by Eugène Sue
“I share your regret, Ernestine,” said the duchess, “but M. de Maillefort knows what will further our interests better than we do; besides, my sudden disappearance would, perhaps, arouse M. Olivier’s suspicions. It would be utterly impossible to give him any news of you, and last, but not least, my dear Ernestine, it will not do to forget that I support myself by my music lessons, and I could not remain idle for a whole week.”
For an instant, Mlle. de Beaumesnil gazed at the duchess in a sort of bewilderment, not understanding how Herminie could think of working for her living now she had the richest heiress in France for an intimate friend; but remembering the young musician’s delicacy and pride, Mlle. de Beaumesnil shuddered at the thought that she had, perhaps, been in danger of alienating her friend for ever by her thoughtless, though kindly meant proposal.
“True, my dear Herminie, I forgot all about your lessons,” she replied. “You must not miss them, of course; but you will at least number me among your favourite pupils, and not let a day pass without coming. Won’t you promise me that?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Herminie, greatly relieved, for, as Ernestine had suspected, the duchess had trembled lest her friend should insist upon her acceptance of a hospitality which she regarded as humiliating.
“And now we can only hope that fate will prove propitious, my children,” said the marquis, rising. “As for your manner towards your guardian, my dear Ernestine, let it be slightly cold and reserved. Remain in your own room as much as possible, but do not manifest any very bitter resentment towards these people. A quarrel might injure us deeply. Later we will see.”
“By the way, M. de Maillefort,” said Ernestine, “I think it might be well to inform you that Madame de la Rochaiguë, who is still under the impression that I intend to marry M. Gerald, wanted me to promise that I would see Madame de Senneterre to-morrow, but I asked for a few days for reflection.”
“You did wisely, my child, but to-morrow you must formally announce to Madame de la Rochaiguë that you have decided not to marry Gerald. You need not give any explanation whatever. I will attend to the rest.”
“I will follow your advice, monsieur. To-morrow, Herminie, I will make you both proud and happy by telling you how nobly and frankly M. de Senneterre behaved towards me. Did he not, M. de Maillefort?”
“His conduct was admirable. Gerald warned me in advance of his plan, and he kept his promise. But now you girls will be obliged to separate for awhile.”
“Already!” cried Ernestine. “Let me at least keep Herminie until evening, M. de Maillefort.”
“I can not remain any longer, unfortunately, Ernestine,” said the duchess, trying to smile. “At five o’clock I have to give a lesson at the house of a M. Bouffard, whom M. de Maillefort knows, and I am obliged to be very punctual.”
“I must submit then, I suppose,” replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil, with a sigh, thinking what a drawback Herminie’s occupation was to the pleasures of life; “but you will at least promise to come and see me to-morrow, will you not, Herminie?”
“Yes, yes,” replied the duchess. “I shall await the morrow with quite as much impatience as you will, I assure you.”
“Herminie,” asked Mlle. de Beaumesnil, suddenly, “do you love me as much as when you believed me to be Ernestine, the little embroideress?”
“I love you even more, perhaps,” replied the duchess, earnestly, “for Mlle. de Beaumesnil has retained the heart of Ernestine, the little embroideress.”
The two girls embraced each other affectionately once again and then separated.
CHAPTER XXI.
“DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.”
TWO DAYS AFTER this conversation with Herminie and Ernestine, M. de Maillefort, after two long and serious consultations with Gerald, wrote to the Duchesse de Senneterre, asking her to see him that afternoon, and, his request being granted, the marquis presented himself at the appointed hour.
The marquis, warned by Gerald, was not surprised at the expression of bitter anger and chagrin on the face of Madame de Senneterre, for that very morning Madame de la Rochaiguë had informed the duchess that Mlle. de Beaumesnil, though she liked and admired M. de Senneterre very much, had no intention of marrying him.
At the sight of the hunchback, Madame de Senneterre’s wrath blazed up still more fiercely, and she exclaimed, bitterly:
“You must confess, monsieur, that I am wonderfully generous!”
“In what way?”
“Am I not giving you the pleasure of coming to exult over the misery you have caused?”
“To what misery do you allude?”
“What misery?” exclaimed the duchess, wrathfully. “Is it not your fault that my son’s marriage with Mlle. de Beaumesnil is broken off?”
“My fault?”
“Oh, I am not your dupe, monsieur, and it is to assure you of that fact that I consented to the interview you had the audacity to ask of me. I did not want to miss this opportunity to tell you face to face how much I hate and despise you.”
“So be it, madame. It affords just as good a topic of conversation as any other, and you excel in this kind of discourse, I believe.”
“M. de Maillefort will oblige me by reserving his insulting irony for some other occasion,” retorted Madame de Senneterre, haughtily. “He would also do well to remember that he has the honour of speaking to the Duchesse de Senneterre.”
“Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre will do me the honour to treat me with the consideration due me,” replied the hunchback, sternly; “if not, I shall govern my words exactly by Madame de Senneterre’s.”
“Is that intended as a threat, monsieur?”
“As a lesson, madame.”
“A lesson, to me?”
