by Eugène Sue
For this cynic, since his first meeting with Herminie, had made numerous attempts to see the young girl, but the portress proving above bribery, he had written several times to Herminie, who had treated his letters with the disdain they deserved.
“Yes, mademoiselle, I saw the old snake hanging around again yesterday,” continued the portress, “and when I planted myself in the doorway to watch him, he sneered at me as he passed, but I just said to myself: ‘Sneer away, you old viper. You’ll laugh on the other side of your mouth one of these days.’”
“I cannot help encountering this man on the street sometimes,” said Herminie, “for he seems to be always trying to put himself in my way; but I needn’t tell you, Madame Moufflon, that he must never be admitted to the house on any pretext whatever.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that, mademoiselle, he knows pretty well who he has to deal with by this time.”
“But I forgot to mention that a young lady will probably call this morning, too, Madame Moufflon.”
“Very well. But if M. Olivier should be here when the young lady calls, what then? Shall I admit her just the same?”
“Certainly.”
“Oh, I never told you, did I, mademoiselle, that M. Bouffard, who was so rough to you, but who has been as gentle as a lamb ever since you began giving his daughter lessons, is always praising you to the skies now. He said to me only the other day, ‘There are plenty of rosières who are not half as good and modest as Mlle. Herminie. She is a young lady who—’”
But a peal of the door-bell put a sudden end to these eulogiums.
“It is M. Olivier, I expect,” said Herminie. “Show him in, please, Madame Moufflon.”
And a minute afterwards that worthy dame ushered in Olivier, and Herminie found herself alone with Gerald’s intimate friend.
CHAPTER VI.
A DELICATE MISSION.
THE VAGUE UNEASINESS which Herminie had felt was greatly increased at the sight of Olivier, for the young man looked unusually grave. The duchess even fancied that he avoided her gaze, as if embarrassed, and this embarrassment on his part was made still more apparent by his silence and evident reluctance to explain the object of his visit.
Herminie was the first to break this silence.
“You wrote, M. Olivier, that you wished to see me about a very important matter,” she said, at last.
“Very important, mademoiselle.”
“I judge so from your manner. What have you to tell me?”
“It concerns Gerald, mademoiselle.”
“Great Heavens! What misfortune has befallen him?” exclaimed the duchess, much frightened.
“None, mademoiselle. I left him only a few minutes ago.”
Herminie, thus reassured, felt deeply incensed with herself for her unguarded exclamation, and, blushing deeply, she said to Olivier:
“I trust you will not misinterpret—”
But the natural frankness of her character asserted itself, and she said, with quiet dignity:
“But why should I try to conceal from you something that you know already, M. Olivier. Are you not Gerald’s dearest friend, in fact, almost a brother to him? Neither of us have any cause to blush for our mutual attachment. To-morrow, he is to inform his mother of his intentions and ask her consent, which he is almost certain to gain. For why should he not gain it. Our conditions in life are almost identical. He supports himself by his own exertions, as I support myself by mine. Our lot will be humble, and — But, forgive me, M. Olivier, for thus boring you. It is a fault to which all lovers are prone. But as no misfortune has befallen Gerald, what is the important matter that brings you here?”
Herminie’s words indicated such a feeling of perfect security that Olivier realised the difficulties of his task even more keenly, and it was with painful hesitation that he replied:
“As I said before, no misfortune has befallen Gerald; but I come to you at his request.”
Herminie’s face, which had grown quite serene, became anxious again, and she said:
“Pray have the kindness to explain, M. Olivier. You say you have come at Gerald’s request? Why is an intermediary needed, even in the person of his most intimate friend? This astonishes me. Why did not Gerald come himself?”
“Because there is something he is afraid to confess to you, mademoiselle.”
Herminie started violently; the expression of her face changed, and, looking searchingly at Olivier, she repeated:
“There is something Gerald is afraid to confess to me?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“It must be something terrible if he dares not tell me,” exclaimed the girl, paling visibly.
