by Eugène Sue
“My note must have surprised you.”
“Yes, madame.”
“But kind and generous as ever, you hastened to comply with my request.”
The marquis bowed, and, in a voice full of emotion, the countess went on:
“M. de Maillefort, you have loved me devotedly,” she said.
The hunchback started visibly, and gazed at the countess with mingled dismay and astonishment.
“Do not be surprised that I should have discovered a secret that no one else has even suspected,” continued the countess, “for love, true love, always betrays itself to the person loved.”
“So you knew,” stammered the hunchback.
“I knew all,” replied the countess, extending her ice-cold hand to M. de Maillefort, who pressed it reverently, while tears which he could no longer repress streamed down his cheeks.
“Yes, I knew all,” continued the countess, “your noble, though carefully concealed, devotion, and the suffering so heroically endured.”
“You knew all?” repeated M. de Maillefort, hesitatingly; “you knew all, and yet your greeting was always kind and gracious when we chanced to meet. You knew all, and yet I never detected a mocking smile upon your lips or a gleam of disdainful pity in your eye.”
“M. de Maillefort,” the countess answered, with touching dignity, “it is in the name of the love you have borne me, it is in the name of the affectionate esteem with which your character has always inspired me, that I now, at the hour of death, beg that you will allow me to entrust to your keeping the interests I hold most dear.”
“Forgive me, madame, forgive me,” said the marquis, with even greater emotion, “for having even for an instant fancied that a heart like yours could scorn or ridicule an unconquerable but carefully concealed love. Speak on, madame, I believe I am worthy of the confidence you show in me.”
“M. de Maillefort, this night will be my last.”
“Madame!”
“I am not deceiving myself. It is only by a strong effort of will and a powerful stimulant that I have managed to hold death at bay for several hours past. Listen, then, for, as I just told you, my moments are numbered.”
The hunchback dried his tears and listened with breathless attention.
“You have heard of the frightful accident of which M. de Beaumesnil was the victim. By reason of his death — and mine — my daughter Ernestine will soon be an orphan in a strange land, with no one to care for her but a governess. Nor is this all. Ernestine is an angel of goodness and ingenuousness, but she is exceedingly timid. Tenderly guarded both by her father and myself, she is as ignorant of the world as only a sixteen-year-old girl who has been jealously watched over by her parents, and who naturally prefers quiet and simplicity, can be. On some accounts one might suppose that I need feel no anxiety in regard to her future, for she will be the richest heiress in France, but I cannot overcome my uneasiness when I think of the persons who will probably have charge of my daughter when I am gone, for it is M. and Madame de la Rochaiguë who, as her nearest relatives, will doubtless be selected as her guardians. This being the case, you can easily understand my apprehensions, I think.”
“It would, indeed, be desirable that your daughter should have more judicious guardians, but Mlle. de Beaumesnil is sixteen. Her minority will not last long; besides, the persons to whom you allude are erratic and ridiculous rather than dangerous.”
“I know that, still, Ernestine’s hand will be so strongly coveted — I have already had convincing proofs of that” — added Madame de Beaumesnil, remembering her confessor’s persistent efforts in M. de Macreuse’s behalf, “the poor child will be the victim of such persecution that I shall not feel entirely reassured unless she has a faithful and devoted friend of superior character, willing and capable of guiding her in her choice. Will you be this faithful friend to my child, M. de Maillefort? Consent, I beseech you, and I shall leave the world satisfied that my daughter’s lot in life will be as happy as it will be brilliant.”
“I will endeavour to be such a friend to your daughter, madame. Everything that I can do for her, I will do.”
“Ah, I can breath freely now, I no longer feel any anxiety in regard to Ernestine. I know what such a promise means from you, M. de Maillefort,” exclaimed the countess, her face beaming with hope and serenity.
