by Eugène Sue
“Yes,” continued M. Bouffard, “and said to me angrily, ‘Here is money, pay yourself, and cease to torment a woman, who is only too unhappy already.’ If I did not tell you this at first, my dear young lady, it was only because I wanted to have my little joke, and afterwards I was frightened to see how angry you were.”
“That is my offence, mademoiselle,” continued Gerald. “I yielded to a thoughtless, though not ungenerous impulse, whose deplorable consequences I did not foresee. I unfortunately forgot that the sacred right to render certain services belongs only to tried and trusted friends. I forgot, too, that, however spontaneous and disinterested commiseration may be, it may nevertheless be a cruel insult under some circumstances. When this gentleman told me of your just indignation, mademoiselle, and told me the wrong I had unwittingly done you, I felt it to be my duty as an honourable man to come and beg your pardon, and tell you the simple truth. I had never had the honour of seeing you; I did not even know your name, and I shall probably never see you again, but I wish that I could convince you that I had not the slightest intention of insulting you, and that I never realised the gravity of my offence until now.”
Gerald was speaking the truth, and his sincerity, emotion, and tact convinced Herminie that such, indeed, was the case.
Another and entirely different idea also influenced the ingenuous girl, or, rather, an apparently trivial but to her highly significant circumstance, viz., that the stranger was seeking a modest lodging. This convinced her that he was not rich, and that the generosity he had manifested towards her must necessarily have been at the cost of no little personal sacrifice.
These considerations, aided very considerably, perhaps, — and why not, may we ask? — by the influence almost always exerted by a handsome, frank, and expressive face, appeased Herminie’s wrath wonderfully. In fact, far from feeling the slightest indignation against Gerald now, she was really touched by the generous impulse to which he had yielded, and which he had just explained with such perfect frankness, and too honest and ingenuous herself to conceal her thoughts, she said to Gerald, with charming simplicity:
“My embarrassment is very great, monsieur, for I must reproach myself for having entirely misinterpreted an act, the kindness of which I now appreciate. I can only beg you to forget the intemperance of my first remarks.”
“Permit me to say, on the contrary, that I shall never forget them, mademoiselle,” replied Gerald, “for they will always remind me that there is one attribute which should be respected above all others in a woman, — her dignity.”
And bowing deferentially to Herminie, Gerald turned to leave the room.
M. Bouffard had listened to the latter part of this conversation in open-mouthed wonder, it being just about as intelligible to him as if it had been carried on in Greek; but now checking Gerald, who had started towards the door, the ex-grocer, evidently with the idea that he was achieving a master-stroke, exclaimed:
“One moment, my good sir, one moment. As mademoiselle is no longer offended with you, there is no reason why you shouldn’t take those nice little rooms on the third floor I was telling you about, — a small hall, and two cozy rooms; one that will answer for a sitting-room, and the other for a bedroom — just the thing for a bachelor.”
On hearing this proposal, Herminie became very uneasy, for it would have been decidedly unpleasant to see Gerald installed in the same house.
But the young duke promptly replied:
“I have already told you that the rooms would not suit me, my dear sir.”
“Yes, because this young lady was offended with you, and it is very unpleasant to be on bad terms with one’s fellow tenants. But now this young lady has forgiven you, there is no reason you shouldn’t take those nice rooms.”
“I am even less inclined to take them now,” replied Gerald, venturing a glance at Herminie.
The young girl did not raise her eyes, but she blushed slightly, for she appreciated the delicacy of Gerald’s refusal.
“What!” exclaimed M. Bouffard, profoundly astonished; “now you have made up with mademoiselle, you are less inclined to take them than ever? Is it possible that you have noticed any objections to my house since you came back?”
“It is not precisely that which deprives me of the pleasure of taking up my abode under your roof, my dear sir, but—”
“Come, I’ll let you have those rooms for two hundred and fifty francs, with a small cellar thrown in, if you want it.”
“Impossible, my dear sir, impossible.”
“Call it two hundred and forty, then, and say no more about it.”
“I am obliged to call your attention to the fact that mademoiselle’s room is not the place for this haggling, monsieur.”
Then turning to Herminie and bowing profoundly, the young duke said:
“Believe me, mademoiselle, I shall always retain a most delightful recollection of this first and last interview.”
The girl bowed graciously, but without raising her eyes, and Gerald departed, resolutely pursued by M. Bouffard, who seemed determined not to lose his prey.
But Gerald remained obdurate in spite of the landlord’s tempting offers. The ex-grocer persisted in his efforts, so Gerald, to get rid of him, and perhaps also to have an opportunity to think over his meeting with Herminie, quickened his pace and told the landlord that he intended to extend his walk as far as the fortifications. So he started off, leaving M. Bouffard in despair at having missed this fine opportunity to rent those charming third story rooms.
A road leading to the fortifications intersected the Rue de Monceau near this point. Gerald took it, and then strolled slowly along, absorbed in a profound reverie.
