Pride: One of the Seven Cardinal Sins

The young girl responded with an almost affectionate smile and bow, and the old officer said:

"And I, mademoiselle, am doubly sorry, as I was unfortunately the cause of this accident which distresses you so much."

"But how did it happen, uncle?" asked Olivier.

So while Herminie, seeing that, thanks to her attentions, Ernestine was gradually regaining consciousness, made her again inhale a few drops of cologne, Commander Bernard began his explanation by saying:

"I went out this morning while you were talking with one of your friends, Olivier."

"Yes, uncle, Madame Barbançon told me that you had been so imprudent as to go out in spite of your extreme weakness, but she felt less anxious about you, I thought, from the fact that you had seemed in unusually good spirits when you left the house."

"Yes, yes, I was unusually gay because I was happy, oh, very happy, for this morning—"

But the commander, checking himself suddenly, gazed at Olivier with a peculiar expression, then added, with a sigh:

"No, no, I must not tell you now. Well, as I said before, I went out—"

"It was a very imprudent thing for you to do, uncle."

"Perhaps it was, but I had my reasons for wanting to go; besides, I thought a walk in the open air might do me good. Still, being a little doubtful of my strength, instead of going out on the plain as usual, I followed the broad grassy terrace that borders the railroad track in this direction. Feeling tired after I had walked a short distance, I sat down to rest and sun myself on the top of a bank on the side of one of those new streets which have been graded and paved, but on which no houses have yet been erected. I sat there a quarter of an hour, perhaps, then, thinking myself sufficiently rested, I decided that I would get up and start for home. But the walk, short as it was, had exhausted my strength completely, for I had scarcely gotten upon my feet before I was seized with vertigo, my knees trembled under me, I lost my balance; the bank was steep—"

"And you fell?" asked Olivier, anxiously.

"I must have slidden rather than fallen to the foot of the bank, I think, and my situation would not have been at all dangerous, I suppose, if a big wagon, loaded with stones and drawn by horses which had been left to guide themselves by the driver who was walking on ahead, had not happened to come along just then."

"Great God!" exclaimed Olivier.

"How terrible!" cried Herminie.

"Ah, yes, especially to that dear young lady you see lying there wounded, yes, wounded by risking her own life to save mine!"

"What, uncle, this wound of Mlle. Ernestine's—?"

"When I fell from the top of the bank," resumed the old man, interrupting his nephew, who had cast a look of inexpressible gratitude on Mlle. de Beaumesnil, "my head struck the pavement, and I lay there unable to make the slightest movement, though I seemed to see the horses advancing towards me through a sort of mist. My head could not have been more than a yard from the wheel when I heard a loud cry, and dimly perceived a woman, who was coming in the opposite direction from the horses, rush towards me. Then consciousness deserted me entirely. When I regained it," continued the old man, with increasing emotion, "I was half lying, half sitting, on the bank a couple of yards from the spot where I had fallen, and a young girl, an angel of goodness and courage, was kneeling beside me, with clasped hands, her face still pale with terror, and her forehead covered with blood. And it was she," exclaimed the old officer, turning to Ernestine, who had now entirely recovered her senses, "yes, it was you, mademoiselle, who saved my life at the risk of your own,—you, a frail, delicate creature who listened only to the promptings of your noble heart and indomitable courage."

"Oh, Ernestine, how proud I am of being your friend!" cried the duchess, pressing the blushing and embarrassed girl to her heart.

"Yes, you may well be!" cried the old man, enthusiastically.

"Mademoiselle," said Olivier, in his turn, addressing Mlle. de Beaumesnil with unmistakable agitation, "I can only say—but I feel sure that you will understand what these words mean to me—I owe the life of my uncle, or rather of the most tenderly loved father, to you."

"M. Olivier," replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil, averting her eyes after a wondering glance at the young man, "what you say makes me doubly happy, for until now I was entirely ignorant that this gentleman was that dear relative of yours Herminie was telling me about day before yesterday."

"But how are you feeling now, mademoiselle?" inquired the old man, with deep interest. "Don't you think it would be well to send for a physician, Mlle. Herminie? Olivier will run and get one."

"Pray do nothing of the kind, M. Olivier," cried Ernestine, hastily. "My head hurts me very little; the wound must be scarcely more than a scratch, for I hardly feel it. When I fainted just now, it was more from excitement than pain."

"That makes no difference, you must have a little rest, all the same," said Herminie. "I think, with you, that your wound is slight, but you have had such a fright that I intend to keep you a few hours."

"Oh, so far as that prescription is concerned, I will take it with pleasure, my dear Herminie," responded Mlle. de Beaumesnil, smiling; "and I shall try to make my convalescence last as long as possible."

"And now, Olivier, if you will give me your arm, we will leave these young ladies," said the veteran.

"M. Olivier, it will not do at all for Commander Bernard to return home on foot, weak as he is. You had better tell our portress to call a cab for you."

"No, no, my dear young lady, with Olivier's assistance I shall get along nicely. The fresh air will do me a world of good, and then I can show Olivier the place where I should have been killed but for this guardian angel here. I am not much of a devotee, mademoiselle, but I shall often make a sort of pilgrimage to that grassy slope to pray after my fashion for the noble-hearted girl who saved me at a time I was so anxious to live, for this very morning—"

And then, for the second time, to Olivier's great surprise, the veteran seemed to check words which were almost upon his lips.

"Oh, well, never mind," he continued, "I shall pray after my fashion for my guardian angel, for really," added the veteran, smilingly, "the world seems to be upside down, for now it is young girls who save old soldiers,—but fortunately the old soldiers have heart enough left for gratitude and devotion."

Olivier, with his eyes riveted on Mlle. de Beaumesnil's sad and gentle face, was experiencing a feeling of compassionate tenderness which was full of charm. His heart throbbed with conflicting emotions as he gazed at the young girl, and recalled the incidents of his first meeting with her, her ingenuous frankness and quaint originality, and, above all, Herminie's intimation that her friend's lot was far from being a happy one. Olivier had long been an ardent admirer of Herminie's rare beauty, but at this moment Ernestine seemed equally attractive in his eyes.

The young soldier was so absorbed that his uncle was obliged to take him by the arm and say to him:

"Come, my boy, we must no longer trespass on the hospitality which Mlle. Herminie will surely pardon me for having accepted."

"The fact is, Herminie," said Ernestine, "knowing you lived only a short distance from the scene of the accident, I thought I might venture—"

"Surely you are not going to apologise for having acted as any friend would have done?" the duchess exclaimed, interrupting her.

"We will bid you adieu, young ladies," said the old naval officer, then, turning to Ernestine, he said earnestly:

"It would grieve me too much to think that I had seen you to-day for the first and last time. Oh, have no fears, mademoiselle," exclaimed the old man, noting a slight expression of embarrassment on the girl's tell-tale face, "my gratitude gives me no excuse for intruding myself upon you, but I should consider it a great favour if you and Mlle. Herminie would occasionally permit me to call and see you,—for it is not enough to have a heart full of gratitude, one should at least be allowed to sometimes give expression to it."