“And why not, may I ask? What, I who was your husband’s oldest and most trusted friend, I who love Gerald as a son, I who have a right to the respect and esteem of every one, — do you understand, madame? to the respect of every one, — I whose birth is at least equal to yours (it is well to remind you of that, as you attach such an absurd importance to such trifles), I am to be greeted with insulting words and eyes flashing with anger; and yet I am not to remind you of what you owe to me and what you owe to yourself?”
Like all vain and arrogant persons who are not accustomed to the slightest contradiction, Madame de Senneterre was at first surprised and irritated, but afterwards, awed by this stern and sensible language, her anger giving place to a profound despondency, she replied:
“Ah, monsieur, you should at least make some allowance for the despair a mother naturally feels on seeing her son ruined for ever.”
“Ruined?”
“Yes, and through you.”
“Will you have the goodness to prove that?”
“I have heard of the wonderful influence you have recently acquired over Mlle. de Beaumesnil. My son, too, has more confidence in you than he has in his mother, and if you had been favourably disposed, this marriage, which had been virtually decided upon, would not have been suddenly broken off for no apparent reason. Yes, there is a mystery about all this which you only can solve. And when I think that Gerald, with his illustrious name, might be the richest landed proprietor in France, but for you, I am, — well, yes, I am, — the most wretched of women and mothers, and I positively weep with rage and chagrin, as you see, monsieur. You are satisfied now, are you not?”
For the proud Duchesse de Senneterre was indeed weeping bitterly.
Had it not been for the deep interest he felt in Gerald and Herminie, M. de Maillefort, not in the least affected by these absurd tears, would have turned his back on this haughty and avaricious woman, who naïvely believed herself the tenderest and most unfortunate of mothers simply because she had left no means untried to secure her son an immense fortune and because this scheme of hers had failed; but desiring above all things to ensure the successful termination of the undertaking entrusted to him, the marquis allowed this ebullition of grief, which did not touch him in the least, to pass unnoticed.
“The mystery you speak of is very simple, it seems to me. Gerald and Mlle. de Beaumesnil like and appreciate each other, but are not the least bit in love, that is all.”
“What has love to do with the matter? Are there not plenty of marriages, besides those in royal families, made without love?”
“You must know that I have not requested an important interview with you merely to discuss a question which has been a matter of contention ever since the world began, viz., which is better, a marriage of convenience or a love match. We should never come to any agreement; besides, we have to deal with an accomplished fact: Gerald’s marriage with Mlle. de Beaumesnil is now an impossibility, and you may as well make the best of it. That young lady’s millions will never belong to your son, who, fine fellow that he is, cares nothing whatever about them.”
“Yes, and thanks to such idiotic disinterestedness, or rather such shameful indifference to enhancing the splendour of their name, the scions of our most illustrious houses are lapsing into a disgraceful mediocrity. It was for this very reason that my father and my husband — by neglecting the means of reestablishing the fortune of which that infamous revolution stripped us — left my son and my daughters almost penniless. In the present condition of affairs, I have little chance of marrying off my daughters, while Gerald, if he were rich, could help his sisters pecuniarily, and they would thus be able to secure eligible partis. And you wonder that I am overwhelmed with despair at the ruin of my plans, — at the destruction of my hope of securing for my son a fortune suited to his rank!”
“I suppose that you love Gerald after your fashion. It is not a very commendable fashion, still you do love him, I suppose.”
“Yes, I do love him — I love him as I ought to love him, too.”
“We will see about that.”
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
“In the first place, it is my duty to tell you that Gerald is deeply in love, and that—”
Madame de Senneterre sprang up out of her armchair, fairly purple with anger, and, interrupting the hunchback, exclaimed, vehemently:
“It is outrageous! I have suspected it all along! The mystery is cleared up now. It is my son who has refused, for that little Beaumesnil was wild about him. I could see that at the ball, and it is you, you, monsieur, who have had a hand in this abominable intrigue. I will never see my son again. He has no heart, no soul!”
The marquis had anticipated this explosion, and, without taking the slightest notice of it, continued:
“You interrupted me, madame. I was about to say that Mlle. de Beaumesnil, far from being in love with Gerald, entertains a very ardent affection for another man.”
“The bold-faced hussy!” exclaimed the duchess with such naïveté that the marquis could not help smiling slightly, in spite of his anxiety.
“I also feel it my duty to inform you, madame, that Gerald is in love with a young girl who is in every respect worthy of his love.”
“I beg, monsieur, that you will not say another word to me on the subject,” said Madame de Senneterre, feigning a calmness which the trembling of her voice grievously belied. “All is ended between my son and me. He can love whom he pleases and marry whom he pleases, as he is old enough to dispense with my consent. Let him drag his name through the mire if he likes. From this day I shall resume my maiden name, and I shall proclaim high and low and everywhere why I blush to bear a name so dishonoured and degraded. It is to be hoped that I shall, at least, find some consolation in my daughters.”
To these senseless ravings the marquis replied, quietly and gravely:
“Your son understands his duty towards you very differently from what you understand yours towards him. He will not even make the formal request for parental consent on the part of a person who is of legal age, which is usual in such cases. He will both honour and respect your wishes to this extent: he will not marry without your consent.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Madame de Senneterre, with a sardonic laugh. “He really does me this honour?”