Herminie’s rare beauty, as well as her dignity and refinement of manner had made a deep impression on the young duke, and the more he said to himself that he had, of course, seen this charming creature for the first and last time, the more he rebelled against the thought.
Besides, upon analysing or rather comparing his former fancies with his sudden but deep interest in Herminie, and discovering nothing like it in the past, Gerald asked himself, with no little uneasiness:
“What if I should be really caught this time?”
He had just asked himself this question when he was met by an officer of engineers wearing an army redingote without epaulettes, and a big straw hat.
“Why, it’s Senneterre!” exclaimed this officer.
The young duke looked up and recognised Captain Comtois, one of his former comrades in the African army.
“How are you, my dear Comtois?” he exclaimed, cordially offering his hand. “I did not expect to see you here, though you are quite in your native element, I must admit,” he added, with a glance at the fortifications.
“Yes, my dear fellow, we’re making the earth fly and the work is advancing rapidly. I am general-in-chief of that army of labourers and masons you see over there. In Africa, we tore down walls; here, we build them up. Did you come over to look at the works? If you did, I’ll show you about.”
“A thousand thanks for your kind offer, my dear Comtois, I’ll remind you of your promise some day soon.”
“Very well, come and take breakfast with me any morning you like. I am living in camp over there. It will remind you of old times; you’ll think you’re in a Bedouin camp again. Oh, by the way, you remember Clarville, that young lieutenant of spahis who resigned in order that he might have the satisfaction of fighting Colonel Duval a year afterwards?”
“Clarville? Yes, a brave fellow — I remember him perfectly.”
“Well, after he resigned, he had very little to live on, and the failure of some bank swept away the little that he had. In fact, if I hadn’t happened to come across him, I believe he would have starved. Fortunately, I was able to take him on as overseer, and that pays him a little something.”
“Poor fellow! it was a lucky thing for him, though.”
“I should think so, particularly as he is married, — a love-match, — that is t
o say, the girl hadn’t a penny, and there are two little children in the bargain, so you can judge of his situation. He manages to make both ends meet, but that is all. I have been to see him. He lives in a side street at the end of the Rue de Monceau.”
“At the end of the Rue de Monceau?” asked Gerald, hastily. “I, too, must go and see him.”
“He would be delighted, my dear Senneterre, for when misfortunes come, one’s visitors are rare.”
“What is the number of the house?”
“It is the only house on the street, — a little bit of a house. The devil! There’s the second bell. I must leave you, my dear Senneterre, and get my men together. Good-bye; don’t forget your promise.”
“No, certainly not.”
“And I may tell Clarville you’re coming to see him?”
“Yes, day after to-morrow.”
“It will please him very much; good-bye.”
“Good-bye, my dear fellow.”
“Don’t forget Clarville’s address.”
“I am not very likely to,” thought Gerald. “The street where he lives must skirt the end of the garden of the house where I just saw that adorable girl.”
So, while the captain rushed off towards a group of wooden shanties in the distance, Gerald strolled along, a prey to a sort of feverish agitation.
The sun was low in the horizon when he awoke from his reverie.
“I don’t know what will come of all this,” he said to himself, “but this time, and it is the only time, I feel that I’m gone, absolutely gone, this time!”
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE PRIVATE STAIRWAY.
IN SPITE OF the deep and novel impression made upon Gerald by his interview with Herminie, he had met Ernestine de Beaumesnil; for, in accordance with the plans of the Rochaiguës, the richest heiress in France had directly or indirectly made the acquaintance of the three aspirants for her hand.
A month had passed since these different presentations, and since the first interview between Gerald and Herminie, an interview whose consequences will become apparent later on.
The clock had just struck eleven, and Mlle. de Beaumesnil was sitting alone in her chamber, deeply absorbed in thought. Her girlish face had lost none of its sweetness and candour, though a rather sarcastic, and sometimes almost mournful, smile occasionally flitted across her lips, and one sometimes noticed a resolute expression, which contrasted strangely with the almost childish ingenuousness of her features.
Suddenly Mlle. de Beaumesnil rose, walked to the mantel, and placed her hand on the bell rope; then she paused a moment as if undecided in relation to some important matter.
At last, as if her mind was fully made up, she rang, and almost immediately Madame Laîné, her governess, entered, with an eager, almost obsequious, air.
“Does mademoiselle desire anything?” she asked.
“Sit down, my dear Laîné.”
“Mademoiselle is too kind.”
“Sit down, I beg. There is something I wish to say to you.”
“Only to obey mademoiselle,” said the governess, much surprised at this familiarity on the part of her young mistress, who had always treated her heretofore with marked reserve.
“My dear Laîné,” said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in an almost affectionate tone, “you have often told me that I could count upon your attachment.”
“Oh, yes, mademoiselle.”
“And upon your devotion as well?”
“In life and in death, mademoiselle.”
“And also upon your discretion?”
“I only ask that mademoiselle will put me to the test, then she can judge,” replied the governess, more and more delighted with this truly promising beginning.
“Very well, I am about to put you to the test.”
“How rejoiced I am at such a mark of confidence on mademoiselle’s part!”