"M. Bernard," replied Herminie, "this desire on your part is too natural for Ernestine and me to feel any inclination to oppose it; and some evening when Ernestine will be at liberty, we will let you know, and you must do us the honour to come and take a cup of tea with us."

"May I really?" the veteran exclaimed, joyfully. Then he added:

"Yes, yes, the world does indeed seem to be upside down, for it is those who are already under heavy obligations who have benefits heaped upon them by their benefactors; but I am more than resigned, so adieu, my dear young ladies, or, rather, au revoir. Are you ready, Olivier?"

But as he reached the door he paused, and seemed to hesitate, then after a moment's reflection he came back, and said:

"I cannot do it, my dear young ladies; I cannot carry my secret away with me."

"A secret, M. Bernard?"

"Yes; I have been on the point of telling it twice, but both times I have checked myself, because I had promised to keep silence; but after all, it is only right that Mlle. Ernestine, to whom I owe my life, should at least know why I am so glad to live—"

"I, too, think you owe Ernestine this reward, M. Bernard," said Herminie.

"I assure you that I should be very happy to be honoured with your confidence, monsieur," added Mlle. de Beaumesnil.

"And it would be a real proof of confidence, mademoiselle, for, as I told you, I was advised to keep the matter a secret, and I must confess, my dear Olivier, that it was to keep it a secret from you that I went out this morning."

"But why, uncle? I do not understand."

"Why, because in spite of all the advice in the world, in my first transports of happiness over the good news which I had just heard, I couldn't have helped falling upon your neck and telling you all. So I went out, hoping to become sufficiently accustomed to my happiness to be able to conceal it from you afterwards."

"But, uncle, what good news do you refer to?" inquired Olivier, with increasing surprise.

"Your friend who was at the house this morning did not tell you that his first visit was to me, did he?"

"No, uncle, when he came out into the garden to find me, I supposed he had just arrived."

"Yes, for we had agreed to say nothing about our interview, as it was he who brought me the good news, and Heaven knows he was pleased enough about it, though everything else seemed to be going wrong with him. In short, young ladies, you will understand my happiness, I think, when I tell you that my brave Olivier has been made an officer."

"I?" exclaimed Olivier, with rapturous delight, "I an officer?"

"Oh, what happiness for you, M. Olivier," cried Herminie.

"Yes, my brave boy," exclaimed the veteran, pressing Olivier's hands warmly, "yes, you are an officer; but I was to keep the secret from you until the day you will receive your commission, so your happiness would be complete, for you do not know all—"

"What more is there to tell, M. Bernard?" inquired Ernestine, who was watching the scene with lively interest.

"It is that my dear Olivier will not have to leave me again; at least not for a long time, for he has been appointed an officer in one of the regiments that have just come to garrison Paris. Ah, Mlle. Ernestine, have I not reason to love life now that Olivier and I are both so fortunate? Do you understand now the full extent of my gratitude to you?"

The newly made officer stood silent and thoughtful, but a strong emotion betrayed itself in his features as he glanced at Mlle. de Beaumesnil, with a new and very peculiar expression.

"Why, my boy," said the veteran, surprised and somewhat chagrined at the thoughtful silence which had followed Olivier's first exclamation of joy and astonishment, "how is this? I thought you would be so delighted to hear of your appointment. I know very well that it is only a tardily rendered acknowledgment of services rendered, still—"

"Pray do not think me ungrateful, uncle," replied Olivier, in a voice that trembled with emotion. "If I am silent, it is only because my heart is too full for utterance when I think of all the happiness this news implies; besides, I feel sure that I owe my appointment to the enthusiastic efforts of my best friend—an appointment, too, that is unspeakably precious to me," added Olivier, casting still another look at Ernestine, who blushed, though she knew not why, as she met his earnest gaze, "because—because—it is you who announce it to me, my dear uncle."

But it was evident that Olivier had not disclosed the real reason that rendered his new appointment such a boon to him.

Ernestine alone seemed to read the young man's secret thoughts, for she blushed again and a tear glittered in her eye.

"And now, Mister Officer," resumed the veteran, gaily, "as these young ladies have heard our good news, we must no longer trespass upon their good nature. I trust, however, that Mlle. Herminie will not forget her promised invitation to take tea with her. You see I have a good memory, mademoiselle."

"You need have no fears on that score, M. Bernard. I shall prove to you that my memory is quite as good as yours," responded Herminie, graciously.

While the commander was addressing a few more words of gratitude and of farewell to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, Olivier, approaching Herminie, said to her in a low, beseeching tone:

"Mlle. Herminie, this is one of those days which should incline one to clemency. What shall I say to Gerald?"

"M. Olivier," replied Herminie, her face clouding suddenly, for the poor child had almost forgotten her own sorrows for the time being, "you know my resolve."

Olivier knew Herminie's remarkable firmness of character, so he smothered a sigh as he thought of Gerald's disappointment.

"One word more, Mlle. Herminie?" he asked. "Will you have the goodness to grant me another interview to-morrow at any hour that suits you? It is upon a very important, but purely personal matter I wish to consult you this time, and you will be doing me a great favour if you grant my request."

"With pleasure, M. Olivier," replied the duchess, though she was not a little surprised at the request. "I shall expect you to-morrow morning."

"I thank you, mademoiselle. Good-bye until to-morrow, then," said Olivier.

He departed in company with Commander Bernard, and the two young girls—the two sisters—were left alone together.

Olivier's parting words to Herminie had reawakened the grief and chagrin from which her mind had been temporarily diverted by Commander Bernard's unexpected arrival in company with Ernestine.

Ernestine, too, was silent and thoughtful for two reasons. One was the peculiar look Olivier had bestowed on her on hearing of his promotion,—a look whose tender and touching significance the young girl fancied she understood; the other was the melancholy pleasure she experienced at the recollection that this new but dearly prized friend was the young musician who had so greatly ameliorated Madame de Beaumesnil's sufferings towards the last.

Ernestine's silence was likewise prolonged by the difficulty she experienced in bringing the conversation around to the subject of her mother.

Her visit to Herminie had been easily managed. On going to church with Mlle. de la Rochaiguë as usual, she had asked Madame Laîné to accompany them, and on leaving church, by pretending that she had some shopping to do, she had succeeding in getting away alone with her governess, after which a cab had taken them to within a short distance of the Rue de Monceau, where Madame Laîné was now awaiting, in that vehicle, the return of her youthful employer.

Though the silence of the duchess had lasted only a few moments, Ernestine, noticing the sad reverie into which her friend had fallen, said to her, with mingled tenderness and timidity:

"Herminie, I do not want to be intrusive, but it seems to me you are not in your usual good spirits this morning."

"That is true," answered the girl, frankly. "I am in great trouble."

"In great trouble, my dear Herminie?" asked Ernestine, quickly.

