Mlle. de Beaumesnil had eagerly availed herself of the first opportunity for a conversation with M. de Macreuse, for from this conversation she hoped to ascertain whether her distrust of him was well founded. She was strongly inclined to think so, the abbé's protégé having assured Mlle. Helena that he had fallen suddenly and passionately in love with Mlle. de Beaumesnil at first sight.

And after her experience at Madame Herbaut's, the heiress knew what to think of the sudden and irresistible impressions her beauty must produce.

But recollecting the different things that had attracted her attention to M. de Macreuse, recalling the profound grief he had seemed to feel at his mother's death, the charity of which he had given such convincing proof by his alms, and, above all, the rare virtues which Mlle. Helena was continually lauding to the skies, Ernestine was anxious to know exactly what to think of this so-called model young man.

"M. de Macreuse has interested me very much," she said to herself. "He is very prepossessing in appearance, and his melancholy is extremely touching; in fact, but for M. de Maillefort's sneering remarks, which have made me distrust myself as well as others, I should perhaps have taken a decided fancy to M. de Macreuse. Perhaps, captivated by the rare virtues of which I have heard so much, I should have unconsciously yielded to Mlle. Helena's influence, and perhaps have married M. de Macreuse, a choice which I am told would assure my happiness for life. Let me see, then, what kind of a choice I should have made, for I have an infallible means of distinguishing truth from falsehood now."

M. de Macreuse, full of confidence by reason of Helena's flattering reports, and realising the decisive nature of this interview, had long been preparing himself to play the liar to perfection.

When Ernestine laid her hand lightly on his arm, this pious youth pretended to give a sudden start, and the young girl was conscious of the sort of thrill that traversed her partner's arm.

When they had taken their places, M. de Macreuse made two ineffectual attempts to address a few words to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, but he seemed dominated by such a powerful, though perfectly natural emotion, that speech failed him and he could only blush deeply.

Abbé Ledoux, by the way, had taught his protégé an almost infallible means of blushing: this was to hang one's head for several seconds, holding one's breath all the while.

This skilfully counterfeited emotion occupied the first few minutes of the quadrille, M. de Macreuse having addressed scarcely a word to Mlle. de Beaumesnil.

Moreover, by a marvel of tact and cunning, the originator of the St. Polycarpe mission not only managed to escape the ridicule to which a profoundly melancholy man exposes himself when he undertakes to dance, but also to preserve an interesting appearance in Mlle. de Beaumesnil's eyes in spite of the terpsichorean evolutions he was obliged to perform.

He was aided not a little by his personal appearance, we must admit.

Dressed entirely in black, booted and gloved in the most irreproachable manner, the cut of his coat was perfection, and his black satin cravat extremely becoming to one with his fair complexion and regular features. His figure, though a little too stout, was replete with an easy grace, and as he walked through the different figures of the quadrille, keeping perfect time to the music, he now and then cast a resigned but pathetic look at Mlle. de Beaumesnil, a look that seemed to say:

"I am a stranger to worldly pleasures—entirely out of place at fêtes, from which my sorrow impels me to hold myself aloof, but I submit to this painful contrast between my grief and the gaiety around me, because I have no other means of seeing you."

This beloved disciple of Abbé Ledoux, in short, belonged to that school of actors that seems to make a specialty of meaning but constrained glances, expressive but discreet sighs, all fittingly accompanied with rollings of the eyes, and a contrite, radiant, or ingenuous expression of countenance, as best suits the occasion.

In fact, M. de Macreuse's rendition of his rôle was so admirable that Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in spite of her suspicions, could not help saying to herself:

"Poor M. de Macreuse! it must be very painful for him to find himself at a gay entertainment in which he can take so little pleasure, overwhelmed as he is by the despair his mother's death has caused him."

But her suspicions reasserting themselves, "Then why did he come?" she asked herself. "Very possibly he was impelled to do so solely by avaricious motives. Is it a shameful hope of securing my wealth that makes him forget his grief and his regret?"

M. de Macreuse having at last found a favourable opportunity for beginning a conversation with Ernestine, summoned up another blush, then said, in his most timid, unctuous, and ingratiating tones:

"Really, I must appear very awkward and ridiculous to you, mademoiselle."

"And why, monsieur?"

