by Eugène Sue
“I am convinced of one thing: they lied to me when they told me that M. de Maillefort was your enemy. They told me so merely because they wanted to make me distrust his counsels. It was designedly that they fostered my dislike of him, a dislike caused by the slanders of which I have been the dupe.
“No, never shall I forget that it was to M. de Maillefort’s revelations that I was indebted for the idea of going to Madame Herbaut’s, where I not only learned the truth concerning myself, but where I met the only two really generous and sincere persons that I have known since I lost you, my father, and you, my mother.”
The morning after Madame Herbaut’s ball Mlle. de Beaumesnil rang for her governess a little earlier than usual.
Madame Laîné appeared almost instantly, however.
“Did mademoiselle have a comfortable night?” she asked.
“Very, my dear Laîné but tell me, have you made the inquiries I asked you to last evening, so we may know whether any one suspected our absence.”
“No one has the slightest suspicion of it, mademoiselle. Madame de la Rochaiguë did not send to inquire for you until early this morning.”
“And you replied?”
“That mademoiselle had passed a very comfortable, though slightly restless, night; but that the quiet and rest had benefited mademoiselle very much.”
“That is all right then, my dear Laîné, and now I have another favour to ask of you.”
“I am at mademoiselle’s service; but I am so distressed about what happened at Madame Herbaut’s last night,” said the governess. “I was in torture the whole evening.”
“But what happened at Madame Herbaut’s?”
“Why, mademoiselle was received with such coldness and indifference. It was shameful, for mademoiselle is in the habit of seeing everybody crowd around her as they ought.”
“As they ought?”
“Most assuredly. Mademoiselle knows very well the respect that is due to her position, so last evening I was mortified and incensed beyond expression. ‘Ah,’ I said to myself,’if you only knew that this young lady you are neglecting is Mlle. de Beaumesnil, you would all be down on your knees in the twinkling of an eye.’”
“My dear Laîné, let me first set your mind at rest about last evening. I was delighted, and I enjoyed myself so much that I intend to go again next Sunday evening.”
“What, mademoiselle wishes to go again?”
“I shall go, that is decided. Now, another thing. The reception which I met with at Madame Herbaut’s, and which scandalises you so deeply, is convincing proof of the discretion I expected from you. I thank you for it, and if you always act in this way I assure you your fortune is made.”
“But mademoiselle knows that it is not self-interest — that—”
“Yet that need not prevent me from rewarding you as you deserve, my dear Laîné. And that is not all; I want you to ask Madame Herbaut for the address of one of the young ladies I met last evening. The young lady I mean is called Herminie, and she gives music lessons.”
“I shall not have to apply to Madame Herbaut for that, mademoiselle, M. le baron’s steward knows the address.”
“What! Our steward knows Mlle. Herminie’s address?” exclaimed Ernestine, greatly astonished.
“Yes, mademoiselle. They were speaking of the young lady in the office only a few days ago.”
“Of Mlle. Herminie?”
“Yes, mademoiselle. It was in relation to a five hundred franc note that she returned to the baroness. Louis, one of the footmen, heard the whole conversation through the door of the reception-room.”
“Madame de la Rochaiguë knows Herminie?” cried Ernestine, whose surprise and curiosity were increased by each word the governess uttered. “And what is this about a five hundred franc note?”
“Why, it seems that this honest young girl — I told you that Madame Herbaut was exceedingly particular in the selection of her guests — this honest young girl returned the five hundred francs because she said she had already been paid by the countess.”
“What countess?”
“Why, mademoiselle’s mother.”
“My mother paid Herminie? And for what?”
“Ah, yes, it is true that mademoiselle is not aware — I suppose no one has told mademoiselle for fear of making her still more sad.”
“Has not told me what? In Heaven’s name, speak!”
“Why, the late countess suffered so much towards the last, that the physicians, at their wit’s end, thought that music might ameliorate her sufferings, at least to some extent.”