"Yes, and perhaps I will tell you all about it by and by, but just at this time I am too heart-broken to talk about it, so bear with me a little, until I can explain the cause of my grief, though I don't know that I ever can—"

"But why this reserve, Herminie. Don't you think me worthy of your confidence?"

"That is not the reason, my dear child, but you are so young that I ought not to talk to you about such matters, perhaps, but by and by we will see about it. Now, let us think about your comfort. You must lie down on my bed; you can rest better there than in a chair."

"But, my dearest Herminie—"

Without taking any notice of her guest's protest, Herminie stepped to the alcove and drew back the curtains, which her natural delicacy and reserve caused her to keep always closed, and Ernestine saw a little white iron bedstead covered with a pale pink counterpane, and surmounted by a canopy consisting of double draperies of the pretty chintz and fresh white muslin. The alcove, too, was hung with pale pink muslin, and the pillow-slip, dazzling in its whiteness, was edged with lace.

In fact, nothing could be daintier and prettier than this virginal couch, upon which Ernestine, at last yielding to the entreaties of the duchess, laid down to rest awhile.

Drawing the armchair up to the bedside and seating herself in it, Herminie, taking the orphan's two hands affectionately in hers, said, with tender solicitude:

"I am sure a little rest will do you a world of good, Ernestine. How do you feel now?"

"My head aches a little, that is all."

"What a frightful risk you ran, my dear child."

"I don't deserve so much praise, though, Herminie; I did not think of the danger I was incurring for an instant. I saw the old gentleman fall almost under the wheels of the wagon, it seemed to me. I shrieked, and sprang to his assistance, and though I am not very strong, I succeeded, I scarcely know how, in dragging M. Bernard enough out of the way to prevent him from being crushed."

"You dear, brave child! But the wound on your head—"

"The wheel must have struck me, I suppose, for I became unconscious almost at that same instant, and M. Bernard, on recovering his senses, noticed that I was hurt. But don't let us talk any more about it. I was more frightened than hurt, and my reputation for bravery was very cheaply won."

Then casting an admiring glance around her, the young girl continued:

"You were right in saying that your room was charming, Herminie. How pretty and dainty everything is! And those lovely engravings and beautiful statuettes and graceful vases filled with flowers are all so simple and inexpensive that it seems as if any one might have them, and yet nobody has, because one must have taste to select them. And when I think," added the girl, enthusiastically, "that it was by your own labour that you acquired all these pretty things, I do not wonder that you are proud and happy. How much you must have enjoyed yourself here."

"Yes, I have had a great deal of pleasure out of my home, it is true."

"But now all these pretty surroundings have lost their charm? Why, that sounds very ungrateful in you."

"No, no, this little room is still unspeakably dear to me!" exclaimed Herminie, quickly, recollecting that it was in this room that she had seen Gerald for the first time, and for the last time, too, perhaps.

Ernestine had not been able to devise any way of leading the conversation to the subject of her mother without arousing Herminie's suspicions, but now, happening to glance at the piano, she added:

"And there is the instrument you play so divinely. How much pleasure it would give me to hear you."

"Don't ask me just now, I beg of you, Ernestine. I should burst into tears at the sound of the first note. When I am sad, music always makes me weep."

"I can understand that, but you will let me hear you play and sing some day, will you not?"

"Oh, yes, I promise you that."

"And, by the way, speaking of music," continued Ernestine, trying to control herself, "the other night when I was at Madame Herbaut's, I heard somebody say that a very sick lady once sent for you to play and sing for her."

"That is true," replied Herminie, sadly, "and this lady was the one I spoke to you about the other evening because she had a daughter whose name was the same as yours."

"And while she was listening to you the poor lady's sufferings became less poignant?"

"Because she forgot them, but alas! this alleviation of her sufferings could not save her."

"Kind-hearted as you are, Herminie, what loving attentions you must have lavished on the poor lady."

"Her situation was so interesting, so pitiable, you see, Ernestine. To die while still so young, and deploring the absence of a beloved daughter!"

"Did she ever speak of this daughter to you, Herminie?"

"Poor unhappy mother! Her child was the subject of her every thought. She had a portrait of her, painted when she was a mere child, and I have often seen her eyes fill with tears when they rested upon the picture. She often told me, too, how richly her daughter deserved her tenderness by the amiability and sweetness of her disposition. She spoke, too, of letters which her daughter wrote to her every day, letters in which her beloved child's nobility of heart showed itself in every line."

"This lady must have loved you very much to make you her confidante to such an extent, Herminie."

"She treated me with the greatest kindness, so it was only natural I should become deeply attached to her."

"And the daughter of this lady who was so fond of you, and whom you seem to have loved so much in return,—have you never felt any desire to make the acquaintance of this other Ernestine?"

"Yes, for everything her mother told me about her made me love her in advance, as it were, but at that time she was in a foreign land. When she returned to France, I did, for a time, have some hope of seeing and knowing her, but I was disappointed in that."

"How did that happen, my dear Herminie?" inquired Ernestine, concealing her curiosity, at least in part, however.

"Business took me to the house of her guardian, and while I was there something was said about my giving the young lady music lessons."

Ernestine gave a joyous start. This idea had never occurred to her before, but wishing to have something to justify her curiosity in Herminie's eyes, she exclaimed, laughingly:

"You must think it strange that I ask you so many questions about this young lady. Perhaps it is because I feel that I should be dreadfully jealous if you should ever love her better than you do me."

"Oh, you need have no fears on that score," said Herminie, shaking her head, sadly.

"But why should you not love her?" asked Mlle. de Beaumesnil, eagerly; then regretting her involuntary display of anxiety, she added: "But I am not selfish enough to wish to deprive this young lady of your affection, of course."

"What I know of her, and the recollection of her mother's great kindness to me, will always make me fond of her. But alas! my dear Ernestine, it is a matter of pride with me to shun any friendship that does not seem entirely disinterested, and this young lady is very wealthy and I am poor."

"You must have a poor opinion of her, then, after all," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, bitterly.

"Oh, no, Ernestine, after all her mother told me, I can not doubt her kindness of heart, but I am an entire stranger to her. Then, too, for many reasons, and more particularly from a fear of arousing sad recollections, I should not dare to speak of the circumstances which made me so intimately acquainted with her dying mother, nor of that mother's great kindness to me. Besides, would it not look very much as if I were trying to ingratiate myself with her, and presuming upon an affection to which I really have no claim?"

On hearing this admission, how earnestly Ernestine congratulated herself upon having won Herminie's affection before her new friend knew who she, Ernestine, really was! And what a strange coincidence! She had feared that, because she was the richest heiress in France, she would never be loved for herself alone; while Herminie, because she was poor, feared that her affection would not appear disinterested.

The duchess seemed to have become more and more depressed in spirits as the conversation proceeded. She had hoped to find in it a refuge from her own sad thoughts, but such had not been the case, for it was this same laudable pride which made Herminie fear that her love for Gerald might be attributed to vanity or mercenary motives, and so had led to the resolve which would inevitably ruin her only hope of happiness.

