Pride: One of the Seven Cardinal Sins. Эжен Сю
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"One day," she continued, at last, "this lady made a remark to me that cut me to the quick."
"What did the wicked creature say to you?" demanded Madame de Beaumesnil, for Herminie had paused again, unwilling to wound the countess by repeating the insulting and heartless words:
"You are very proud for a bastard that was reared by charity in this very house."
"What did that wicked woman say to you?" insisted Madame de Beaumesnil.
"I beg that you will not insist upon my repeating her heartless words," replied Herminie. "Though I have not forgotten, I have at least forgiven them. But the very next day I left the house with my little savings. With these I fitted up my modest ménage, for since that time I have lived alone, in a home of my own."
Herminie uttered the words, "in a home of my own," with such a proud and satisfied air, that Madame de Beaumesnil, with tears in her eyes, despite the smile upon her lips, pressed the young girl's hand affectionately, and said:
"I am sure this home of yours must be charming."
"Oh, yes, madame, there is nothing too elegant for me."
"Come, tell me all about it. How many rooms are there in your apartment?"
"Only one, besides a tiny hall; but it is on the ground floor, and looks out upon a garden. The room is small, so I could afford a pretty carpet and curtains. I have only one armchair, but that is velvet. I have but little furniture, it is true, but that little is in very good taste, I think. There is one thing more that I aspire to, however, and that ambition will soon be realised."
"And what is that?"
"It is to have a little maid—a child thirteen or fourteen years of age, whom I shall rescue from misery and want, and who will be as happy as the day is long with me. I have heard of an orphan girl, about twelve years old, a dear, obedient, affectionate child, they say, so you can judge how pleased I shall be when I am able to take her into my service. It will not be a useless expense, either, madame la comtesse, for then I shall not be obliged to go out alone to give my lessons—and that is so unpleasant, for, as you must know, madame, a young girl who is obliged to go out alone—"
Herminie's voice faltered, and tears of shame filled her eyes as she thought of the insult she had just received from M. de Ravil, as well as other annoyances of a like nature to which she had often been subjected in spite of her modest and dignified bearing.
"I understand, my child, and I approve your plan," said Madame de Beaumesnil, more and more deeply touched. "But your pupils—who procures them for you? And do you always have as many as you need?"
"Generally, madame la comtesse. In summer, when several of my pupils go to the country, I follow other pursuits. I can embroider very well; sometimes I copy music—I have even composed several pieces. I have maintained friendly relations, too, with several of my former schoolmates, and it was through one of them that I was recommended to the wife of your physician, who was looking for a young person, a good musician, to play and sing for you."
Herminie, who had begun her story seated in an armchair near the bedside, now found herself half reclining on the bed, clasped in her mother's arms.
Both had unconsciously yielded to the promptings of filial and maternal love, for Madame de Beaumesnil, after placing Herminie near her, had ventured to retain one of her daughter's hands during the narration of this simple yet touching story, and as Herminie recounted the principal incidents of her past life to her mother, she felt Madame de Beaumesnil's hand draw her closer and closer, until she found herself leaning over the bed with her mother's arms around her neck.
Then seized with a sort of maternal frenzy, Madame de Beaumesnil, instead of continuing the conversation and answering her daughter, seized Herminie's lovely face in her two hands, and, without uttering a word, covered it with tears and impassioned kisses, after which the mother and daughter remained for several minutes clasped in a convulsive embrace. It is well-nigh certain that the secret which it had been so difficult to guard, and which had more than once been upon their lips, would have escaped them this time if they had not been suddenly recalled to consciousness by a knock at the door.
Madame de Beaumesnil, terrified at the thought of the act of perjury she had been on the verge of committing, but unable to explain this wild transport of tenderness on her part, exclaimed incoherently, as she gently released Herminie from her embrace:
"Forgive me, forgive me, my child! I am a mother—my own child is far away—and her absence causes me the deepest regret. My poor brain is so weak—now—and for a moment—I laboured under the delusion—the strange delusion that it was—that it was my absent daughter I was pressing to my heart. Pardon the strange hallucination—you cannot but pity a poor mother who realises that she is dying without being able to embrace her child for the last time."
"Dying!" exclaimed the girl, raising her tear-stained face and gazing wildly at her mother.
But hearing the knock repeated, Herminie hastily dried her tears, and, forcing herself to appear calm, said to her mother:
"This is the second time some one has knocked, madame la comtesse."
"Admit the person," murmured Madame de Beaumesnil, faintly, quite overcome by the painful scene. It proved to be the confidential maid of the countess. She entered, and said:
"I went to M. le Marquis de Maillefort as madame directed."
"Well?" demanded Madame de Beaumesnil, eagerly.
"And M. le marquis is waiting below until madame la comtesse is ready to see him."
"Heaven be praised!" murmured Madame de Beaumesnil, fervently. "God is rewarding me for having had the strength to keep my vow!"
Then, turning to the maid, she added:
"Bring M. de Maillefort here at once."
Herminie, quite overcome by so many conflicting emotions, and feeling that her presence was no longer desired, took her hat and mantle with the intention of departing at once.
The countess never took her eyes from the young girl's face. She was gazing at her daughter for the last time, perhaps, for the poor mother felt her life was nearly over now. Nevertheless she had the courage to say to Herminie in an almost unconcerned voice in order to deceive the girl as to her real condition:
"We will have our selections from 'Oberon' to-morrow, mademoiselle. You will have the goodness to come early, will you not?"
"Yes, madame la comtesse," replied Herminie.
"Show mademoiselle out, Madame Dupont, and then bring M. de Maillefort," the countess said to her maid. But as she watched her daughter move towards the door she could not help saying to her for the last time:
"Farewell, mademoiselle."
"Farewell, madame la comtesse," answered Herminie.
And it was in these formal words that these two poor, heart-broken creatures gave vent to their grief and despair at this final hour of parting.
Madame Dupont showed Herminie to the street door without taking her past the drawing-room in which M. de Maillefort was waiting. Just as the young girl was leaving, Madame Dupont said, kindly:
"You have forgotten your umbrella, mademoiselle, and you will need it, for it is a dreadful night. The rain is falling in torrents."
"Thank you, madame," said Herminie, recollecting now that she had left her umbrella just outside the door of the reception-room, and hastening back for it.
It was indeed, raining in torrents, but Herminie, absorbed in grief, did not even notice that the night was dark and stormy as she left the Hôtel de Beaumesnil, and wended her solitary way homeward.
CHAPTER XI.
THE PURSE OF MONEY.