“Great Heaven! I can not believe it. Go on, go on.”
“So they sent for a young musician, and this young musician was Herminie!”
“Herminie?”
“Yes, mademoiselle. For ten days or a fortnight before Madame la comtesse died, mademoiselle came to play and sing to her every day, and they say it quieted the countess very much, but unfortunately it was too late.”
While Ernestine was drying the tears these sad details, hitherto unknown to her, had brought to her eyes, Madame Laîné continued:
“It seems that, after your mother’s death, the baroness, thinking Mlle. Herminie had not been paid, sent her five hundred francs, but this noble-hearted young girl brought the money back and declared that the countess owed her nothing.”
“She saw my dying mother! She assuaged her sufferings,” thought Ernestine, with inexpressible emotion. “Ah, how I long to tell her that I am the daughter of the lady she loved, for how could any one know my mother without loving her?”
Then starting violently at another recollection, the young girl said to herself:
“But I remember now, that, when I told her my name was Ernestine, the coincidence seemed to strike her, and she seemed to be deeply moved when she said that a lady, for whom she had a profound regard, had a daughter who was also named Ernestine. So my mother must have talked to her about me, and if my mother talked to her as confidentially as that, my mother must have loved her; so I, too, have reason to love her. In fact, it is my bounden duty. My brain whirls, my heart overflows. This is too much happiness. I can hardly believe it.”
Dashing away her tears, Ernestine turned to her governess and asked:
“But how did the steward ascertain Mlle. Herminie’s address.”
“He went to the notary who sent the five hundred francs, for Madame de la Rochaiguë wished to ascertain the address so she could send it to M. de Maillefort.”
“What, does M. de Maillefort, too, know Herminie?”
“I cannot say, mademoiselle, all I know is that the steward took Herminie’s address to M. le marquis nearly a month ago.”
“Get me the address at once, my dear Laîné.”
In a few minutes the governess brought the address and Ernestine immediately sat down and wrote as follows:
“My Dear Herminie: — You invited me to come and see your pretty room. I shall come early day after to-morrow — Tuesday, early in the morning, so I may be sure of not interfering in your work. I look forward with delight to seeing you again. I have a thousand things to tell you. With love,
“Your sincere friend,
“Ernestine.”
After she had sealed this note, Mlle. de Beaumesnil said to her governess:
“I wish you to post this letter yourself, my dear Laîné.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“How shall I manage to get out alone with Madame Laîné day after to-morrow?” Ernestine said to herself. “I have no idea, but my heart tells me that I shall see Herminie again!”
CHAPTER V.
A CONSUMING FEVER OF LOVE.
ON THE MORNING of the same day that mademoiselle had appointed for her visit to Herminie, Gerald de Senneterre was having a long conversation with Olivier.
The two young men were sitting under the little arbour of which Commander Bernard was so fond.
The young duke’s face was extremely pale and agitated. In fact, he seemed a prey to the
deepest anxiety and distress.
“So you will see her, my dear Olivier,” he was saying to his friend.
“At once. I wrote to her last evening requesting an interview. She has not answered my note, so she consents.”
“Then in an hour my fate will be decided,” groaned Gerald.
“I am forced to admit that I think this a very serious matter,” said Olivier. “You know, even better than I do, how proud this young girl is, and that which would be our greatest chance of success with any one else will be almost sure to have an exactly opposite effect in her case. Still, we will not despair.”
“But, Olivier, if I should be obliged to give her up, I don’t know how I could bear it!” exclaimed Gerald, hoarsely. “I should kill myself, I believe!”
“Gerald! Gerald!”
“Yes, I admit it. I love her to distraction. I never believed before that even the most impassioned love could attain such a degree of intensity. My love is a consuming fever, — a fixed idea that absorbs me utterly. You know Herminie—”
“Yes, and I know that a more noble and beautiful creature never lived.”