For how could she expect that Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre would ever consent to make the advances required of her? But alas! though endowed with sufficient courage to sacrifice her love to the dignity of that love, Herminie realised none the less keenly what terrible suffering this courageous sacrifice would entail.

So referring almost unconsciously to the anguish she felt, after a moment's silence, she remarked, in a strangely altered voice:

"Ah, my poor Ernestine, how sad it is that the purest and noblest affections can be thus degraded by unworthy suspicions!"

And unable to restrain her feelings any longer, she burst into tears and hid her face upon the bosom of Ernestine, who, half rising and pressing her friend to her heart, exclaimed:

"What is it, Herminie? What is it? I saw that you were becoming more and more depressed, but dared not ask you the reason."

"Do not say any more about it," replied Herminie, ashamed of her tears. "Forgive this weakness in me, but just now a host of memories—"

"Herminie, I have no right to demand your confidence, I know, but sometimes it is a relief to talk of one's troubles—"

"Yes, yes, I know it. It is the constraint that is killing me, but oh, the humiliation, the disgrace!"

"Humiliation and disgrace attach to you? Oh, no, Herminie, you are too proud for that!"

"But is it not weak and humiliating to weep as I do, after having had the courage to make a commendable and even necessary resolution?" she sobbed.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, the duchess continued:

"Do not regard what I am about to tell you as a confidential revelation on my part, my dear child, but rather as a useful lesson."

"A lesson?"

"Yes, for you, like myself, are an orphan; like me, you are alone in the world; and possessed of none of the experience that might save you from the snares and pitfalls by which poor girls like us are continually surrounded. So listen to me, Ernestine, and may you be spared the misery I am suffering now."

And Herminie described the scene in which, justly incensed against Gerald, who had ventured to pay her landlord the money she owed, she had treated him first with haughtiness and disdain, but afterwards forgiven him, touched by the generous impulse to which he had thoughtlessly yielded. After which, Herminie continued in words like these:

"Two days after this meeting, in the hope of diverting my mind from thoughts which had already gained too great an ascendency over me for my peace of mind, I went to Madame Herbaut's house. Judge of my surprise when I met this same young man again at that entertainment. My first feeling was one of chagrin, almost of fear, a presentiment, doubtless; then I had the weakness to yield to the charm of this second meeting. Never before had I seen a man who possessed, like him, manners at once unpretending, refined and distinguished, a brilliant, versatile mind, but never failing delicacy of feeling. I hate flattery, but his was characterised with so much grace and delicacy that I accepted it only too gladly, I fear. I learned that evening that his name was Gerald, and that—"

"Gerald?" Ernestine exclaimed, hastily, recollecting that the Duc de Senneterre, one of the suitors for her hand, was also named Gerald.

Just then a loud ring of the door-bell attracted Herminie's attention and prevented her from noticing Mlle. de Beaumesnil's astonishment. The latter arose from the bed at the sound, while Herminie, greatly annoyed by this interruption, directed her steps towards the door.

An elderly serving man handed her a note containing these words:

"I have not seen you for several days, my dear child, not having felt as well as usual. Can you see me this morning?

Most affectionately yours,      
"Maillefort.

"P.S.—Do not take the trouble to answer in writing. If you will see your old friend, simply say 'yes' to the bearer."

Herminie, in her grief, was inclined to find some excuse for deferring M. de Maillefort's visit, but remembering that the marquis, belonging to the aristocracy as he did, was doubtless acquainted with Gerald, and that she might obtain some more definite information concerning her lover without revealing her secret, she said to the servant:

"I shall expect to see M. le Marquis de Maillefort sometime during the day."

But as she returned to the room where Mlle. de Beaumesnil was awaiting her, Herminie said to herself:

"What if M. de Maillefort should come while Ernestine is here? Oh, well, it will not matter much, after all, if she does see him; besides, the dear child is so retiring that, as soon as a stranger comes, she is sure to leave me alone with him."

So Herminie continued her conversation with Mlle. de Beaumesnil without making any allusion to M. de Maillefort's approaching visit, for fear that Ernestine would leave sooner than she had intended.

"Forgive me for having deserted you so unceremoniously, my dear Ernestine," Herminie remarked to her friend. "It was a letter, and I had to send a verbal reply."

"Do pray go on with your story, Herminie," replied Ernestine. "You have no idea how deeply interested I am."

"And it is such a relief to me to tell you my troubles."

"Yes, I was sure it would be," responded Ernestine, with ingenuous tenderness.

"I was just telling you that I learned at Madame Herbaut's little entertainment that this young man's name was Gerald Auvernay. It was M. Olivier who told me so, on introducing him to me."

"What! he knows M. Olivier?"

"They are intimate friends, for Gerald was a soldier in the same regiment as Olivier. On leaving the service, he entered the office of a notary, so he told me, but for some time past he had given up an employment which was so distasteful to him, and had found occupation on the fortifications under an officer of engineers he had known in Africa. So you see, Ernestine, that Gerald's position and mine were identical, and free as he seemed to be, I was surely excusable for allowing myself to yield to a fatal fondness for him."

"But why fatal, Herminie?"

"Wait and you shall know all. Two days after our meeting at Madame Herbaut's, on my return from my lessons, I went out into the garden to which my landlord had kindly given me the entrée. This garden, as you can see from the window, is separated from the street in the rear only by a hedge, and from the bench on which I had seated myself I saw Gerald pass. Instead of being handsomely dressed as on the evening before, he was clad in a gray blouse and a big straw hat. He gave a start of surprise on perceiving me, but far from seeming mortified at being seen in his working clothes, he bowed to me and, pausing, said gaily that he was just returning from his day's work, being engaged in superintending certain portions of the fortifications now in progress of construction at the end of the Rue de Monceau. 'An occupation which suits me much better than dull notary work,' he remarked. 'I am fairly well paid and I have a crowd of rather rough but very worthy men to superintend. I like it much better than copying stupid documents.'"

"I can understand that perfectly, my dear Herminie."

"It is more than likely that the cheerful way in which he accepted this arduous labour, manual labour, I might almost say, touched me all the more as Gerald had evidently received an excellent education. That evening when he left me he smilingly remarked that it was with the hope of sometimes meeting me within the boundaries of my park, as he often passed through that street on his way to visit a former comrade, who lived in a small house that could be seen from the garden. What will you think, Ernestine, when I tell you that almost every evening about sunset I had a chat with Gerald, and sometimes we even strolled out together to the same grassy knolls where M. Bernard met with his accident this morning? I found Gerald so full of frankness, generosity of heart, talent, and charming humour, he seemed to have such a high—I was about to say such a just—opinion of me, that when the day came that Gerald declared his love, and told me that he could not live without me, I was so happy, Ernestine, oh, so happy! for if Gerald had not loved me I do not know what would have become of me. It would have been impossible for me to do without this love, and now to love alone,—to love without hope," added the poor girl, hardly able to restrain her tears, "oh, it is worse than death, for it means a life for ever desolate."