"I have not dared to address so much as a word to you since the beginning of the dance, mademoiselle, but—embarrassment—fear—"

"What! I frighten you, monsieur?"

"Alas! yes, mademoiselle."

"That is not a very gallant remark, monsieur."

"I make no pretentious to gallantry, mademoiselle," replied Macreuse, sadly, but proudly. "I am only sincere—and the fear you inspire in me is real, only too real."

"But why do I inspire you with fear?"

"Because you have unsettled my life and my reason, mademoiselle, for from the first moment I saw you, without even knowing who you were, your image placed itself between me and the only previous objects of my adoration. Up to that time, I had lived only to pray to God and to cherish or mourn for my mother, while now—"

"Good Heavens, monsieur, how tiresome all this is! What I say may surprise you, but it is the truth, nevertheless; for you see," continued Mlle. de Beaumesnil, assuming from this on the imperious and flippant tone and manner of a spoiled child, "I am in the habit of saying anything that comes into my head, unless I am absolutely compelled to play the hypocrite."

It is needless to say that M. de Macreuse was astounded by this interruption, and above all by the manner in which it was made, for, from Mlle. Helena's reports, he had fully expected to find in Ernestine an artless, but deeply religious child; so, up to this time, he had carefully maintained a manner and a style of conversation which would be likely to please an unsophisticated devotee.

Still, too wary to betray his astonishment, and ready to change his character at a moment's notice if that should prove necessary to put him in tune with the heiress, this pious young man replied, venturing a half smile—he had preserved a melancholy gravity up to that time:

"You are right, mademoiselle, to say whatever comes into your head, particularly as only charming thoughts can find shelter there."

"Really, monsieur, I like this kind of talk very much better. You were not at all amusing before."

"It depends upon you, mademoiselle," responded Macreuse, risking a whole smile this time, and so transforming his formerly grief-stricken face by degrees, as it were, "and it will always depend upon you, mademoiselle, to change sorrow to gladness. Nothing is impossible to you."

"Oh, as to that, there's a time for everything, I think. Now this morning at church I seemed sad, because church is so dull any way; besides, in order not to be outdone by Mlle. Helena I put on the most saintly airs imaginable, but in my secret heart I am awfully fond of gaiety and of amusing myself. By the way, what do you think of my gown?"

"It is in exquisite taste. In its charming simplicity it is a delightful contrast to the gaudy attire of all the other young ladies; but they are excusable, after all, and you deserve very little credit, for they have need of outward adornments, while you can dispense with them, mademoiselle. Perfection needs no ornamentation."

"That is exactly what I said to myself," responded Ernestine, with the most arrogant and conceited air imaginable. "I felt sure that, even in a plain white dress, I was pretty certain to eclipse all the other young girls and make them turn green with envy. It is such fun to excite envy in others and torment them."

"You must be accustomed to that pleasure, mademoiselle. It is true that the jealousy of others does afford one a vast amount of amusement, as you so wittily remarked a moment ago."

"Oh, I am not so wonderfully witty," responded Ernestine, with an admirable semblance of overweening conceit; "but I am very fond of my own way and can't bear any one to oppose or contradict me. That is why I hate old people so. They are for ever preaching to young folks. Do you like old people, monsieur?"

"You mean mummies, mademoiselle. The chief aim of life should be pleasure."

And the imperious necessity of executing a figure in the quadrille having interrupted M. de Macreuse at this point, he took advantage of the excellent opportunity thus afforded to change the expression of his countenance entirely, and to assume the most joyous dare-devil air imaginable. A similar change, too, was apparent in his dancing. It was much more lively and animated. The young man straightened himself up, lifted his head high in the air, and whenever he found an opportunity he bestowed upon Mlle. de Beaumesnil glances which were now as impassioned as the former ones had been timid and discreet.

While he was assuming this new character, the abbé's protégé was all the while saying to himself:

"How strange! the girl is an arrant hypocrite evidently, inasmuch as she succeeded in deceiving Mlle. de la Rochaiguë so completely in regard to her real character. I strongly suspect, though, that my excellent friend was afraid that she would frighten me if she told me the truth about the girl. She little knows me. I'm glad that the girl is silly and vain, and that she thinks herself witty and beautiful and capable of out-shining all the pretty women here to-night. Deceitfulness, ignorance, and vanity—it must be a fool indeed that can not use three such potent factors as these to advantage. But now to the main question! With a simpleton like this, reserve is unnecessary, nor can one pile on the flattery too thickly. Complaisance must extend almost to baseness, for the girl has evidently been utterly spoiled by her wealth. She knows perfectly well that anything is permissible in her,—that any offence will be condoned in the richest heiress in France."