“Olivier, I am the most miserable of men!” exclaimed Gerald, burying his face in his hands.
“Come, come, Gerald, don’t give way so. You can rely upon me. I believe, too, that you can trust her. Does she not love you as much as you love her? So don’t be despondent. On the contrary, hope, and if, unfortunately—”
“But I tell you that I can not and will not live without her.”
There was such evident sincerity in the words, as well as such passionate resolve, that Olivier shuddered, for he knew what an indomitable will his former comrade possessed.
“Gerald,” he said, with deep emotion, “again I tell you that you should not despair. Wait here until my return.”
“You are right,” said Gerald, passing his hand across his fevered brow. “I will wait for you.”
Olivier, unwilling to leave his friend in such a despondent mood, continued:
“I forgot to tell you that I informed my uncle of your intentions in regard to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and they have his unqualified approval. ‘Such conduct is worthy of him,’ he said to me, so day after to-morrow, Gerald—”
“Day after to-morrow!” exclaimed the young duke, bitterly and impatiently. “I am not thinking of anything so far off. It is as much as I can do to see my way from hour to hour.”
“But, Gerald, it is a duty you have to perform.”
“Don’t talk to me about anything but Herminie. I am utterly indifferent to everything else. What are these so-called duties and obligations to me when I am in torture?”
“You do not realise what you are saying.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you do not.”
“Olivier!”
“Oh, you may rebel as much as you please, but I tell you that your conduct, now as ever, shall be that of a man of honour. You will go to this ball to meet Mlle. de Beaumesnil.”
“I’ll be d —— d if I will. I am at liberty to do as I please, I think, monsieur.”
“No, Gerald, you are not at liberty to do anything that is dishonest or dishonourable.”
“Do you know that what you are saying—” began the young duke, pale with anger; but seeing the expression of sorrowful astonishment on Olivier’s features, Gerald became ashamed of his outburst, and, extending his hand to his friend, he said, in an almost beseeching voice:
“Forgive me, Olivier, forgive me! To think that almost at the very moment that you are undertaking the gravest and most delicate mission for me, I should so far forget myself—”
“Come, come, you needn’t go to making excuses,” said Olivier, preventing his friend from continuing by affectionately pressing his hand.
“You must have compassion on me, Olivier,” said Gerald, despondently. “I really believe I must be mad.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the sudden arrival of Madame Barbançon, who rushed into the arbour, crying:
“Oh, M. Olivier, M. Olivier!”
“What is the matter, Madame Barbançon?”
“The commander!”
“Well?”
“He has gone out!”
“What, suffering as he is to-day!” exclaimed Olivier, anxiously. “It was very imprudent. Didn’t you try to prevent him from going, Mother Barbançon?”
“Alas! M. Olivier, I really believe the commander is not in his right mind.”
“What?”
“I was out, and it was the porter who admitted M. Gerald in my absence. When I returned a few minutes ago, M. Bernard was laughing and singing, and I really believe even dancing, in spite of his weakness, and at last he flung his arms around me, shouting like a maniac, ‘Victory, Mother Barbançon, victory!’”
Gerald, in spite of his own troubles, could not repress a faint smile. It seemed as if he understood the cause of the old officer’s delight, but when Olivier, who was really much disturbed, asked, “Do you know anything about this, Gerald?” the young duke replied, with the most natural air in the world:
“Nothing whatever, upon my word! It seems to me more than probable, though, that the commander must have heard some good news, and there would be certainly nothing alarming about that.”
“Good news!” repeated Olivier, much surprised, and trying in vain to imagine what it could be.