“I meant to have used more precautions, and to have approached the subject in a more roundabout way, mademoiselle,” replied Olivier, who was in torture, “but I see that such a course on my part would only serve to prolong your anxiety—”
“My God! What am I about to hear?” murmured the young girl, trembling violently in every limb.
“Truth is better than falsehood, Mlle. Herminie.”
“Falsehood?”
“In a word, Gerald can no longer endure the false position in which a peculiar combination of circumstances, and his desire to see you, have placed him. His courage has failed him. He has resolved that he will deceive you no longer, and, whatever may come of it, trusting to your generosity, he sends me, I repeat, to tell you what he is afraid to confess himself, — for he knows how bitterly you abhor deceit, and unfortunately Gerald has deceived you.”
“Deceived me?”
“Yes, Gerald is not what he seems to be. You have known him under an assumed name. He has pretended to be what he is not.”
“My God!” murmured the young girl, in abject terror.
A horrible suspicion had assailed her.
Never supposing for an instant that Olivier could have an aristocrat for an intimate friend, the poor child feared that Gerald had taken another name in order to conceal, not the obscurity of his birth or condition, — these were no disgrace in Herminie’s eyes, — but guilty or dishonourable antecedents. In short, she imagined that Gerald must have committed some dishonourable act in the past.
So, in her wild terror, the girl, holding up her two hands as if to ward off an impending blow, exclaimed, brokenly:
“Do not finish this shameful confession, do not, I beseech you.”
“Shameful!” repeated Olivier. “What! because Gerald has concealed the fact that he is the Duc de Senneterre—”
“You say that Gerald, your friend—”
“Is the Duc de Senneterre! Yes, mademoiselle. We were at college together; he enlisted, as I did. In that way I met him again, and since that time our intimacy has never flagged. And now, Mlle. Herminie, you can, perhaps, understand why Gerald concealed his real name and position from you. It was a wrong to which I became an accomplice through thoughtlessness; for what has since become a serious matter, that I deeply regret, was at first merely intended as a joke. Unfortunately, the introduction of Gerald as a notary’s clerk to Madame Herbaut had already been made, when a singular chance brought you and my friend together. You will understand the rest. But I repeat that Gerald resolved, of his own free will, to confess the truth to you, as a continued deception was too revolting to his sense of honour.”
On hearing that Gerald, instead of being a disgraced man, hiding under an assumed name, had really been guilty of no other wrong than that of concealing his noble birth, the revulsion of feeling Herminie underwent was so sudden and violent that she at first experienced a sort of vertigo; but when she became capable of reflection, when she became able to realise the consequences of this revelation, the young girl, who was as pale as death, trembled in every limb. Her knees tottered under her, and for a moment she was obliged to lean against the mantel for support.
When she did speak, it was in a strangely altered voice.
“M. Olivier,” she said, “I am going to say something that may seem utterly sensele
ss to you. A moment ago, before you had told me all, a terrible suspicion that Gerald had concealed his real name because he had been guilty of some wrong doing occurred to me—”
“What, you could believe that?”
“Yes, I did believe that, but I do not know but the truth you have told me concerning Gerald’s position causes me deeper sorrow than that I experienced when I thought Gerald might be a dishonoured man.”
“Impossible, mademoiselle, impossible!”
“This seems to you as absurd as it does senseless, does it not?” asked the young girl, bitterly.
“It does indeed.”
“But in that case, by the power of my love, I might hope to raise him from his slough of despond, to restore his self-respect, to rehabilitate him in my eyes, and in his own; but between me and M. le Duc de Senneterre there is now an unfathomable abyss.”