“And, in spite of the profound love she cherishes for him, the young lady he loves will consent to marry him only upon one condition: that you, madame, go and tell this young lady that you consent to her marriage with your son.”
“This, M. de Maillefort, must be only a jest.”
“It is a matter of life or death for your son, madame.”
The voice of the marquis and the expression of his face were so full of earnestness and authority, that Madame de Senneterre, impressed in spite of herself, cried in alarm:
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
“I mean that you must be a hard-hearted mother if you have not noticed your son’s pallor and almost prostrated condition for several days past. On the day of the ball at which your son behaved so nobly, did not your physician tell you that, but for the heroic treatment to which he had resorted, you would have been in great danger of losing your son by brain fever?”
Gradually recovering from her alarm, and regretting that she had allowed herself to display even a momentary solicitude, Madame de Senneterre retorted, disdainfully:
“Nonsense! A brain fever can be cured by a few bleedings, monsieur, and one dies of love only in novels, and in very poor novels.”
“That is a kind and motherly remark, madame, and to keep it company I will say to you, with equal coolness, that if, after you have had time to make proper inquiries and obtain all needful information concerning the young lady of whom I have spoken, you do not take the step expected of you—”
“Well, monsieur?”
“Well, madame, your son will kill himself—”
“Yes, as the disappointed lover does in all the thrilling melodramas,” retorted Madame de Senneterre, with an even shriller laugh.
“I tell you that your son will kill himself, you poor fool!” exclaimed the marquis, terrible in his earnestness. “I tell you the last Duc de Senneterre will perish by his own hand like the last Duc de Bretigny!”
This allusion to a recent tragical event, which had been one of the chief topics of conversation at Madame de Mirecourt’s ball, gave the duchess a severe shock. She knew Gerald’s remarkable energy and determination of character, and consequently knew how much he must suffer from this hidden grief; besides, she had such a profound respect for M. de Maillefort, much as she disliked him personally, that she knew he would be incapable of threatening her with the possibility of Gerald’s suicide if he was not really convinced that such a danger was imminent, so the now thoroughly frightened woman cried:
“What you say is terrible, monsieur. The house of De Senneterre become extinct by a suicide!”
The blind pride of race spoke more loudly than maternal love in this cry.
The proud woman shuddered first chiefly at the thought that the name of the Senneterres, of that great and illustrious house, might become extinct through an act that the society in which she moved considered a crime.
The marquis understood Madame de Senneterre’s real feelings so well that he exclaimed:
“Yes; if you are as blind as you are pitiless, this illustrious name of Senneterre, often famous and always honoured, will be blotted out for ever in tears and in blood.”
“M. de Maillefort, such an idea is horrible! I know my son is capable of going to almost any extreme — but no, no, I will not believe that. You make me shudder! And when I think of the grief and despair and shame of a family that sees its head end his life by his own rash act — hold — enough — enough — I should go mad!”
And passing her hand hastily across her brow, covered with big drops of cold sweat, Madame de Senneterre continued:
“I tell you, monsieur, that I cannot and will not think of such a thing. But who is this young woman you speak of? Though I am in mortal dread as to the choice Gerald has made, there is one thing that reassures me a little. It is that the young woman insists that I shall come and tell her that I consent to her marriage with my son. For her to dare expect such a concession f
rom me, she must hold such a social position that I, at least, have no cause to fear an unworthy love on the part of my son.”
“Gerald has placed his affections creditably, even nobly, madame. I have already had the honour of assuring you of this fact,” responded the marquis, severely, “and usually what I say can be believed.”
“That is true, monsieur. Your assurance should satisfy me on that point. It is not likely that I shall ever have another opportunity to make such a match as that which I dreamed of for my son; but if the birth and fortune of the young lady in question are satisfactory, and—”
But here the hunchback interrupted Madame de Senneterre by saying:
“The young lady in question is an orphan. She is a music teacher, and supports herself by giving lessons.”
It is impossible to describe the expression of Madame de Senneterre’s face as the words of the marquis fell upon her ear. Had she experienced an electric shock, the movement she made could not have been more convulsive.
“An adventuress, then! The wretched boy, to degrade himself like this!” she cried. “What a humiliation for me and my daughters!”
And as M. de Maillefort sprang up no less hastily to reply to Madame de Senneterre, the latter interrupted him by adding:
“And such a creature has the audacity to ask me — me to so degrade myself as to go to her, the—”
But Madame de Senneterre did not complete the sentence. She had fully intended to add an opprobrious epithet, but she burst into a shrill, almost frenzied, laugh instead.
A cold silence following this ebullition of rage, Madame de Senneterre placed a trembling hand on M. de Maillefort’s arm, and said:
“My dear marquis, listen to me. If my unworthy son should come and stand there, — right before me, do you understand? — and say to me,’I will kill myself before your very eyes if you refuse your consent,’ I should say, ‘Kill yourself, then. I would rather see you dead than disgraced. I would rather your name should die out, than to see it perpetuated to your dishonour, mine, and that of your sisters.’”