“Well, this much is certain,” interposed Madame Barbançon, “after the commander had shouted ‘Victory!’ almost at the top of his voice, he asked: ‘Is Olivier in the garden?’ ‘Yes, with M. Gerald,’ I replied. ‘Then get me my hat and cane quick, Mother Barbançon,’ said he, ‘and let me get off as soon as I can.’ ‘What! you are going out, weak as you are?’ I exclaimed. ‘You are very foolish to think of such a thing, monsieur.’ But the commander wouldn’t listen, and clapped his hat on his head and started as if he intended to come out here and speak to you; then he stopped short, and after reflecting a moment retraced his steps and went out at the front door, singing that miserable old song he sings only when he is in high glee about something, — which doesn’t often happen with the poor, dear man!”
“I don’t know what to make of it,” said Olivier, “and I can’t help feeling a little uneasy. My uncle has seemed so feeble since his last attack, that a half hour in the garden yesterday exhausted him completely.”
“Oh, don’t be alarmed, my friend, joy never kills.”
“I think I had better go down the street a little way, M. Olivier,” said Madame Barbançon. “He has an idea that exercise outside will do him more good than his walks in the garden, and perhaps I shall find him down there. But what on earth could he have meant by his ‘Victory, Mother Barbançon, victory!’ He must have heard something new in favour of his Bû-û-onaparte.”
And the worthy woman hastened off.
“Don’t be uneasy, Olivier,” said Gerald, kindly. “The worst that can happen is that the commander may tire himself a little.”
The clock in the neighbouring steeple struck nine, and Olivier, remembering the mission he had promised to fulfil, said:
“Well, it is nine o’clock. I am going.”
“My dear Olivier,” said Gerald, “you forget your own anxieties in your solicitude for my interests; and I, in my selfishness, haven’t said so much as a word to you about your sweetheart.”
“What sweetheart?”
“Why, the young girl you met at Madame Herbaut’s Sunday.”
“I would that your love affair were as tranquil as mine, Gerald; that is, if you can dignify with that name the interest one naturally feels in a young girl who is neither happy nor at all pretty, but who has a sweet face, an excellent disposition, and great originality of character.”
“But you are thinking of this poor girl a great deal of the time, it seems to me.”
“That is true, though I really don’t know why. If I find out I will tell you. But never mind me. You have just displayed a vast amount of heroism in forgetting your own
passion long enough to interest yourself in what you are pleased to call my love affair,” said Olivier, smiling. “This generosity on your part is sure to be rewarded, so courage, my friend! Keep up a good heart and wait for me here.”
Herminie, for her part, was thinking of Olivier’s approaching visit with a vague uneasiness that cast a slight cloud over her usually radiant face.
“What can M. Olivier want?” thought the duchess. “This is the first time he has ever asked to call on me, and he wishes to see me on a very important matter, he says in his note. This important matter cannot concern him. What if it should concern Gerald, who is his most intimate friend? But I saw Gerald only yesterday, and I shall see him again to-day, for it is to-morrow that he is to tell his mother of our love. I can’t imagine why the idea of this approaching interview worries me so. But that reminds me, I must inform the portress that I am at home to M. Olivier.”
As she spoke, she pulled a bell that communicated with the room of Madame Moufflon, the portress, who promptly responded to the summons.
“Madame Moufflon, some one will call to see me this morning, and you are to admit the visitor,” said Herminie.
“If it is a lady, of course. I understand.”
“But it is not a lady who will call this morning,” replied Herminie, with some embarrassment.
“It is not a lady? Then it must be that little hunchback I have orders to admit at any time, I suppose.”
“No, Madame Moufflon, it is not M. de Maillefort, but a young man.”
“A young man?” exclaimed the portress, “a young man? Well, this is the first time—”
“The young man will tell you his name. It is Olivier.”
“Olivier? That is not hard to remember. I’ll just think of olives; I adore them! Olivier, olives, olive oil — it is very nearly the very same thing. I sha’n’t forget it. But, by the way, speaking — not of young men, for this old serpent isn’t young — I saw that old scoundrel hanging around the house again last evening.”
“Again?” exclaimed Herminie, with a look of scorn and disgust at the thought of Ravil.
