Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “But I utterly refuse to be a party to any such arrangement,” exclaimed M. Bouffard.

  “And why, monsieur?” demanded the marquis.

  “I will not, — I will not, I tell you. It sha’n’t be said that — in short, I’m not such a monster that — but no matter, let it be understood, once for all, that the marquis is to keep his money. I’ll try to find that young coxcomb; if I don’t, I’ll drop his money in the poor-box. I won’t sell your piano, mademoiselle, but I’ll be paid, all the same. What do you say to that?”

  “Have the goodness to explain, monsieur, if you please,” said the marquis.

  “Well, this is the long and short of it,” answered M. Bouffard. “My daughter Cornelia has a music teacher, quite a famous teacher, I believe, — a M. Tonnerriliuskoff—”

  “With such a name one ought certainly to make a noise in the world,” said the marquis.

  “And on the piano, too, M. le marquis. He’s a six-footer, with a big, black moustache, and hands as big as — as shoulders of mutton. But this famous teacher costs like the devil, — fifteen francs a lesson, to say nothing of the repairs to the piano, which he almost hammers to pieces, he is so strong. Now if mademoiselle here would give Cornelia lessons at five — no, say four francs a lesson, and three lessons a week, — that would make twelve francs a week, — she could soon pay me what she owes me, and afterwards could pay her entire rent that way.”

  “Bravo, M. Bouffard!” cried the marquis.

  “Well, what do you think of my proposition, mademoiselle?”

  “I accept it most gratefully, and thank you with all my heart for this chance to free myself of my obligations to you in such an easy way. I assure you that I will do everything possible to further your daughter’s progress.”

  “Oh, that will be all right, I’m sure. It is understood, is it? Three lessons a week, at four francs a lesson, beginning day after to-morrow. That will be twelve francs a week, — better call it ten, I guess, — it’s easier to calculate. Ten francs a week makes forty francs a month, — quite a snug little sum.”

  “Any terms you choose to name will suit me, monsieur. I accept them gratefully.”

  “Ah, well, my dear sir,” said the marquis, turning to M. Bouffard, “aren’t you much better satisfied with yourself now than you were awhile ago, when you were frightening this poor child nearly to death by your threats?”

  “That’s a fact, monsieur, — that’s a fact, for this young lady is certainly deserving. Then, too, I shall get rid of that odious music master, with his big, black moustache and fifteen franc lessons. Besides, he is always having his big hands on Cornelia’s hands to show her the fingering, he says, and I don’t like it.”

  “My dear M. Bouffard,” said the marquis, taking the ex-grocer a little aside, “will you allow me to give you a word of advice?”

  “Why certainly, M. le marquis.”

  “Never give masters to a young girl or a young woman, because sometimes, you see, there is a change of rôles.”

  “A change of rôles, M. le marquis?” repeated M. Bouffard, wonderingly.

  “Yes; not unfrequently the scholar becomes the mistress, — the mistress of the master. Understand?”

  “The mistress of the master? Oh, yes, very good! I understand perfectly. That is good; very good, indeed! Ha, ha, ha!”

  Then, suddenly becoming serious, he added:

  “But now I think of it, if that Hercule de Tonnerriliuskoff undertakes—”

  “Mlle. Bouffard’s virtue must be above suspicion, my dear sir; still, it might be safer—”

  “The brigand shall never set foot in my house again. Thanks for your counsel, M. le marquis.”

  Then, returning to Herminie, M. Bouffard added:

  “So we will begin day after to-morrow at two o’clock; that is Cornelia’s hour.”

  “At two o’clock, then. I will be punctual, I promise you.”

  “And at ten francs a week?”

  “Yes, monsieur, and even less, if you say so.”

  “Would you come for eight?”

  “Yes,” answered Herminie, smiling, in spite of herself.

  “We’ll say eight francs, then.”

  “Come, come, M. Bouffard, a wealthy real estate owner like you shouldn’t stoop to any such haggling,” the marquis interposed. “What! an elector, — perhaps even an officer in the National Guard, — for you seem to me quite equal to such a position—”

  M. Bouffard straightened himself up proudly, and, making a military salute, responded:

  “A second lieutenant in the first company of the second regiment of the first batallion, M. le marquis.”