So as he returned to his place M. de Macreuse remarked to Ernestine:

"You accused me just now of being too grave, mademoiselle. You must not suppose that I am in the most hilarious spirits now, but the happiness of being with you intoxicates me."

"And why?"

"If Mlle. Helena, in encouraging me to hope that some day, when you learned to know me better, you might think me worthy to consecrate my life to you,—if Mlle. Helena was mistaken in this—"

"By the way, speaking of Mlle. Helena, you must admit that she is a frightful bore."

"That is true, but she is so good."

"So good! Well, that did not prevent her from saying something dreadful to me about you the other day."

"About me?"

"Yes, she made you out such a paragon of goodness that I said to myself: 'Great Heavens, how intolerable that man must be with all his virtues. A person as perfect as that must be a frightful nuisance! And then to be always at church or engaged in charitable works, the mere idea of it is enough to make one die of ennui.' I did not say this to Mlle. Helena, but I thought it all the same. Judge then, monsieur, I, who would marry only to be as free as air and amuse myself from morning till night, to be always on the go, to be the most fashionable woman in Paris, and above all to be able to go to the masked ball at the Opera house! Oh, that ball, it sets me crazy just to think of it! Mercy! what is the use of being as rich as I am if one cannot enjoy everything and do exactly as one pleases?"

"When one is as rich as you are," replied M. de Macreuse, with unblushing effrontery, "one is queen everywhere, above all in one's own home. The man you honour with your choice should, to follow out my comparison, be the prime minister of your kingdom of pleasure,—no, your chief courtier, and as such be ever submissive and eager to do your bidding. His one thought should be to save you from the slightest annoyance, and leave you only the flowers of existence. The birds of the air should not be freer than you; and if your husband understands his duty, your pleasures, your wishes, and even your slightest caprice, should be sacred to him. Is he not your slave, and you his divinity?"

"Good, monsieur, that would suit me perfectly, but from what Mlle. Helena has told me about you, and from what I myself have seen—"

"And what have you seen, mademoiselle?"

"I have seen you giving alms to the poor and even talking with them."

"Certainly, mademoiselle, and I—"

"In the first place, I have a horror of poor people,—they are so loathsome in their rags they fairly turn one's stomach."

"They are horrible creatures, it is true, but one has to throw them a little money now and then as one throws a bone to a starving dog to keep him from biting you. It is merely a matter of policy."

"I understand, then, for I wondered how you could feel any interest in such repulsive creatures."

"Good Heavens, mademoiselle," replied Macreuse, more and more earnestly, "you must not wonder at certain apparent contradictions between the present and the past. If any do exist you are the cause of them, so ought you not to pardon them? What did I tell you from the very first? Did I not confess that you had wrought a complete change in my life? Ah, yes, I had sorrows, but I have them no longer. I was devout, but henceforth there is only one divinity for me, yourself. As for my virtues," added M. de Macreuse, with a cynical smile, "they need not worry you. Only too happy to lay the others at your feet, I will retain only such as may please you."

"How infamous!" thought Ernestine. "To attract my attention, or, rather, to excite my interest, this man made a pretence of being charitable, virtuous, devout, and a most devoted son; now he denies his virtues, his charity, his mother, and even his God, to please me, and attain his object, viz., to marry me for my money, while the detestable faults I affect do not shock him in the least; he even praises and exalts them."

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, who was little versed in dissimulation, and who had been obliged to exercise the greatest self-restraint in order to enact the rôle which would assist her in unmasking M. de Macreuse, could no longer conceal her scorn and disgust, and, in spite of all her efforts, her face betrayed her real feelings only too plainly, as she listened to M. de Macreuse's last words.

That gentleman, like all the disciples of his school, made a constant study of the countenance of the person he wished to deceive or convince; and the quick contraction of Mlle. de Beaumesnil's features, her smile of bitter disdain, and a sort of impatient indignation that she made little or no attempt to conceal at the moment, were a sudden and startling revelation to M. de Macreuse.