Controlling her emotion, Herminie continued:

"I told Gerald my feelings with the utmost frankness. On my side there was not only love, but almost gratitude, for without him life would have seemed intolerable to me. 'We are both free to choose,' I said to Gerald; 'our positions are equal. We shall both have to work every day for our daily bread, and that gratifies my pride, for idleness imposed upon a wife is a cruel humiliation to her. Our lot will be humble, even precarious, perhaps, Gerald,' I added, 'but with courage, and strong in our mutual love and trust, we can defy the worst misfortunes.'"

"What noble words, Herminie! How proud M. Gerald must have been of your love! But as you have every chance of happiness, why these tears and your evident despair?"

"Do you not think that I was more than justified in loving him?" asked the poor girl, trying hard to repress her sobs. "Was not mine a true and noble love. Oh, tell me, is it possible that any one can accuse me—"

But Herminie could not finish the sentence, for sobs choked her utterance.

"Accuse you? Mon Dieu! Accuse you of what? Are you not as free as M. Gerald? Does he not love you as much as you love him? Are your positions not equal?"

"No, no, our positions are not equal," replied Herminie, dejectedly.

"What is that you say?"

"No, our positions are not equal, alas! and that is my chief misfortune, for in order to equalise our positions apparently, Gerald deceived me as to his real station in life."

"Great Heavens! Who is he, then?"

"The Duc de Senneterre."

"The Duc de Senneterre!" exclaimed Ernestine, filled with terror for Herminie, as she remembered that Gerald was one of the three suitors for her—Ernestine's—hand, and that she was to meet him at the ball on the following Thursday. Consequently, he must have deceived Herminie in the most shameless manner, as he was, at that very time, endeavouring to marry a rich heiress.

Herminie attributed her friend's intense dismay and astonishment entirely to the startling revelation that had just been made, however, and asked:

"Tell me, Ernestine, am I not, indeed, unfortunate?"

"But such a deception on his part was infamous. How did you discover it?"

"M. de Senneterre himself, feeling unable to endure the life of deceit his first falsehood imposed upon him, but not daring to make the confession himself, entrusted the unpleasant task to M. Olivier."

"It should be some comfort to you that M. de Senneterre at least made this confession of his own accord," said Ernestine.

"Yes, and, in spite of the grief it has caused me, I see in it a proof of the loyalty I so admired in him."

"Loyalty!" exclaimed Ernestine, bitterly. "Loyalty, and yet he deserts you!"

"Deserts me? Far from it. On the contrary, he renews his offer of his hand."

"He, M. de Senneterre?" exclaimed Ernestine, in even greater astonishment "But, in that case, why are you so unhappy, Herminie?" she added.

"Because a penniless orphan like myself can make such a marriage only at the cost of the bitterest humiliation."

Herminie could say no more, for just then the door-bell rang again.

"Forgive me, my dear Ernestine," she exclaimed, drying her tears. "I think I know who it is that has just rung. I am obliged to see this visitor and—"

"Then I will leave you, Herminie," said Ernestine, rising hastily. "I am sorry, though, to leave you in such grief."

"At least wait until my visitor comes in!"

"Go and open the door, then, Herminie, while I put on my hat."

The duchess started towards the door, then, recollecting M. de Maillefort's deformity, she returned, and said to her friend:

"My dear Ernestine, in order to spare the person I am expecting the slight annoyance which the expression of your face, when you first perceived his affliction, might cause him, I must warn you that this friend of mine is a hunchback."

On hearing this, Mlle. de Beaumesnil suddenly recollected that her governess had told her that the Marquis de Maillefort had asked for Herminie's address, and a vague fear led her to ask:

"Who is this friend?"

"A most estimable man who made my acquaintance by the merest chance, for he is one of the greatest of grands seigneurs. But I must not delay too long in opening the door. Excuse me for one moment, my dear Ernestine."

And Herminie disappeared, leaving Ernestine overwhelmed with consternation.

A grim presentiment whispered that M. de Maillefort was about to enter and find her in Herminie's home, and though Mlle. de Beaumesnil owed her resolve to learn the truth, at any cost, to the Marquis de Maillefort's ironical remarks, and though her feelings towards him had undergone an entire change, she was not yet sure to what extent she could rely upon him, and the prospect of such a meeting was most unwelcome.

Ernestine's fears were realised.

Her friend returned, accompanied by the marquis. Fortunately, Herminie, noticing that the curtains of the alcove were open, hastened to close them according to her habit, so, as her back was turned towards Ernestine and M. de Maillefort for several seconds, she did not notice the evident shock that her two friends experienced at the sight of each other.

M. de Maillefort gave a sudden start of astonishment on recognising Mlle. de Beaumesnil. Intense curiosity, mingled with uneasiness, was apparent in every feature. He could not believe his eyes, and he was about to speak, when Ernestine, pale and trembling, clasped her hands with such a beseeching air that the words died upon his lips.

When Herminie turned, M. de Maillefort's face no longer expressed the slightest astonishment, and, doubtless, with the intention of giving Mlle. de Beaumesnil time to recover herself, he said to Herminie:

"I am intruding, I am sure, mademoiselle. My visit is inopportune, perhaps."

"Believe me, monsieur, no visit of yours will ever be inopportune here," responded the duchess, earnestly. "I only ask your permission to show my friend to the door."

"I beg you will do so," answered the marquis, bowing. "I should be miserable if you stood on the slightest ceremony with me."

Mlle. de Beaumesnil was obliged to exercise all her self-control to maintain even an appearance of calmness, but, fortunately, the little hall-way leading to Herminie's room was dark, so the sudden alteration in Ernestine's features escaped the notice of her friend, as she said:

"Ernestine, after all I have just confided to you, I need not tell you how necessary your presence will be to me. Alas! I did not think I should so soon put your friendship to the test. In pity, Ernestine, do not leave me long alone! If you only knew how I shall suffer, for I cannot hope to see Gerald again, or, rather, the hope is so uncertain that I dare not even think of it, so I beseech you not to let any length of time pass without my seeing you."

"You may rest assured that I shall return as soon as I can, and that it will not be any fault of mine if—"

"Alas! I understand. Your time must be devoted to your work, because you are obliged to work in order to live. It is the same with me. In spite of my mental anguish, I shall have to begin my round of lessons one hour from now. My lessons, great Heavens! and I scarcely know what I am doing. But with people like us, we are not only obliged to suffer, but also to live."

Herminie uttered these last words with such despairing bitterness that Mlle. de Beaumesnil threw her arms around her friend's neck, and burst into tears.

"Come, come, I will not be so weak again, Ernestine," said Herminie, returning the embrace; "I promise you I will not. I will be content with whatever time you can give me. I will wait and think of you," added the duchess, forcing a smile. "Yes, to think of you, and to await your return, will be some consolation."