  “All the more reason that you should uphold the dignity of your rank, dear M. Bouffard,” replied M. de Maillefort.

  “That is true, M. le marquis. I said ten francs, and ten francs it shall be. I always honour my signature. I will go and try to find that young coxcomb. He may be hanging around somewhere outside the house now. I’ll ask Mother Moufflon, the portress, if she knows anything about him, and tell her to watch out for him. Your servant, M. le marquis. I’ll see you again, day after to-morrow, mademoiselle.”

  Then, turning again, just as he reached the door, he said to Herminie:

  “Mademoiselle, an idea has just occurred to me. You see I’d like to convince the marquis here that Bouffard is not such a bad fellow, after all.”

  “Let us hear the idea, M. Bouffard,” said the hunchback.

  “You see that little garden out there, M. le marquis?”

  “Yes.”

  “It belongs to the large apartment on this floor. Ah, well, I intend to allow mademoiselle the use of this garden — until the other apartment is rented, at least.”

  “Do you really?” cried Herminie, overjoyed. “Oh, I thank you so much. What pleasure it will give me to walk about in that pretty garden!”

  But M. Bouffard had already fled, as if his natural modesty forbade his listening to the protestations of gratitude such a generous offer must inspire.

  “‘I Will Go and Try To Find That Young Coxcomb’”

  “One has no idea what it costs such people as that to be generous and obliging,” remarked the hunchback, laughing.

  Then becoming serious again, he said: “My dear child, what I have just seen and heard gives me such a clear understanding of the nobility of your heart and the firmness of your character, that I realise the futility of any renewed efforts in relation to the matter that brought me here. If I am mistaken, if you are not Madame de Beaumesnil’s daughter, you will naturally persist in your denial; if, on the contrary, I have divined the truth, you will still persist in denying it, actuated, I am sure, by some secret but honourable motive. I shall insist no further. One word more: I have been deeply touched by the feeling that prompted you to defend Madame de Beaumesnil’s memory against suspicions which may be entirely without foundation. If you were not so proud, I should tell you that your disinterestedness is all the more noble from the fact that your situation is so precarious; and, by the way, let me say right here that, though M. Bouffard has deprived me of the pleasure of being of service to you this time, I want you to promise me, my dear child, that in future you will apply only to me.”

  “And to whom else could I apply without humiliation, M. le marquis?”

  “Thank you, my dear child, but no more, M. le marquis, I beg. In our recent grave conversation I had no time to protest against this ceremonious appellation; but now we are old friends, no more M. le marquis, I beseech you. That is agreed, is it not?” asked the hunchback, cordially offering his hand to the young girl, who pressed it gratefully as she exclaimed:

  “Ah, monsieur, such kindness and such generous confidence more than consoles me for the humiliation I suffered in your presence.”

  “Dismiss that from your mind entirely, my dear child. The insult you received only proves that the insolent stranger is as foolish as he is coarse. It is doing him entirely too much honour to retain a lasting remembrance of his of
fence.”

  “You are right, monsieur,” replied Herminie, though she still blushed deeply with wounded pride and indignation; “contempt, the most profound contempt is all that such an insult merits.”

  “Undoubtedly; but, unfortunately, your loneliness and unprotected condition are probably to a great extent accountable for this unwarranted presumption on the part of a stranger, my poor child, so, as you permit me to talk in all sincerity, why have you never thought of boarding with some respectable elderly woman, instead of living alone?”

  “I have thought of doing that more than once, but it is difficult to find the right person — that is when one is as exigeante as I am,” she added, smiling.

  “You admit that you are very exigeante, then?” asked the marquis, also smiling.

  “Really I cannot help it, it seems to me, monsieur; could I find such surroundings as these in the home of a person whose means are as modest as mine? Besides, I ought not to say it, perhaps, but I am so keenly sensitive to certain faults of education and manner that I should positively suffer at times. It is silly and ridiculous, I know, for lack of breeding does not lessen the virtue and kindness of most of the people of the class to which I belong, but to which my education has rendered me somewhat superior. Still it is intensely repugnant to me, and I consequently prefer to live alone, in spite of the many inconveniences of such an isolated position. Another objection is that I should be under an obligation to any person who would receive me into her family, and I fear that I might be made to feel this obligation too much.”