But almost immediately a consciousness of increasing weakness, together with other unfavourable symptoms, convinced Madame de Beaumesnil that her end was fast approaching. Her countenance, which had beamed for a moment with the hope and serenity M. de Maillefort’s promise had inspired, became troubled again, and in a hurried, almost entreating voice, she continued:
“But this is not all, M. de Maillefort, I have a still greater favour to ask of you. Aided by your counsels, my daughter Ernestine will be as happy as she is rich. Her future is as bright and as well assured as any person’s can be, but it is very different concerning the future of a poor but noble-hearted creature, whom — I — I wish that you—”
Madame de Beaumesnil paused. Say more she dared not — could not.
Though she had resolved to tell M. de Maillefort the secret of Herminie’s birth, in the hope of ensuring her child the protection of this generous man, she shrank from the shame of such a confession, — a confession which would also have been a violation of the solemn oath she had taken years before, and faithfully kept.
The marquis, seeing her hesitate, said, gently:
“What is it, madame? Will you not be kind enough to tell me what other service I can render you? Do you not know that you can depend upon me as one of the most devoted of your friends?”
“I know that! I know that!” gasped Madame de Beaumesnil, “but I dare not — I am afraid—”
The marquis, deeply touched by her distress, endeavoured to make it easier for her to prefer her request by saying:
“When you checked yourself just now, madame, you were speaking, I think, of the uncertain future of a poor but noble-hearted creature. Who is she? And in what way can I be of service to her?”
Overcome with grief and increasing weakness, Madame de Beaumesnil buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears; then, after a brief silence, riveting her weeping eyes on the marquis, and endeavouring to appear more calm, she said, brokenly:
“Yes, you might be of the greatest possible service to a poor girl — worthy in every respect — of your interest, for she, too, is an orphan — a most unfortunate orphan, — for she is both friendless and penniless, but, oh, so brave, and so proud! In short, she is an angel,” cried the countess, with a vehemence at which M. de Maillefort marvelled greatly. “Yes,” continued Madame de Beaumesnil, sobbing violently, “Yes, she is an angel of courage and of virtue, and it is for this angel that I ask the same fatherly interest I asked for my daughter Ernestine. Oh, M. de Maillefort, do not refuse my request, I beseech you!”
The excitement and embarrassment Madame de Beaumesnil manifested in speaking of this orphan, together with the almost frenzied appeal in her behalf, excited the Marquis de Maillefort’s profound astonishment.
For a moment he was too amazed to speak; then, all of a sudden, he started violently, for a terrible suspicion darted through his mind. He recollected some of the scandalous (up to this time he had always styled them infamous) reports, which had been rife in former years, concerning Madame de Beaumesnil, and which he had avenged by challenging M. de Mornand that very day.
Could it be that there had really been a foundation for these rumours? Was this orphan, in whom Madame de Beaumesnil seemed to take such a profound interest, bound to the countess by a secret tie? Was she, indeed, the child of her shame?
But almost immediately the marquis, full of confidence in Madame de Beaumesnil’s virtue, drove away these odious suspicions, and bitterly reproached himself for having entertained them even for a moment.
The countess, terrified by the hunchback’s silence, said to him, in trembling tones:
“Forgive me, M. de Maillefor
t. I see that I have presumed too much upon your generous kindness. Not content with having secured your fatherly protection for my daughter, Ernestine, I must needs seek to interest you in an unfortunate stranger. Pardon me, I beseech you.”
The tone in which Madame de Beaumesnil uttered these words was so heart-broken and full of despair that M. de Maillefort’s suspicions revived. One of his dearest illusions was being ruthlessly destroyed. Madame de Beaumesnil was no longer the ideal woman he had so long adored.
But taking pity on this unhappy mother, and understanding how terribly she must suffer, M. de Maillefort felt his eyes fill with tears, and it was in an agitated voice that he replied:
“You need have no fears, madame, I shall keep my promise, and the orphan girl you commend to my care will be as dear to me as Mlle. de Beaumesnil. I shall have two daughters instead of one.”