"Farewell, Herminie, farewell," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil. "I shall soon see you again,—just as soon as I possibly can, I promise you,—day after to-morrow, if possible. Yes, I will manage it somehow," added the orphan, resolutely, "day after to-morrow, at the same hour, you can count upon seeing me."

"Thank you, thank you!" exclaimed Herminie, embracing Ernestine effusively. "Ah, the compassion I showed to you your generous heart returns in liberal measure."

"Day after to-morrow, then, it shall be, Herminie."

"Again I thank you with my whole heart."

"And now good-bye," said the orphan.

It was in a deeply agitated frame of mind that she wended her way back to the spot where her governess was waiting for her in the cab. As she left the house, she met a man who was walking slowly up the street, casting furtive glances at the house in which Herminie lived.

This man was Ravil, who, as we have said before, frequently hung about the home of the duchess, of whom he had retained a vivid and extremely tantalising recollection ever since the day he so insolently accosted her, when she was on her way to the Beaumesnil mansion.

De Ravil instantly recognised the richest heiress in France, who, in her agitation, did not even glance at this man, whom she had met but once, at the Luxembourg, where M. de la Rochaiguë had taken her.

"What does this mean?" Ravil said to himself, in the utmost astonishment. "Here is the little Beaumesnil dressed almost like a grisette, coming out alone, pale and evidently frightened half to death, from a house in this miserable part of the town. I'll follow her cautiously at a distance, and see where she goes. The more I think of it, the more inclined I am to believe that it is the devil himself who sends me such a piece of good luck as this! Yes, this discovery may be the goose that lays the golden eggs for me. It rejoices my heart. The mere thought of it awakens golden visions like those which haunt that big ninny, Mornand."

While Ravil was following the unsuspecting Ernestine, Herminie returned to M. de Maillefort.

M. de Maillefort awaited Herminie's return in a state of deep perplexity, wondering in vain what strange combination of circumstances had brought these two young girls together. The marquis had desired this rapprochement greatly, as we shall soon discover, but the hunchback had not yet devised any way to bring it about, so Ernestine's presence in Herminie's home, the secrecy with which she must have gone there, the secrecy, too, which Mlle. de Beaumesnil, by an imploring gesture, had begged him to preserve, all combined to excite his curiosity as well as his anxiety to the highest pitch.

So, on the return of Herminie, who apologised for having absented herself so long, the marquis said, with the most careless air imaginable:

"I shall be very sorry if you do not always treat me with that perfect freedom permissible between devoted friends, my dear child, and nothing could be more natural, I am sure, than a desire to exchange a few parting words with one of your young acquaintances, for this young lady is, I suppose—"

"One of my friends, monsieur, or rather my dearest friend."

"Ah, indeed," answered the marquis, smiling. "It must be a friendship of long standing, then, I suppose?"

"Very recent, on the contrary, monsieur. In fact, this friendship, though so true and tried, was conceived very suddenly."

"I have sufficient confidence in your powers of discernment and your nobility of heart to feel sure that you have chosen your friend wisely, my dear child."

"A single incident, which occurred scarcely an hour ago, monsieur, will give convincing proof of my friend's courage and nobility of soul. At the risk of her own life,—for she escaped serious injury only by a hair's breadth,—she rescued an aged man from certain death."

And Herminie, proud of her friend, and anxious to see her appreciated as she deserved to be, proceeded to describe Ernestine's courageous rescue of Commander Bernard.

The emotion of the marquis on hearing this unexpected revelation, which revealed Mlle. de Beaumesnil in a new and most attractive light, can be imagined.

"She certainly displayed wonderful courage and generosity of heart!" he cried. Then he added: "I was sure of it! You could not choose your friends other than judiciously, my dear child. But who is this brave young girl?"

"An orphan like myself, monsieur, who supports herself by her own exertions. She is an embroiderer."

"Ah, an embroiderer! But as she, too, is an orphan, she lives alone, I suppose?"

"No, monsieur, she lives with a relative, who took her, last Sunday evening, to a small entertainment, where I met her for the first tame."

The marquis knit his brows. For an instant he was almost tempted to believe that one of the Rochaiguës was implicated in this mystery, but his implicit faith in Herminie caused him to reject that idea, though he wondered how Mlle. de Beaumesnil had managed to absent herself from her guardian's house for an entire evening, without the knowledge of the baron or his family. He asked himself, too, with no less astonishment, how Ernestine had managed to secure several hours of entire freedom that very morning, but fearing he would arouse Herminie's suspicions by questioning her further, he remarked:

"It is pleasant for me to know that you have a friend so worthy of you, and it seems to me," added the hunchback, "that she could not have come more opportunely."

"And why, monsieur?"

"You know you have given me the privilege of being perfectly frank with you."

"Certainly, monsieur."

"Very well, then, it seems to me that you are not in your accustomed good spirits. You look pale, and it is very evident that you have been weeping, my poor child."

"I assure you, monsieur—"

"And all this is the more noticeable because you seemed so perfectly happy the last two or three times I saw you. Yes, contentment could be read on every feature; it even imparted to your beauty such a radiance and expansiveness that—as you may perhaps remember, from the rarity of the thing—I complimented you upon your radiant beauty. Think of it! I, who am the very poorest flatterer that ever lived!" added the hunchback, probably in the hope of bringing a smile to Herminie's lips.

But the girl, unable to conquer her sadness, replied:

"The change in my appearance which you speak of is probably due to the fright that Ernestine's narrow escape caused me, monsieur."

The marquis, sure now that Herminie was suffering from some grief that she wished to conceal, insisted no further, but said:

"It is as you say, doubtless, but the danger is over now, my dear child, so I may as well tell you that my visit this morning is important, very important. You know that I have made it a point of honour not to say anything to you of late in relation to the grave matter that first brought me here."

"Yes, monsieur, and I am grateful to you for not having again referred to a subject that is so painful to me."

"I am compelled to speak again, if not of Madame de Beaumesnil, at least of her daughter," said the marquis, casting a keen, searching look at Herminie, in order to discover—though he was almost certain to the contrary—if the young girl knew that her new friend was Mlle. de Beaumesnil; but he did not feel the shadow of a doubt of Herminie's ignorance on the subject when she promptly replied, without the slightest embarrassment:

"You say you must speak of Madame de Beaumesnil's daughter, monsieur?"

"Yes, my dear child. I have made no attempt to conceal my devoted friendship for Madame de Beaumesnil, nor her dying requests in relation to the young orphan whom I have not yet discovered, in spite of the most persistent efforts. I told you, too, of the no less urgent request of the countess concerning her daughter, Ernestine. For divers reasons which, believe me, do not affect you in the least, I am very desirous, solely on Mlle. de Beaumesnil's account, understand, that you two young girls should become acquainted."

"But how could that be brought about, monsieur?" asked Herminie, eagerly, thinking what happiness it would give her to know her sister.

"In the easiest way imaginable—a way that was even suggested to you, I believe, when you so nobly returned that five hundred franc note to Madame de la Rochaiguë."