"I am caught," he said to himself. "It was a trap. She distrusted me and wanted to try me. She pretended to be silly, capricious, vain, heartless, and irreligious, merely to see if I would have the courage to censure her, and if my love would survive such a discovery. Who the devil would have suspected such cunning in a girl of sixteen? But if she has feigned all these objectionable proclivities, her real instincts must be good and generous," this beloved disciple of Abbé Ledoux said to himself. "And if she was anxious to put me to the test she must have had some idea of marrying me. All is not lost. I must recover my lost ground by a bold stroke."

These reflections on the part of the pious youth lasted only for an instant, but that instant sufficed to prepare him for another transformation.

The same brief interval had also given Mlle. de Beaumesnil time to calm her indignation, and summon up courage to end this interview by covering Macreuse with shame and confusion.

"So you are really willing to sacrifice all your virtues on my account?" exclaimed Ernestine. "Few persons are as obliging as all that. But the quadrille is ended. Instead of escorting me back to my seat, won't you take me to that conservatory I see at the other end of the room?"

"I am all the more pleased to comply with your request, mademoiselle, as I have a few words, very serious words they are, too, that I wish to say to you."

M. de Macreuse's tone had changed entirely. It was grave now, even stern.

Ernestine glanced at the pious young man in astonishment. His expression had become as sad as at the beginning of the quadrille, but the sadness was no longer of a melancholy, touching character, but stern, almost wrathful.

More and more amazed at this sudden metamorphosis which Macreuse intensified, so to speak, during their walk through the salon to the conservatory, Mlle. de Beaumesnil asked herself what could be the cause of this strange change in her companion.

The long gallery, enclosed in glass, which they entered, was bordered on each side with masses of flowering plants and palms, and at the farther end was an immense buffet loaded with the choicest viands. As nearly all the gentlemen were engaged in escorting their partners to their seats, there were very few people in the gallery at the time, so M. de Macreuse had an excellent opportunity to say all he had to say.

"May I ask, monsieur," asked the orphan, flippantly, seeing that she must not yet abandon her rôle—"may I ask what very important thing you have to say to me. Grave is about the same thing as being tiresome, it seems to me, and I have a horror of everything that is tiresome, you know."

"Grave or tiresome, you will, nevertheless, have to listen to these words, which are the last you will ever hear from my lips, mademoiselle."

"The last during this quadrille, evidently."

"They are the last words I shall ever say to you in my life, mademoiselle."

There was something so sad and yet so proud in the voice, face, and bearing of this model young man that Mlle. de Beaumesnil was overwhelmed with astonishment.

Nevertheless, she continued, still trying to smile:

"What, monsieur, I am never to see you again after all—all Mlle. Helena has said about—about—"

"Listen, mademoiselle," said M. de Macreuse, interrupting her; "it is impossible for me to keep up this farce any longer—or to express any longer sentiments that are and ever will be farthest from my thoughts."

"To what farce do you allude, monsieur?"

"I came here, mademoiselle, expecting to find in you the pious, sensible, generous, kind-hearted, honest young girl of whom Mlle. Helena has always spoken in terms of the highest praise. It was to such a girl that my first remarks were addressed, but the frivolous, sneering manner in which they were received disappointed and even shocked me."

"Can I believe my ears?" thought Ernestine. "What on earth does he mean?"

"Then a terrible doubt seized me," continued M. de Macreuse, with a heavy sigh. "I said to myself that perhaps you did not possess those rare virtues which I so greatly admire and which I was confident I should find in you, but I could not and would not believe it at first, preferring to attribute your words to the thoughtlessness of youth. But alas! your frivolity, vanity, hardness of heart, and impiety became more and more apparent as our conversation proceeded. I wished to convince myself thoroughly, however, and though my heart bled each moment, I wanted to overcome your insensibility to all that is pitiable, your contempt for all that is sacred. I even went so far as to seem to scoff at that which is dearest to me in life,—my religion and the memory of my mother."

And a tear glistened on the lashes of the abbé's disciple.

"It was a test, then, in his case, as in mine," thought Ernestine.