“Yes, a mark of great confidence, of which I hope you will be found deserving.”
“I swear to mademoiselle that—”
“Oh, I believe you,” said Ernestine, interrupting these protestations on the part of her governess; “but tell me, nearly a week ago you asked me to give you to-morrow evening, in order that you might attend a small reunion which takes place every Sunday night at the house of one of your friends named — What is the name? I have forgotten it.”
“Her name is Madame Herbaut, mademoiselle. This friend of mine has two daughters, and every Sunday she invites a few people of their age to her house. I think I said as much to mademoiselle when I asked her permission to attend the entertainment.”
“And who are these young people?”
“The young girls who visit Madame Herbaut are mostly shop-girls, or young women who give music and drawing lessons. There are also several bookkeepers among them. As for the men, they are, for the most part, shop-keepers, or musicians, or lawyer’s clerks, — all very respectable young men, I assure you, for Madame Herbaut is very particular about the people she invites, and very naturally, as she has daughters to marry off, and between you and me, mademoiselle, it is to establish them in life that she gives these little reunions.”
“My dear Laîné,” said Ernestine, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “I want to attend one of these reunions at Madame Herbaut’s.”
“Mademoiselle!” exclaimed the governess, thinking her ears must have deceived her, “what did mademoiselle say?”
“I said I wished to attend one of Madame Herbaut’s entertainments, — to-morrow evening, for instance.”
“Good heavens! Is mademoiselle really in earnest?”
“Decidedly so.”
“What, you, mademoiselle, go to the house of such a very humble person! Impossible! Mademoiselle cannot even be thinking of such a thing?”
“Impossible, and why, my good Laîné?”
“Why, the baron and baroness would never give their consent.”
“So I do not intend to ask it.”
“But mademoiselle would not go to Madame Herbaut’s without consulting the baron!” cried the governess.
“Certainly.”
“But how could you, mademoiselle?”
“My dear Laîné, you told me a minute ago that I could count upon you.”
“And I repeat it, mademoiselle.”
“Very well, then, you must take me to Madame Herbaut’s to-morrow evening.”
“I, mademoiselle? Really, I don’t know whether I am awake or only dreaming.”
“You are not dreaming, so to-morrow evening you will introduce me to Madame Herbaut as one of your relatives, an orphan.”
“One of my relatives! Great Heavens! I should never dare!”
“Let me finish, please. You will introduce me, I say, as one of your relatives, recently arrived from the country, who earns her living as — as an embroiderer, for example. But, remember this, if you are guilty of the slightest indiscretion or blunder, and so cause any one to suspect that I am not what I wish to appear, that is to say, an orphan who supports herself by her own exertions, you will not remain another minute in my service, while if you follow my instructions carefully you may expect anything from me.”
“Really, mademoiselle, you surprised me so I cannot seem to get over it. But why does mademoiselle wish me to introduce her to Madame Herbaut as a relative of mine and an orphan?”
“Don’t ask me any more questions, Laîné. Can I depend upon you, yes or no?”
“Yes, mademoiselle, in life and in death. But—”
“No ‘buts,’ if you please, and now one word more, and the last. You know, of course,” added the young girl, with a strangely bitter smile, “that I am the richest heiress in France.”
“Certainly, mademoiselle, everybody knows that, and says that there is no other fortune in the country nearly as large as mademoiselle’s.”
“Ah, well, if you will do what I ask, and, above all, if you will be discreet, thoroughly discreet, understand, — I insist upon that, for it is absolutely necessary that Madame Herb
aut should believe me what I mean to appear, a poor orphan supporting herself by her own exertions, — in short, if, thanks to your cleverness and discretion, everything passes off as I wish, you shall see how the richest heiress in France pays a debt of gratitude.”
“What you say pains me deeply, mademoiselle,” exclaimed the governess, with a gesture of superb disinterestedness. “Can mademoiselle suppose that I wish to set a price on my devotion?”
“No, but I deem it only right to set a price on my gratitude.”
“Good Heavens! Mademoiselle, you know very well that if you should become as poor as I am I should be just as devoted to you.”
“I do not doubt that in the least, but until I become poor, do what I ask. Take me to Madame Herbaut’s to-morrow evening.”
“But if you will talk the matter over a little you will see how impossible your plan is.”
“And why?”
“In the first place, how can you arrange to have the disposal of your evening? The baron and baroness and Mlle. Helena never leave you.”
“Oh, I can manage that very easily. To-morrow morning I will say that I passed a very uncomfortable night, and that I am not feeling at all well. I will remain in my room all day, and to-morrow evening you will go to the family and tell them that I am asleep and don’t wish to be disturbed by anybody. My guardian and his family respect my slightest wish so abjectly that they will not dare to disturb my slumbers,” added Mlle. de Beaumesnil, with mingled sadness and disdain.
“Oh, mademoiselle is perfectly right about that. No one would dare to contradict or oppose mademoiselle in anything. If mademoiselle should tell M. le baron to stand on his head, he would do it without a word.”
