified bearing.
“I understand, my child, and I approve your plan,” said Madame de Beaumesnil, more and more deeply touched. “But your pupils — who procures them for you? And do you always have as many as you need?”
“Generally, madame la comtesse. In summer, when several of my pupils go to the country, I follow other pursuits. I can embroider very well; sometimes I copy music — I have even composed several pieces. I have maintained friendly relations, too, with several of my former schoolmates, and it was through one of them that I was recommended to the wife of your physician, who was looking for a young person, a good musician, to play and sing for you.”
Herminie, who had begun her story seated in an armchair near the bedside, now found herself half reclining on the bed, clasped in her mother’s arms.
Both had unconsciously yielded to the promptings of filial and maternal love, for Madame de Beaumesnil, after placing Herminie near her, had ventured to retain one of her daughter’s hands during the narration of this simple yet touching story, and as Herminie recounted the principal incidents of her past life to her mother, she felt Madame de Beaumesnil’s hand draw her closer and closer, until she found herself leaning over the bed with her mother’s arms around her neck.
Then seized with a sort of maternal frenzy, Madame de Beaumesnil, instead of continuing the conversation and answering her daughter, seized Herminie’s lovely face in her two hands, and, without uttering a word, covered it with tears and impassioned kisses, after which the mother and daughter remained for several minutes clasped in a convulsive embrace. It is well-nigh certain that the secret which it had been so difficult to guard, and which had more than once been upon their lips, would have escaped them this time if they had not been suddenly recalled to consciousness by a knock at the door.
Madame de Beaumesnil, terrified at the thought of the act of perjury she had been on the verge of committing, but unable to explain this wild transport of tenderness on her part, exclaimed incoherently, as she gently released Herminie from her embrace:
“Forgive me, forgive me, my child! I am a mother, — my own child is far away — and her absence causes me the deepest regret. My poor brain is so weak — now — and for a moment — I laboured under the delusion — the strange delusion that it was — that it was my absent daughter I was pressing to my heart. Pardon the strange hallucination — you cannot but pity a poor mother who realises that she is dying without being able to embrace her child for the last time.”
“Dying!” exclaimed the girl, raising her tear-stained face and gazing wildly at her mother.
But hearing the knock repeated, Herminie hastily dried her tears, and, forcing herself to appear calm, said to her mother:
“This is the second time some one has knocked, madame la comtesse.”
“Admit the person,” murmured Madame de Beaumesnil, faintly, quite overcome by the painful scene. It proved to be the confidential maid of the countess. She entered, and said:
“I went to M. le Marquis de Maillefort as madame directed.”
“Well?” demanded Madame de Beaumesnil, eagerly.
“And M. le marquis is waiting below until madame la comtesse is ready to see him.”
“Heaven be praised!” murmured Madame de Beaumesnil, fervently. “God is rewarding me for having had the strength to keep my vow!”
Then, turning to the maid, she added:
“Bring M. de Maillefort here at once.”
Herminie, quite overcome by so many conflicting emotions, and feeling that her presence was no longer desired, took her hat and mantle with the intention of departing at once.
The countess never took her eyes from the young girl’s face. She was gazing at her daughter for the last time, perhaps, for the poor mother felt her life was nearly over now. Nevertheless she had the courage to say to Herminie in an almost unconcerned voice in order to deceive the girl as to her real condition:
“We will have our selections from ‘Oberon’ to-morrow, mademoiselle. You will have the goodness to come early, will you not?”
“Yes, madame la comtesse,” replied Herminie.
“Show mademoiselle out, Madame Dupont, and then bring M. de Maillefort,” the countess said to her maid. But as she watched her daughter move towards the door she could not help saying to her for the last time:
“Farewell, mademoiselle.”
“Farewell, madame la comtesse,” answered Herminie.
And it was in these formal words that these two poor, heart-broken creatures gave vent to their grief and despair at this final hour of parting.
Madame Dupont showed Herminie to the street door without taking her past the drawing-room in which M. de Maillefort was waiting. Just as the young girl was leaving, Madame Dupont said, kindly:
“You have forgotten your umbrella, mademoiselle, and you will need it, for it is a dreadful night. The rain is falling in torrents.”
“Thank you, madame,” said Herminie, recollecting now that she had left her umbrella just outside the door of the reception-room, and hastening back for it.
It was indeed, raining in torrents, but Herminie, absorbed in grief, did not even notice that the night was dark and stormy as she left the Hôtel de Beaumesnil, and wended her solitary way homeward.
CHAPTER XI.
THE PURSE OF MONEY.
M. DE MAILLEFORT was waiting alone in one of the drawing-rooms when Madame Dupont came to conduct him into Madame de Beaumesnil’s presence.
The hunchback’s countenance had lost its usual expression of cynical raillery. Profound sadness, mingled with an intense anxiety and surprise, could be easily discern
ed upon his features.
Standing with one elbow resting on the mantel, and his head supported on his hand, the marquis seemed lost in thought. One might almost have fancied that he was seeking the solution of some difficult enigma; but now and then he would wake from his reverie and gaze around him with eyes glittering with tears, then hurriedly passing his hand across his forehead, as if to drive away painful thoughts, he began to pace the room with hasty strides.
Only a few minutes had elapsed, however, when Madame Dupont came to say:
“If M. le marquis will be kind enough to follow me, madame la comtesse will see him now.”
Stepping in front of the marquis, Madame Dupont opened the door leading into Madame de Beaumesnil’s apartment and announced:
“M. le Marquis de Maillefort!”
The countess had made an invalid’s toilet. Her blonde hair, somewhat dishevelled by the passionate embraces bestowed upon her daughter, had been smoothed afresh, a dainty cap of Valenciennes lace surmounted the pale face, from which every tinge of colour had now fled. Her eyes, so brilliant with maternal tenderness a few moments before, had lost their lustre, and the hands that burned so feverishly when they pressed Herminie’s were fast growing cold.
Noting the appalling change in the features of the countess, whom he had seen but a comparatively short time before radiant with youth and beauty, M. de Maillefort started violently, then paused a moment in spite of himself.
“You find me greatly changed, do you not, M. de Maillefort?” asked Madame de Beaumesnil, with a sad smile.
The hunchback made no reply. His head drooped, and when he raised it again, after a minute or two, he was as pale as death.
Madame de Beaumesnil motioned the marquis to seat himself in an armchair near the bedside, saying as she did so, in a grave but affectionate voice:
“I fear my moments even are numbered, M. de Maillefort, and I shall therefore endeavour to make this interview as brief as possible.”
The marquis silently took the seat designated by the countess, who added:
