by Eugène Sue
The duchess could not fail to display, in her choice of a husband, the refined taste and exquisite delicacy which were her most prominent characteristics; but it is needless to say that the social position of the man she loved, whether high or low, would not have influenced her in the least.
She knew by herself, and she gloried in the knowledge, that rare nobility and refinement of soul are sometimes found in the poorest and most obscure, and that which had oftenest offended her in her suitors were the slight imperfections, not apparent very possibly to any one save the duchess, but inexpressibly obnoxious to her.
This suitor had been too boisterous in manner; that one, too familiar and unrefined; this one had a rasping voice; that one was almost grotesque in appearance. Nevertheless, some of the rejected suitors possessed many admirable qualities of mind and heart, as Herminie herself had been the first to admit. These she considered the best and most worthy men in the world, and frankly granted them her esteem, and even her friendship, but not her love.
It was not from any feeling of disdain or foolish ambition that Herminie had refused them, but simply, as she herself had said to the unfortunates, “because she felt no love for them, and was resolved to remain single all her life rather than marry without experiencing a sincere and profound love.” And yet, by reason of this very pride, fastidiousness, and sensitiveness, Herminie must have suffered much more than the generality of persons from the painful and almost inevitable annoyances inherent to the position of a young girl who is not only obliged to live alone, but who is also exposed to the unfortunate conditions which may result at any time from a lack of employment or from sickness.
For some time, alas! the duchess had been realising most cruelly the unhappy consequences of her poverty and isolation. Any person who understands Herminie’s character and her pride, — a pride that had impelled the young girl, in spite of her pressing need, to proudly return the five hundred franc note sent her by the executors of the Beaumesnil estate, — can readily understand the mingled terror and dismay with which the poor child was awaiting the return of M. Bouffard, for, as he had remarked to Madame Barbançon, he intended to pay his last round of visits to his delinquent tenants that afternoon.
Herminie was trying to devise some means of satisfying this coarse and insolent man, but, having already, pawned her silver and her watch, she had nothing more to pawn. No one would have loaned her twenty francs on her mantel ornaments, tasteful as they were, and her pictures and statuettes would have brought little or nothing.
Overcome with terror at the thought of her truly pitiable condition, Herminie was weeping bitterly and shuddering in the dread expectation of hearing M. Bouffard’s imperious peal of the bell at any moment.
Yet so noble and generous was this young girl’s nature that, even in the midst of these cruel perplexities, Herminie never once thought of saying to herself that she might be saved by an infinitesimal portion of the enormous superabundance belonging to the sister whose sumptuous apartments she had seen a couple of days before. If the duchess thought of her sister at all, it was that she might find in the hope of seeing her some diversion from her present grief and chagrin. And for this sorrow and chagrin Herminie now blamed herself as she cast a tearful glance around her pretty room, reproaching herself the while for her unwarranted expenditures.
She ought to have saved up this money for a rainy day, she said to herself, and for such misfortunes as sickness or a lack of pupils. She ought to have resigned herself to taking a room on the fourth floor, next door to strangers, to living separated from them only by a thin partition, in a bare and desolate room with dirty walls. She ought not to have allowed herself to be tempted by this outlook upon a pretty garden, and by the seclusion of her present apartments. She ought to have kept her money, too, instead of spending it on the pretty trifles which had been the only companions of her solitude, and which had converted the little room into a delightful retreat where she had lived so happily, confident of her ability to support herself.
Who ever would have supposed that a person as proud as she was would have to submit to the coarse, but just abuse of a man to whom she owed money, — money that she could not pay?
Could anything be more humiliating?
But these severe though just reproaches for past delinquencies did not ameliorate her present misery in the least; and she remained seated in her armchair, her eyes swollen with weeping, now absorbed in a gloomy reverie, now starting violently at the slightest sound, fearing that it presaged the arrival of M. Bouffard.
At last the agonising suspense was ended by a violent pull of the bell.
“It is he,” murmured the poor creature, trembling in every limb. “I am lost!” she moaned.
And she remained seated in her chair, absolutely paralysed with fear.
A second peal of the bell, even more violent than the first, resounded in the tiny hall.
Herminie dried her eyes, summoned up all her courage, and, pale and trembling, went to open the door.
She had not been deceived.
It was M. Bouffard.
This glorious representative of the nation had laid aside the uniform of a citizen soldier and donned a gray sack coat.
“Well, have you my money ready?” he demanded, roughly, planting himself on the threshold of the door the girl had opened for him with such an unsteady hand.
“But, monsieur—”
“Do you intend to pay me, yes or no?” exclaimed M. Bouffard, in such a loud voice that the question was overheard by two other persons.
One was then standing under the porte-cochère. The other was mounting the staircase which started close to the entrance to Herminie’s apartments.
“I ask you for the last time, will you pay me? Answer me, yes or no!” repeated M. Bouffard, in even louder and more threatening tones.
“In pity do not speak so loud,” said Herminie, in imploring accents. “I assure you that, though I cannot pay you, it is not my fault; indeed it is not.”