"Yes, monsieur, Madame de la Rochaiguë did give me some reason to hope that I might be employed to give Mlle. de Beaumesnil music lessons."

"Well, my dear child, that has been arranged."

"Really, monsieur?"

"Yes, I had a talk with the baroness last evening, and either to-day or to-morrow she is going to mention the matter to Mlle. de Beaumesnil. I do not doubt that she will accept the proposition. As for you, my dear child, I do not apprehend any refusal on your part."

"Far from it, monsieur."

"Besides, what I ask for this young girl, I ask in the name of the mother to whom you were so devotedly attached," said the marquis, with deep emotion.

"You can not doubt the interest I shall always feel in Mlle. de Beaumesnil, monsieur, but the relations between, us will, of course, be confined to our lessons."

"Not by any means."

"But, monsieur!"

"You must understand, my dear child, that I should not have taken all this trouble to bring about an acquaintance between Mlle. de Beaumesnil and yourself, if it was to be confined to the lessons given and received."

"But, monsieur—"

"There are important interests at stake, interests which I feel can be safely intrusted to your hands."

"Explain, monsieur, I beg of you."

"I will do that after you have seen your new scholar," replied the marquis, thinking what a delightful surprise it would be to Herminie when she recognised Mlle. de Beaumesnil in the poor embroideress, her best friend.

"In any case, you may be sure that I shall consider it a sacred duty to fulfil your instructions, monsieur, and that I shall hold myself in readiness to go to Mlle. de Beaumesnil as soon as I am sent for."

"I will introduce you to her, myself."

"So much the better, monsieur."

"And if agreeable to you, next Saturday at this hour, I will come for you."

"I shall expect you monsieur, and I thank you very much for sparing me the embarrassment of presenting myself alone."

"And now a word of advice in Mlle. de Beaumesnil's interest, my dear child. No one knows, and no one must know that her poor mother summoned me to her in her last hours. My deep affection for the countess must also remain a secret. You will maintain a profound silence on the subject in case either M. or Madame de la Rochaiguë should ever speak of me."

"I shall comply with your wishes, monsieur."

"And I will come on Saturday, that is understood," said the hunchback, rising. "It will give me great pleasure to introduce you to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and I feel sure that you yourself will find a pleasure you do not anticipate in this meeting."

"I hope so, monsieur," replied Herminie, rather absently, for, seeing that the marquis was about to go, she did not know how to broach the subject that had been uppermost in her mind ever since the hunchback's arrival.

At last, endeavouring to appear perfectly calm, she said:

"Before you go, monsieur, will you have the goodness to give me a little information if it be in your power to do it?"

"Speak, my dear child," said M. de Maillefort, reseating himself.

"M. le marquis, in the social world to which you belong, have you ever chanced to meet Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre?"

"I was one of her deceased husband's most intimate friends, and I am extremely fond of the present Duc de Senneterre, one of the best, most whole-souled young men I know. I had fresh proofs of his nobility of character only yesterday," added the hunchback, with evident emotion.

A slight flush suffused Herminie's face on hearing Gerald thus praised by a man she esteemed as highly as M. de Maillefort.

That gentleman, evidently much surprised, continued:

"But what information do you desire in relation to Madame de Senneterre, my dear child? Has any one proposed that you should give her daughters lessons?"

Hastily catching at these words which helped her out of a great difficulty by furnishing her with a pretext for her inquiries, Herminie, in spite of her natural abhorrence of anything like deception, replied:

"Yes, monsieur, some one told me that I might possibly secure pupils in that distinguished family, but before making any attempt in that direction, I was anxious to know if I could expect from Madame de Senneterre the consideration my rather too sensitive nature exacts. In short, monsieur, I am anxious to know whether Madame de Senneterre possesses a kindly nature or whether I am not likely to find in her that haughtiness which sometimes characterises persons of such an exalted position as hers."

"I understand you perfectly, and I am very glad you applied to me, for knowing you as I know you, dear, proud child that you are, I say very plainly, neither seek nor accept any pupils in that family. The Mlles. de Senneterre are lovely girls—they have their brother's disposition—but the duchess—!"

"Well, monsieur?" asked poor Herminie.

"Ah, my dear child, the duchess is more deeply in love with her title than any other woman I ever saw—which is very strange, as she is really extremely well born, while this ridiculous and absurd pride of rank is generally confined to parvenus. In short, my dear child, I would much rather see you brought in contact with twenty M. Bouffards than with this insufferably arrogant woman. The Bouffards are so coarse and ignorant that their rudeness amuses rather than wounds, but in the Duchesse de Senneterre you will find the most polite insolence, or rather the most insolent politeness, imaginable, so I am sure that you, my dear child, who have such a high respect for yourself, could not remain in Madame de Senneterre's company ten minutes without being wounded to the quick, and resolving that you would never set foot in her house again. That being the case, what is the use of entering it?"

"I thank you, monsieur," replied Herminie, almost crushed by this revelation which destroyed her last hope,—a hope she had preserved in spite of herself, that perhaps Madame de Senneterre, touched by her son's love, would consent to make the concession that Herminie's pride demanded.

"No, no, my dear child," continued the marquis, "Gerald de Senneterre's filial tenderness must blind him completely for him not to lose all patience with his mother's absurd arrogance, and for him not to see that she is as hard-hearted as she is narrow-minded. In short, her selfishness is only exceeded by her cupidity. I have every reason to know this, so I am delighted to defraud her of a victim by enlightening you in regard to her. And now good-bye. Let me be of service to you in any matter, however small, as often as you can. It will serve to content me while waiting for something better. And now I will again bid you good-bye until Saturday."

"Until Saturday, monsieur."

And M. de Maillefort departed, leaving Herminie alone with her immeasurable despair.

The day of Madame de Mirecourt's ball had arrived.

The three suitors for Mlle. de Beaumesnil's hand were to press their claims at this brilliant fête.

The announcement that the richest heiress in France was to make her début that evening furnished a topic for general conversation, and made every one forget a suicide that had plunged one of the most illustrious houses in France into mourning.

Madame de Mirecourt did not attempt to conceal her intense gratification that her house had been selected for Mlle. de Beaumesnil's début, and secretly congratulated herself, too, at the thought that it would probably be in her house that the marriage of this famous heiress with the Duc de Senneterre would be virtually concluded, for being devoted to Gerald's mother, Madame de Mirecourt was one of the most ardent promoters of the scheme.

Having stationed herself as usual near the door of the main drawing-room to welcome her guests, Madame de Mirecourt awaited the coming of the Duchesse de Senneterre with the utmost impatience. That lady, who was to be accompanied by her son, had promised to come early, but had not yet arrived.

An unusually large number of guests, attracted thither by curiosity, had crowded into the principal salon in order to be the first to see Mlle. de Beaumesnil, whose name was upon every lip.