  “All this is very natural,” said the hunchback, after a moment’s reflection. “It would scarcely be possible for one of your proud nature to act or feel otherwise, and this pride, which I admire so much in you, has been, and I am sure always will be, your best safeguard. But this will not prevent me, with your permission, of course, from coming now and then to see if I can serve you in any way.”

  “Can you doubt the pleasure, the very great pleasure it will give me to see you?”

  “I will not so wrong you as to doubt it, my dear child.”

  Seeing M. de Maillefort rise to take leave, Herminie felt strongly tempted to make some inquiry concerning Ernestine de Beaumesnil, whom he had probably seen ere this; but the young girl feared she might betray herself and arouse M. de Maillefort’s suspicions by speaking of her sister.

  “Farewell, my dear child,” said the marquis, rising. “I came here in the hope of finding a daughter to love and protect, and I shall not return with an empty heart. And now again, farewell — and au revoir.”

  “And soon, I hope, M. le marquis,” responded Herminie, with respectful deference.

  “Nonsense!” said the hunchback, smiling. “There is no marquis here, but an old man who loves you, — yes, loves you with all his heart. Don’t forget that.”

  “Oh, I shall never forget it, monsieur.”

  “Good, that promise atones for everything. Once more au revoir, my child.”

  And M. de Maillefort departed, still in doubt as to Herminie’s identity, and no less in doubt in regard to the best means of carrying out Madame de Beaumesnil’s last wishes.

  The young girl, left alone, reflected long upon the incidents of the day, which, after all, had proved a happy one for her, for by refusing a gift which proved her mother’s deep solicitude for her welfare, but which might compromise that mother’s memory, the young girl had gained M. de Maillefort’s warm friendship.

  But the payment made to M. Bouffard by a stranger was a terrible blow to Herminie’s pride.

  “I must seem despicable, indeed, in the eyes of a person who dared to take such a liberty as that,” the proud girl was saying to herself just as there came a timid ring at the door.

  Herminie opened it to find herself confronted by M. Bouffard and a stranger.

  This stranger was Gerald de Senneterre.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  AN APOLOGY ACCEPTED.

  ON SEEING THE Duc de Senneterre, who was an entire stranger to her, Herminie coloured with surprise, and said to M. Bouffard, with much embarrassment:

  “I did not expect to have the pleasure of seeing you again so soon, monsieur.”

  “No more did I, mademoiselle. No more did I! It was this gentleman who forced me to return.”

  “But I do not know the gentleman,” Herminie answered, more and more astonished.

  “No; I have not the honour of being known to you, mademoiselle,” said Gerald, with an expression of the deepest anxiety on his handsome features, “and yet, I have come to ask a favour of you. I beseech you not to refuse it.”

  Gerald’s handsome face showed so much frankness, his emotion seemed so sincere, his voice was so earnest, his manner so respectful, and his appearance so elegant and distingué, that it never once occurred to Herminie that this could be the stranger she was so bitterly reproaching.

  Besides, reassured by M. Bouffard’s presence, and unable to imagine what favour the stranger could have come to ask, the duchess, turning to her landlord, said, timidly:

  “Will you have the goodness to come in, monsieur?”

  And as she spoke, she led the way into her own room.

  The young duke had never seen a woman who compared with Herminie in beauty, and this beauty alike of form and feature was greatly enhanced by the dignified modesty of her demeanour.

  But when Gerald followed the girl into her room and saw the countless indications of refined habits and exquisite taste everywhere apparent, he felt more and more confused, and in his profound embarrassment he could not utter a word.

  Amazed at the stranger’s silence, Herminie turned inquiringly to M. Bouffard, who said:

  “It will be best to begin at the beginning, my dear young lady. I will explain why this gentleman—”

  “Allow me,” said Gerald, interrupting M. Bouffard. Then, turning to Herminie, he continued, with a charming mixture of frankness and deference:

  “I may as well confess that it is not a favour I have come to ask, but forgiveness.”