“I am in my own house, and I will talk as I please. If any one overhears me so much the better. It may serve as a lesson to other tenants who may want to get out of paying their rent just like you.”
“Step inside, monsieur, I beseech you,” pleaded Herminie, clasping her hands, imploringly; “and I will explain.”
“Explain — explain what?” retorted M. Bouffard, following the girl into her room. “There’s no explanation possible. The whole affair is very simple. Are you going to pay me, — yes, or no?”
“It is impossible, unfortunately, just at this time,” said Herminie, dashing away a tear, “but if you will have the great kindness to wait—”
“Always the same old story!” sneered M. Bouffard, shrugging his shoulders.
Then glancing around the room with a sardonic air, he added:
“This is a pretty state of things! Here is a tenant who declares she cannot pay her rent, and yet indulges in fine carpets, chintz hangings, and all sorts of knick-knacks. If it isn’t enough to make a man swear! I, who own seven houses in the city of Paris, have a carpet only in my drawing-room, and Madame Bouffard’s boudoir is hung with a fifteen sous paper; and yet, here is a young woman who gives herself the airs of a princess, though she hasn’t a penny.”
Herminie, driven to desperation, lifted her head proudly, and, in a manner that was both firm and dignified, said:
“This piano is worth at least four times the amount of my indebtedness, monsieur. Send for it whenever you please. It is the only article of value I possess. Dispose of it; sell it whenever you like.”
“Am I a dealer in pianos? How do I know what I should realise from the sale of your instrument? You must pay me my rent in money, and not in pianos.”
“But good heavens, monsieur! I have no money. I offer you my piano, though I earn my living by it. What more can I do?”
“I won’t accept anything of the kind. You have money, I know it. You sent a watch and some silver, too, to the pawnbroker’s, for it was m
y portress who took them there for you. You can’t humbug me, you see.”
“Alas! monsieur, the paltry sum they loaned me I have been obliged to spend for—”
But Herminie did not finish the sentence. She had just perceived a gentleman standing in the open doorway. It was M. de Maillefort, and he had been an unobserved witness of the painful scene for several minutes.
Noting the girl’s sudden start, and the surprised glance she was directing towards the door, M. Bouffard turned his head, and, seeing the hunchback, seemed quite as astonished as Herminie.
The marquis now advanced, and, bowing respectfully to Herminie, said:
“I beg a thousand pardons for thus intruding, mademoiselle, but I found the door open, and as I hope you will do me the honour to grant me a few moments’ conversation on a very important matter, I ventured to enter.”
After these words, which were uttered with as much courtesy as deference, the marquis turned to M. Bouffard and surveyed him from head to foot with such an expression of withering contempt that the ex-grocer became not only embarrassed, but thoroughly intimidated as well, in the presence of this hunchback, who said to him, coldly:
“I came, monsieur, to solicit the honour of a few minutes’ conversation with this young lady.”
“Oh — ah! Well, what is that to me?” grunted M. Bouffard, gradually regaining his assurance.
The marquis, without paying the slightest attention to M. Bouffard, and addressing Herminie, who was becoming more and more astonished, asked, deferentially:
“Will mademoiselle do me the favour to grant me the interview I ask?”
“But, monsieur,” replied the girl, much embarrassed, “I do not know — I am not sure—”
“I must take the liberty of remarking that, as it is absolutely necessary that our conversation should be strictly confidential, it is indispensable that this — this gentleman should leave us, unless there may still be something you wish to say to him. In that case, I will retire.”
“I have nothing further to say to monsieur,” answered Herminie, pleased at the idea of escaping from her present painful position, even for a few moments.
“Mademoiselle has nothing more to say to you, monsieur,” said the marquis to M. Bouffard, with a meaning gesture.
But the ex-grocer, who was now himself again, and who was consequently furious at the thought that he had allowed himself to be awed by the hunchback, exclaimed:
“So you fancy a man can be turned out of his own house without paying him his just dues, monsieur, and all because you support this—”
“Enough, monsieur, enough!” cried the marquis, hastily interrupting Bouffard.
And even as he spoke, he seized the offender by the arm with such violence that the ex-grocer, feeling the long, bony fingers of the hunchback hold him as in a vise, gazed at him with mingled fear and astonishment.
But the marquis, still smiling in the most amiable manner, continued with marvellous affability:
“I regret that I am unable to enjoy your delightful society any longer, my dear sir, but you see I am at mademoiselle’s orders, and as she is good enough to grant me a few minutes, I must not abuse her kindness.”
As he spoke, the marquis half led, half dragged M. Bouffard to the door, and that worthy, astonished to encounter such physical vigour and such an authoritative manner in a hunchback, offered no further resistance.
“I will go, as I have some other matters to attend to in the house,” he exclaimed, making the best of the situation. “I am going up-stairs for awhile, but I shall return after you leave. I intend to have my money then, if I don’t—”
The marquis bowed ironically, closed the door in the ex-grocer’s face, and then returned to Herminie.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A SACRED MISSION.