And he pressed the hand of Madame de Beaumesnil affectionately, as if to seal his promise.
“Now I can die in peace!” exclaimed the countess. And before the marquis could prevent it, she had pressed her cold lips upon the hand he had offered her; and, from this manifestation of ineffable gratitude, M. de Maillefort was convinced that the person in question was indeed Madame de Beaumesnil’s illegitimate child.
All at once, either because so much violent emotion had exhausted the invalid’s strength, or because her malady — concealed for a time by an apparent improvement in the sufferer’s condition — had attained its height, Madame de Beaumesnil made a sudden movement, at the same time uttering a cry of agony.
“Good God, madame, what is it?” cried the marquis, terrified at the sudden alteration in Madame de Beaumesnil’s features.
“It is nothing,” she answered, heroically, “a slight pain, that is all. But here, take this key, — quick, I beg of you,” she added, drawing out a key from under her pillow and handing it to him.
“Open — that — secretary,” she gasped.
The marquis obeyed.
“There is a purse in the middle drawer. Do you see it?”
“Yes, here it is.”
“Keep it, I beg of you. It contains a sum of money which I have a perfect right to dispose of. It will at least save the young girl I commended to your care from want. Only promise me,” continued the poor mother, her voice becoming more and more feeble each moment,— “promise me that you will never mention my name to — to this orphan — nor tell her who it was that asked you to place this money in her hands. But tell her, oh, tell this unfortunate child that she was tenderly loved until the last, and that — that it was absolutely necessary—”
The countess was so weak now that the conclusion of the sentence was inaudible.
“But this purse — to whom am I to give it, madame? Where shall I find this young girl, and what is her name?” exclaimed M. de Maillefort, alarmed by the sudden change in Madame de Beaumesnil’s condition, and by her laboured breathing.
But instead of answering M. de Maillefort’s question Madame de Beaumesnil sank back on her pillows with a despairing moan, and clasped her hands upon her breast.
“Speak to me, madame,” cried the marquis, bending over the countess in the utmost terror and alarm. “This young girl, tell me where I can find her, and who she is.”
“I am dying — dying—” murmured Madame de Beaumesnil, lifting her eyes heavenward.
Then with a last supreme effort, she faltered:
“Don’t forget — your promise — my child — the orphan!”
In another moment the countess was no more; and M. de Maillefort, overcome with grief and chagrin, could no longer doubt that this orphan, whose name and place of abode were alike unknown to him, was Madame de Beaumesnil’s illegitimate child.
The funeral rites of Madame de Beaumesnil were conducted with great splendour.
The Baron de la Rochaiguë acted as chief mourner. M. de Maillefort, invited by letter to take part in the ceremonial, joined the funeral cortége.
In an obscure corner of the church, kneeling as if crushed by the weight of her despair, a young girl prayed and sobbed, unheeded by any one.
It was Herminie.
CHAPTER XII.
A VAIN INTERVIEW.
SEVERAL DAYS AFTER Madame de Beaumesnil’s funeral, M. de Maillefort, arousing himself from the gloomy lethargy into which the death of the countess had plunged him, resolved to carry out that unfortunate lady’s last wishes in regard to the unknown orphan, though he fully realised all the difficulties of the mission intrusted to him.
How should he go to work to find the young girl whom Madame de Beaumesnil had so urgently commended to his care?
To whom could he apply for information that would give him the necessary clue to her identity?
Above all, how could he secure this information without compromising Madame de Beaumesnil’s good name and the secrecy with which she had wished him to carry out her intentions with regard to this mysterious daughter, — her illegitimate child, as M. de Maillefort could no longer doubt.
The hunchback recollected that on the evening of her death the countess had sent a confidential servant to beg him to come to the Hôtel de Beaumesnil without delay.
“This woman has been in Madame de Beaumesnil’s service a long time,” thought the marquis. “She may be able to give me some information.”