“Oh, reassure yourself on that point,” hastily exclaimed Olivier, hoping to cure the wound he had inflicted and to change his companion’s grief to joy. “You really need have no fears on that score, Mlle. Herminie. I was deputised to inform you of Gerald’s deception, but, thank Heaven! I am also authorised to tell you that he intends to atone for his fault and in the most satisfactory manner. Gerald may have deceived you in some matters, but he has never deceived you as to the sincerity of his sentiments. They are now what they have always been; his determination does not waver in the least. To-day, as yesterday, Gerald has only one desire, one hope, — that you will consent to bear his name, only to-day his name is that of the Duc de Senneterre. That is all.”
“That is all!” exclaimed Herminie, whose deep despondency seemed to have given place to a sorrowful indignation. “That is all, you say, monsieur? So it is nothing to have won my affection under false pretences — to have reduced me to the trying necessity of renouncing a love which was the hope and blessing of my life or of entering a family that will regard me with aversion and disdain! And you call this nothing, monsieur! Ah, your friend pretends to love me, and yet respects me so little as to believe that I will ever submit to the countless humiliations such a marriage is sure to bring upon me!”
“But, Mlle. Herminie—”
“Listen to me, M. Olivier. If, after our first meeting, which, by reason of its very strangeness, made a deep impression upon me, — if, I say, after our first meeting, Gerald had frankly confessed that he was the Duc de Senneterre, I should have resisted my growing affection with all my strength, and I should have triumphed over it, perhaps; but, in any case, I would never willingly have seen Gerald again. I will not be his mistress, and, as I said before, I am not the woman to submit to the humiliations that await me if I consent to become his wife.”
“You are very much mistaken, Mlle. Herminie. Accept Gerald’s offer, and you will have no humiliations to fear. Gerald is his own master. Since he lost his father several years ago, he has had unbounded influence over his mother. He will make her understand what this love is to him. But if Madame de Senneterre seems disposed to sacrifice Gerald’s happiness to financial greed, my friend is resolved, after all means of persuasion have been exhausted, of course, to dispense with his mother’s consent, if need be.”
“But I, monsieur, must have, cost what it may, not the affection, — for that does not come at will, — but the esteem of my husband’s mother because I am worthy of her esteem. Never, do you understand me, never shall any one say that I was the cause of a rupture between Gerald and his mother, or that I took advantage of his love for me to force myself upon a noble and distinguished family; no, monsieur, no one shall ever say that of me, my pride will not permit it.”
As she uttered these words Herminie was truly superb in her sadness and dignity.
Olivier had too keen a sense of honour himself not to share the young girl’s scruples — the same scruples which Gerald, too, had feared, for both the young men knew Herminie’s indomitable pride.
Nevertheless, Olivier, resolved to make a last effort, said:
“But consider well, Mlle. Herminie, I entreat you. Gerald does all that any man of honour can do in offering you his hand. What more do you desire?”
“What I desire, monsieur, as I have told you, is to be treated with the consideration which is due me, and which I have a right to expect from M. de Senneterre’s family.”
“But Gerald can be responsible only for himself, mademoiselle. Any attempt to exact more would—”
“Say no more, M. Olivier,” said Herminie, interrupting him; “you know me, and you know that I have a firm will.”
“I do, mademoiselle.”
“Very well. I will never willingly see Gerald again while I live, unless Madame de Senneterre, his mother, comes here—”
“Here?” exclaimed Olivier, in astonishment.
“Yes, unless Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre comes here and tells me that she consents to my marriage with her son. Then, no one can ever say that I forced myself upon this noble family.”
This demand — which seemed and which was, in fact, merely the natural outcome of an intense but laudable pride — Herminie uttered simply and naturally, because, filled with a justly high respect for herself, the young girl felt that she asked only what was her just due.
But at the first thought, this demand seemed to Olivier so exorbitant that, in his astonishment, he could not help saying:
“Madame de Senneterre — come here — to tell you that she consents to your marriage with her son, — why, what are you thinking of, Mlle. Herminie? That exceeds the bounds of possibility!”