  “Of me, monsieur — and why?” asked Herminie, ingenuously.

  “My dear mademoiselle,” said M. Bouffard, with a meaning gesture, “this is the young man who paid me that money, you know. I met him just now, and—”

  “It was you, monsieur?” cried Herminie, superb in her indignation. And looking Gerald full in the face, she repeated, witheringly:

  “It was you?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle, but listen, I beg of you.”

  “Enough, monsieur, enough!” said Herminie. “Such audacity seems inconceivable! You have at least the courage to insult, monsieur,” added Herminie, with crushing contempt.

  “But, mademoiselle, do not suppose for one moment—” pleaded Gerald.

  “Monsieur,” said the young girl, again interrupting him, but in a voice that trembled violently, for she could feel tears of grief and humiliation rising to her eyes, “I can only beg that you will leave my house. I am a woman, — and I am alone.”

  These last words were uttered in such tones of intense sadness that Gerald was moved to tears in spite of himself, and when the young girl raised her head after a violent effort to conquer her emotion, she saw two big tears gleaming in the eyes of the stranger, who, after bowing low without a word, started towards the door.

  But M. Bouffard, seizing Gerald by the arm, exclaimed:

  “Why, stop a second! You surely are not going like that!”

  And we must admit that M. Bouffard added mentally:

  “And my little apartment on the third floor, am I to lose my chance of renting that?”

  “Monsieur,” interposed Herminie, seeing her landlord attempt to detain the offender; “monsieur, I must insist—”

  “But, my dear young lady, you certainly ought to know why I brought this young man here,” exclaimed M. Bouffard. “You surely cannot suppose that it was with the intention of annoying you. The fact is, I met the young fellow near the barrière, and as soon as I laid eyes on him, I called out
, ‘Ah, my generous youth, a nice scrape you got me into with your yellow boys. Here they are; take them, and don’t let me see any more of them, if you please.’ And then I told him how you had felt about the service he had rendered you, and how you had cried and taken on, until monsieur turned red, and then pale, and then green, and finally said to me, apparently quite miserable about what I had told him, ‘Ah, monsieur, I have unintentionally insulted a person whose unprotected position renders her all the more worthy of respect. I owe her an apology, and I will make it in your presence, as you were my involuntary accomplice. Come, monsieur, come.’ Upon my word of honour, mademoiselle, these were the very words the young man said to me, and somehow what he said touched me. I can’t imagine what is the matter with me to-day, I’m as chicken-hearted as a woman. I thought he was right to want to come and apologise to you, so I brought him along, or, rather, he brought me along, for he took me by the arm and dragged me along at the double-quick. In fact, I never walked so fast in my life.”

  The sincerity of the words was unmistakable, and as Herminie was endowed with a keen sense of justice, and she had been not a little touched by the tears she had seen glittering in Gerald’s eyes, she said to the stranger, in a tone which indicated a strong desire to end this painful scene as soon as possible:

  “In that case, monsieur, the offence of which I complain was unintentional, and it was not to aggravate the offence that you returned here. I believe this, monsieur, and this should satisfy you, I think.”

  “If you desire it, mademoiselle, I will leave at once without saying a word in my own defence.”

  “Do have a little pity, my dear young lady,” pleaded M. Bouffard. “You have allowed me to speak, now listen to the gentleman.”

  Whereupon the Duc de Senneterre, taking Herminie’s silence for an assent, said:

  “Mademoiselle, this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I was passing along the street, looking for lodgings, and naturally paused in front of the house as I saw several notices of rooms to rent. I asked permission to inspect the apartments, and going on in advance of the portress, who promised to join me in a minute, I began to ascend the stairs. As I reached the first landing my attention was attracted by a timid, supplicating voice. This voice was yours, mademoiselle, and you were pleading with this gentleman. I paused involuntarily, not from any idle curiosity, but because I could not listen to such a touching appeal unmoved. So I heard all, and my only thought was that a woman was in trouble, and that I could save her, without her even knowing it, so seeing a man come out of your room a few minutes afterwards I called to him.”