M. DE MAILLEFORT, much impressed by what Madame de la Rochaiguë had told him about the young musician who had been so unjustly treated, as she averred, by Madame de Beaumesnil, had again questioned Madame Dupont, a confidential attendant of the deceased countess.
This examination, which the marquis had conducted with great prudence and skill, revealed many new details concerning the relations which had existed between the countess and that young girl, and though Madame Dupont seemed to have no suspicion of the truth, M. de Maillefort felt almost certain that Herminie must be Madame de Beaumesnil’s illegitimate child.
In spite of this firm conviction on his part, the marquis resolved to approach Herminie with the greatest reserve, not only because any revelation of his suspicions would dishonour Madame de Beaumesnil’s memory, but, also, because the countess had never revealed her secret to M. de Maillefort, who had mistrusted rather than discovered it.
Herminie, utterly unable to imagine the object of this stranger’s visit, was standing by the mantel, pale and agitated when the marquis returned to her side after M. Bouffard’s summary expulsion.
A single quick glance around the abode of the duchess had satisfied the marquis of the perfect order, refined taste, and exquisite neatness of the girl’s home, and this, together with what Madame de la Rochaiguë had told him of her noble disinterestedness, gave him a very high opinion of Herminie, and, almost sure that he saw in her the person he was so anxious to find, he studied her charming features in the hope of discovering a resemblance to Madame de Beaumesnil, and fancied that he had succeeded.
Though she did not exactly resemble her mother, Herminie, like Madame de Beaumesnil, was a blonde. Like her, she had blue eyes, and though the contour of the two faces was not alike, there was certainly a family likeness that could not fail to strike a close observer like M. de Maillefort; so it was with an emotion that he found it difficult to conceal that he approached Herminie, who was becoming more and more embarrassed by the long silence, and by the searching though almost affectionate gaze of her strange visitor.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, at last, in an almost fatherly tone, “I must beg you to excuse my delay, but I experience a sort of embarrassment in expressing the great interest I feel in you.”
M. de Maillefort’s voice, as he uttered these words, was so full of feeling that the young girl looked at him wonderingly, then, more and more surprised, she ventured, timidly:
“But this interest, monsieur—”
“You cannot imagine what has aroused it. Very well, I will tell you, my dear child, — for let me call you that,” the hunchback continued, as if in answer to a hasty movement on the part of Herminie; “my age and the interest I feel in you certainly give me a right to call you my dear child, if you will permit such a familiarity.”
“It might serve to prove my gratitude for the kind and consoling words you have just uttered, monsieur, though the humiliating position in which you just saw me placed—”
“Oh, do not trouble yourself in the least about that,” interrupted the marquis, “I—”
“I am not trying to justify myself,” said Herminie, proudly, interrupting the marquis in her turn. “I have nothing to blush for, and though, for some inexplicable reason, you are kind enough to evince an interest in me, it is only my duty to tell you, or to try to prove to you, that it was neither mismanagement, extravagance, nor idleness that placed me in such a humiliating position for the first time in my life. Ill for nearly two months past, I have been unable to give lessons as usual. I resumed them only a few days ago, so I have been obliged to spend the small amount of money I had saved. This is the truth, monsieur. If I am a little in debt, it is only in consequence of my illness.”
“Strange,” thought the marquis, mentally comparing the date of the countess’s death with that of the beginning of Herminie’s illness, “it was about the time of Madame de Beaumesnil’s death that this poor child must have been taken ill. Can grief have been the cause?”
And in tones of touching sympathy, the marquis asked aloud:
“And was this attack of illness severe, my dear child? You were overworked, perhaps.”
Herminie blushed deeply. Her emba
rrassment was great, for she felt that it would be necessary to utter an untruth to conceal the real cause of her illness, and it was with considerable hesitation that she finally replied:
“I think I must have been overfatigued, monsieur, for the attack was followed by a sort of mental prostration, but now, thank Heaven, I am well again.”
The girl’s embarrassment and hesitation did not escape the marquis, who had already noted the expression of profound melancholy on Herminie’s features.
“There isn’t the slightest doubt of it,” he mentally exclaimed. “She became ill with grief after Madame de Beaumesnil’s death. She knows, then, that the countess was her mother. But in that case, why didn’t the countess, in the frequent opportunities she must have had to be alone with her daughter, give her this money she entrusted to me?”
A prey to these perplexities, the hunchback, after another silence, said to Herminie:
“My dear child, I came here with the intention of maintaining the utmost reserve. Distrusting my own judgment, and greatly in doubt as to the course I ought to pursue, I had resolved to approach the subject that brought me here with infinite caution, for it is a delicate, yes, a sacred mission, that I have to fulfil.”
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
“Will you be kind enough to listen to me, my dear child. What I have heard about you, and what I have just seen, or rather divined, perhaps, — in short, the confidence you inspire, — had changed this determination on my part, and I am going to talk to you freely and frankly, sure that I am speaking to an honest, true-hearted woman. You know Madame de Beaumesnil, — you loved her—”