"I feigned the most pernicious sentiments," continued M. de Macreuse, waxing more and more indignant, "and you did not utter a word of censure or even of surprise! At last I pushed flattery, cowardice, and baseness to their utmost limits, and you remained calm and approving instead of crushing me with the scorn I deserved. It has been a terrible ordeal for me, for the blow to my hopes is as unexpected as it is overwhelming. All is over now. Pardon a severity of language to which you are little accustomed, mademoiselle, but understand, once for all, that I will never devote my life to any woman, who is not worthy both of my love and my respect."

And with a stern and dignified air M. de Macreuse bowed low to Ernestine, and walked away, leaving her speechless with astonishment.

"I thank God that I was mistaken," thought the poor child, with a feeling of profound relief. "Such hypocrisy, deceit, and unscrupulousness are an impossibility. M. de Macreuse was horrified by the sentiments I expressed, consequently he must possess a sincere and upright soul."

The reflections of this artless girl, who was so ill fitted to cope with the wily founder of the St. Polycarpe mission, were interrupted by Mesdames de Rochaiguë and de Senneterre, who, having seen Mlle. de Beaumesnil enter the gallery in company with M. de Macreuse, had hastened after her, thinking the young girl intended to partake of some refreshments, but the two ladies found her alone.

"Why, what are you doing here, my own dearest?" inquired Madame de la Rochaiguë.

"I came here for a little fresh air, madame; it is so warm in the ballroom."

"But the gallery is just as much too cool, my dear child, and you run a great risk of taking cold. You had better come back to the ballroom at once."

"As you please, madame," replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil.

As she reëntered the ballroom, in company with the two ladies, she saw M. de Macreuse give her a despairing look; but he turned quickly away, as if he feared the young girl would perceive the sorrowful emotion to which he was a prey.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, on reëntering the ball-room, also noticed Gerald de Senneterre standing near one of the doorways. He was very pale, and looked extremely sad.

The sight of him reminded Ernestine of her friend's despair, and she asked herself why Gerald, in spite of his love for Herminie and his desire to marry her, had come to this ball where a meeting with her, Ernestine, had been arranged by Madame de la Rochaiguë.

As she conducted the richest heiress in France back to her seat, Madame de la Senneterre said to her, with the utmost affability:

"Mademoiselle, I am deputised to ask a favour of you in behalf of my son."

"What is it, madame?"

"He begs that you will give him the next quadrille, though he is not dancing this evening, for he has been, and is still, quite indisposed, so much so, in fact, that it required almost superhuman courage on his part to come at all. But he hoped to have the honour of meeting you here, mademoiselle, and such a hope as that works wonders."

"But if M. de Senneterre does not feel able to dance, madame, what is the use of my making an engagement with him?"

"That is a secret which I will divulge when the crowds of young men that are going to besiege you with invitations to dance are disposed of. Merely remember that the next quadrille belongs to my son, that is, if you are so kind as to grant him the favour he asks."

"With the greatest pleasure, madame."

"Keep my seat for me, my dear," the duchess said to Madame de la Rochaiguë, rising as she spoke, "I must go and tell Gerald."

While awaiting M. de Senneterre's coming, Mlle. de Beaumesnil was also reflecting with all the satisfaction of a truly honest heart that M. de Macreuse had not deserved her distrust. The more she reflected on the subject, the more the young man's conduct pleased her by reason of its very rudeness. In fact, his austere frankness seemed to her almost as noble as the sentiment she fancied she had discerned in Olivier's breast, when he gave her such a peculiar but meaning look on so unexpectedly hearing that he had been made an officer.

"They are both noble men," she said to herself.

But Mlle. de Beaumesnil was not allowed to enjoy these pleasant and consoling thoughts long, for she had scarcely seated herself before she was besieged with invitations to dance, as Madame de Senneterre had predicted. Resolved to observe and judge for herself, as much as possible, the heiress accepted quite a number of these invitations, among them one from M. de Mornand.

Eager to discover M. de Senneterre's intentions, and to ascertain why he had engaged her for a quadrille if he did not feel able to dance, Ernestine awaited the time for Gerald's approach with no little interest and curiosity. At last she saw him leave his place, after exchanging a few words with M. de Maillefort, whom Ernestine had not seen since she met him so unexpectedly at Herminie's home.

On seeing the hunchback, the orphan could not help blushing, but, as she cast another glance at him, she was touched by the expression of tender solicitude with which he was regarding her, and the meaning smile he bestowed upon her reassured her completely in regard to that gentleman's discretion.