There was not a marriageable young man who had not bestowed an unusual amount of care upon his toilet, not that these young men had any openly avowed intentions, but—who knows? Heiresses are so peculiar, and who could foresee the consequences of a brief chat, of a quadrille, or of a first impression?

So each young man, as he cast a last complacent glance in his mirror, recalled all sorts of romantic episodes in which wealthy damsels had fallen in love at first sight with some stranger, whom they had finally married against the wishes of their relatives,—for all these worthy bachelors had but one thought in this instance, marriage, and they even carried their honesty so far as to love marriage for the sake of marriage itself, and the bride became little more than an accessory in their eyes.

Each bachelor had endeavoured to make the most of himself according to his character and appearance. The handsome ones had striven to make themselves still more handsome and irresistible.

Those of a less attractive or even homely exterior assumed a spirituelle or melancholy air.

In short, each and every one said to himself, like the people who allow themselves to be enticed into those lotteries that offer prizes of several millions:

"Of course it is absurd to suppose that I shall win one of these fabulous prizes. I have but one chance in nobody knows how many thousand, but somebody has got to win. Why may I not be the lucky one?"

As for the persons that composed the assemblage, they were very nearly the same who had attended the dance given by Madame de Senneterre several months before, and who had taken a more or less prominent part in the numerous conversations on the subject of Madame de Beaumesnil's approaching death.

Several of these persons also recollected the curiosity that had been expressed in regard to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, who was then in a foreign land, and whom no one had ever seen, so a majority of Madame Mirecourt's guests would consequently witness to-night the solution of the problem propounded several weeks before.

Was the richest heiress in France as beautiful as a star or as hideous as a monster? Was she glowing with health or a hopeless consumptive?

It was ten o'clock, and Madame de Mirecourt was becoming very uneasy. Madame de Senneterre and her son had not made their appearance; Mlle. de Beaumesnil might arrive at any moment, and it had been arranged that Ernestine should be chaperoned by Madame de la Rochaiguë or Madame de Senneterre the entire evening, and that Gerald should dance the first quadrille with the heiress.

Every minute the crowd increased. Among the newcomers, M. de Mornand, accompanied by M. de Ravil, advanced in the most disinterested air imaginable to pay his respects to Madame de Mirecourt, who greeted him very graciously, and innocently remarked, without the slightest suspicion how true her words were:

"I am sure you came partially to see me, but chiefly to see the lioness of the evening, Mlle. de Beaumesnil."

The prospective minister smiled as he replied, with truly diplomatic guile:

"I assure you, madame, I came only to have the honour of paying my respects to you, and to witness one of those charming fêtes you alone know how to give."

After which M. de Mornand made his best bow and passed on, whispering to Ravil:

"Go and see if she is in one of the other rooms. I will remain here. Try to bring the baron to me if you see him."

De Ravil nodded an assent to his Pylades and mingled with the crowd, saying to himself, as he thought of the meeting of the day before, which he had carefully refrained from mentioning to M. de Mornand:

"So here is an heiress who wanders about lonely parts of the town, grisette fashion, and then returns to that abominable Madame Laîné, who is complacently waiting for her in a cab. This last surprises me very little, however, as that unscrupulous female told me flatly, a week or so ago, that I could no longer count upon her influence. But at whose expense is she favouring this intrigue on the part of the little Beaumesnil? for there must be an intrigue, of course. That big ninny of a Mornand is no good. I might have known it. I must ferret out the truth of all this, for the more I think of it, the more convinced I am that the best thing for me to do is to drop Mornand, and devote my attention to the goose that lays the golden eggs, and, as a preliminary measure, I'll watch what goes on here this evening."

Just as the cynic vanished in the crowd, the Duchesse de Senneterre entered the room, but alone—her expression indicative of the deepest annoyance.

Madame de Mirecourt advanced a few steps to meet her, and, with the cleverness which women of the world possess in such an eminent degree, she found a way, though surrounded by a crowd of guests, and engaged to all appearance in exchanging the usual commonplaces with the duchess, to really hold the following low-toned conversation with her:

"But where is Gerald?"

"The doctor had to bleed him this evening."

"Good Heavens! what is the matter with him?"

"He has been in a terrible state ever since yesterday."

"But why did you not warn me, my dear duchess?"

"Because up to the very last minute he declared that he was coming, though he did feel so badly."

"It is too bad! Mlle. de Beaumesnil may come at any moment, and you were to have taken possession of her immediately upon her arrival."

"I know it, so I am in misery—nor is this all."

"Why, what else is troubling you, my dear duchess?"

"I cannot exactly explain why, but I have some doubts as to my son's intentions."

"What an idea!"

"He has acted so strangely of late."

"But did he not assure you this very day that, though he was far from well, he intended coming here this evening to meet Mlle. de Beaumesnil?"

"Certainly; and another thing that reassures me is that M. de Maillefort—whom Madame de la Rochaiguë fears so much, and to whom my son has imprudently confided our plans—M. de Maillefort is on our side, for he knows the object of this meeting, and yet he promised to accompany Gerald and me."

"There is no help for it, I suppose, but it certainly is a fine opportunity lost. When Madame de la Rochaiguë arrives with Mlle. de Beaumesnil, do not leave them for an instant, and so arrange with the baroness that the girl shall have only unattractive men for partners."

"Yes, that is very important."

Every minute or two new guests came up to pay their respects to Madame de Mirecourt.

Suddenly Madame de Senneterre made a hasty movement, then, in a quick aside to her friend, exclaimed:

"Why, that is M. de Macreuse who has just come in! Can it be you receive that creature?"

"Why, my dear duchess, I have met him at your house a hundred times; besides, it was one of my most particular friends, the sister of the Bishop of Ratopolis, Madame de Cheverny, who requested an invitation for him. You know, too, that M. de Macreuse is received everywhere on account of his St. Polycarpe Mission."

"St Polycarpe has nothing in the world to do with it. I assure you, my dear," said the duchess, interrupting her friend impatiently, "I received the man like everybody else, but I am sorry enough now, for I have discovered that he is nothing more or less than a scoundrel, a man that shouldn't be allowed in decent society. I have even heard that valuable articles have been known to disappear during his visits," added Madame de Senneterre, unblushingly.

"Great Heavens! is it possible that the man's a thief?" exclaimed Madame de Mirecourt.

"No, my dear, of course not, he only borrows a diamond or some other jewel now and then, and forgets to return it."

At that very instant M. de Macreuse, who had been watching the expression of the ladies' faces as he slowly advanced, and who shrewdly suspected that they were none too charitably inclined towards him, but who nevertheless came forward to bow to the mistress of the house with imperturbable assurance, interrupted the conversation by saying:

"I hoped, madame, to have had the honour of presenting myself here this evening under Madame de Cheverny's auspices, but unfortunately for me she is feeling far from well, and made me the bearer of her profound regrets."

"I am truly inconsolable that indisposition deprives me of the pleasure of seeing Madame de Cheverny this evening," replied Madame de Mirecourt, dryly, still under the influence of what Madame de Senneterre had just said to her.