So M. de Maillefort’s valet, a trustworthy and devoted man, was sent to bring Madame Dupont to the house of the marquis.
“I know how devotedly you were attached to your mistress, my dear Madame Dupont,” the marquis began.
“Ah, monsieur, madame la comtesse was so good and kind!” exclaimed Madame Dupont, bursting into tears. “How could one help being devoted to her in life and in death?”
“It is because I am so sure of this devotion, as well as of your respect for the memory of your deceased mistress, that I requested you to come to my house, my dear Madame Dupont. I wish to speak to you on a very delicate subject.”
“I am listening, M. le marquis.”
“The proof of confidence which Madame de Beaumesnil gave by sending for me just before her death must convince you that any questions I may put to you are of an almost sacred nature, so I can safely count upon your frankness and discretion.”
“You can, indeed, M. le marquis.”
“I am sure of it. Now the state of affairs is just this: Madame de Beaumesnil has for a long time, as nearly as I can learn, — at the request of a friend, — taken charge of a young orphan girl who, by the death of her protectress, is now deprived of the means of support. I am ignorant of this young girl’s name, as well as of her place of residence, and I am anxious to ascertain both as soon as possible. Can you give me any information on the subject?”
“A young orphan girl?” repeated Madame Dupont, thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
“During the ten years I have been in the service of madame la comtesse, I have never known any young girl who came regularly to the house or who seemed to be a protégée of hers.”
“Are you sure?”
“Perfectly sure, M. le marquis.”
“And Madame de Beaumesnil never entrusted you with any commission in connection with the young girl of whom I speak?”
“Never, M. le marquis. Many persons applied to madame for aid, for she was very liberal, but I never noticed that she gave any particular person the preference or interested herself any more in one person than in another, and I feel sure that if madame had wished any confidential mission performed, she would certainly have entrusted it to me.”
“That is exactly what I thought, and it was for that very reason I felt confident of securing some information from you. Come now, try and think if you can not remember some young girl in whom Madame de Beaumesnil has seemed to take a special interest for some time past.”
“I can remember no one, absolutely no one,” answered Madame Dupont after several minutes of profound reflection.
The thought of Herminie did occur to her, but was instantly dism
issed, for there had been nothing in Madame de Beaumesnil’s manner towards the young musician that indicated any special interest; besides, she and the countess had met for the first time less than a fortnight before the latter’s death, while the marquis declared that the young girl of whom he was in search had been under Madame de Beaumesnil’s protection for a long time.
“Then I must endeavour to secure my information elsewhere,” said the marquis, with a sigh.
“Wait a moment, M. le marquis,” exclaimed Madame Dupont. “What I am going to tell you may have no connection with the young girl of whom you speak, but it will do no harm to mention it.”
“Let me hear what it is.”
“The day before her death, madame la comtesse sent for me, and said: ‘Take a cab and carry this letter to a woman who lives in the Batignolles. Do not tell her who sent you, but bring her back with you, and show her up to my room immediately upon her arrival.’”
“And this woman’s name?”
“Was a very peculiar one, M. le marquis, and I have not forgotten it. She is called Madame Barbançon.”
“Was she a frequent visitor at Madame de Beaumesnil’s house?”
“She was never there except that once.”
“And did you bring this woman to Madame de Beaumesnil’s?”
“I did not.”
“How was that?”
“After giving me the order I just spoke of, madame seemed to change her mind, for she said to me: ‘All things considered, Madame Dupont, you had better not take a cab. It would give the affair an air of mystery. Order out the carriage, give this letter to the footman, and tell him to deliver it to the person to whom it is addressed.’”
“And he found the woman?”
“Yes, M. le marquis.”
“And did Madame de Beaumesnil have a conversation with her?”
“The interview lasted at least two hours, M. le marquis.”
“How old was this woman?”
“Fifty years of age at the very least, and a very ordinary person.”
“And after her interview with the countess?”