“And why, monsieur?” asked the young girl, with such ingenuous pride that Olivier, remembering how generous and noble Herminie’s character and love were, replied, with no little embarrassment:
“You ask why Madame de Senneterre can not come here to tell you that she consents to your marriage with her son?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“But, mademoiselle, even ignoring the convenances of the fashionable world, the overtures you ask from a lady of Madame de Senneterre’s age—”
But again interrupting Olivier, the girl said, with a bitter smile:
“If I belonged to the fashionable world of which you speak, monsieur, — if I had a mother and relatives, instead of being a poor orphan, — and M. de Senneterre desired my hand in marriage, would it not be according to the rules of propriety you spoke of just now that Madame de Senneterre should be the first to approach my mother or my relatives in her son’s behalf?”
“Certainly, mademoiselle, but—”
“I have no mother, and I have no relatives,” continued Herminie, sadly. “To whom, then, if not to me, should Madame de Senneterre address herself in relation to my marriage?”
“One word, mademoiselle, Madame de Senneterre might do this if she approved of the marriage.”
“And that is precisely why I ask it, M. Olivier.”
“But Gerald’s mother does not even know you, mademoiselle.”
“If Madame de Senneterre has such a poor opinion of her son as to believe him capable of choosing a wife unworthy of him, she can make all needful inquiries in relation to me. Thank God, I have nothing to fear.”
“That is true,” said Olivier, who had exhausted all his arguments.
“So this is my last word, M. Olivier,” continued Herminie. “If Madame de Senneterre is not opposed to my marriage with her son, she will prove it by making the kindly overtures I ask; if she does not, she will consider me unworthy to enter her family, and in that case I will never see M. de Senneterre again.”
“Oh, Mlle. Herminie, if only out of compassion for Gerald—”
“Believe me, I am much more in need of pity than M. de Senneterre,” said the girl, and, no longer able to restrain her tears, she buried her face in her hands. “I may die of grief, I do not know, but to the last I will at least be worthy of Gerald and of his love.”
Olivier was in despair, but he could not help admiring this noble pride, though he deeply deplored the consequences so far as Ger
ald was concerned.
Suddenly a loud ring of the door-bell resounded through the room. Herminie sprang up and hastily dried her tears; then, remembering Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s note, she said to Olivier:
“It must be Ernestine. Poor child, I had forgotten all about her. M. Olivier, will you have the goodness to open the door for me?”
“One word more,” said Olivier, in earnest, almost solemn tones; “you have no conception of the intensity of Gerald’s love for you. You know I am not prone to exaggeration, yet I am afraid, do you hear me, positively afraid, when I think of the possible consequences of your refusal.”
Herminie trembled at Olivier’s ominous words. For a moment she seemed to be torn by conflicting doubts and fears; but she finally triumphed, though the poor girl, exhausted by this mental conflict, answered in tones that were barely audible:
“The thought of causing Gerald suffering is terrible to me, for I can judge of his love by my own. My own sorrow, too, enables me to judge what his must be. Nevertheless, I will never sacrifice my dignity, for that is Gerald’s as much as mine.”
“I entreat you, mademoiselle, do not—”
“You have heard my resolve, M. Olivier. I shall not say another word. Have pity on me. Can you not see that this interview is killing me?”
Olivier, seeing that it was useless to expostulate further, bowed to Herminie in silence, and then walked towards the door; but he had scarcely opened it when he exclaimed:
“My uncle, and you, Mlle. Ernestine! Great Heavens! This pallor — and this blood on your forehead! What has happened?”
On hearing Olivier’s words, Herminie rushed out of her room into the little hallway.
CHAPTER VII.
GOOD NEWS.
THE CAUSE OF Olivier’s surprise and alarm was only too apparent.
Commander Bernard, pale as death and greatly agitated, was clinging to Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s arm as if for support; while the young girl, quite as pale as the old officer, and clad in a simple lawn dress, had several blood-stains on her forehead and cheek.