The time for forming the quadrille having arrived, Gerald approached Mlle. de Beaumesnil and said:

"I have come to thank you for the promise you so kindly made to my mother."

"And I am ready to fulfil it, monsieur, as soon as I know—"

"Why I engaged you for this quadrille when I am not able to dance?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"It is an innovation, mademoiselle, that would prove very popular, I am sure, if it were adopted," said Gerald, smiling in spite of his melancholy.

"And this innovation, monsieur?"

"For many persons, and I confess that I am one of the number, a quadrille is merely a pretext for a quarter of an hour's tête-à-tête. Then why not say in so many words: 'Madame, or mademoiselle, will you do me the honour to talk with me for the next quarter of an hour?' and as one can talk much more comfortably sitting on a sofa than standing, why, let us sit through this dance and talk."

"I think the idea a very happy one, monsieur."

"And you consent?"

"Certainly," replied Ernestine, moving a little closer to Madame de la Rochaiguë, and thus making room for Gerald beside her.

The dancers having taken their places on the floor, most of the seats were vacant; and Gerald, having no neighbour on the other side, could talk to Ernestine without any danger of being overheard, especially as Madame de la Rochaiguë, in order to give her ward greater freedom, moved a little farther from Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and a little nearer to Madame de Senneterre.

Up to this time, M. de Senneterre had been talking in a light, half jesting tone, but as soon as he found himself virtually alone with Mlle. de Beanmesnil, his manner changed entirely, and his features and accents alike indicated the deepest interest and anxiety.

"Mademoiselle," he said earnestly, almost solemnly, "though I am far from well, I came here this evening to do my duty as an honourable man."

Mlle. de Beanmesnil experienced a feeling of intense relief. Gerald had no intention of deceiving Herminie, then, and doubtless he was about to explain why he had not relinquished all pretensions to her—Ernestine's—hand.

"Do you know how an heiress is married off, mademoiselle?" asked Gerald.

And as Mlle. de Beaumesnil gazed at him in surprise, without making any reply, Gerald continued:

"I will tell you, mademoiselle, and this knowledge may serve to protect you from many dangers. A certain mother, my mother, for example,—one of the best women in the world,—hears that the richest heiress in France is in the matrimonial market. My mother, dazzled by the advantages that such a union would afford me, does not trouble herself in the least about the character or personal appearance of this heiress. She has never even seen her, for the rich orphan is still in a foreign land. But that makes no difference; this enormous fortune must be secured for me if possible, it matters not by what means. My mother, yielding to an aberration of maternal love, hastens to the wife of this orphan's guardian, and it is decided that, on the arrival of the heiress, an inexperienced child of sixteen, weak and defenceless, and ignorant of the ways of the world, she shall be so surrounded and influenced that her choice is almost certain to fall upon me. This shameful bargain is concluded; the way in which I am to first make her acquaintance, apparently by chance, is decided upon, even to the more or less becoming costume I am to wear on that occasion! Everything has been arranged, though I hear and know nothing about it. The heiress, too, who is still a hundred leagues from Paris, knows no more about it than I do. At last she arrives. Then, for the first time, my mother informs me of her plans, sure that I will accept with joy the piece of good fortune offered me. Nevertheless, I decline it at first, saying that I have no taste for married life, and that I should be certain to prove a bad husband. 'What difference does that make?' says my mother. 'Marry her, in spite of that—she is rich.' And yet my mother is as honourable and as widely honoured as any woman. But you do not know the baneful, yes, fatal, influence of money!"

"Can you hear what they are saying, my dear?" the duchess whispered to Madame de la Rochaiguë as this conversation was going on.

"No," replied that lady, likewise in a whisper, "but the child seems to be listening with a great deal of interest. I just stole a glance at her when she was not looking, and her face was positively radiant."

"I was sure of Gerald. He can be irresistible when he chooses!" exclaimed the delighted duchess. "The girl is ours. And to think I was simpleton enough to fly into a passion just because that miserable Macreuse asked her to dance!"

"As I remarked a few minutes ago, I acted the part of an honourable man and refused to think of this marriage at first," Gerald continued; "but unfortunately my mother's entreaties, my fear of grieving her, and last, though not least, my indignation on hearing of the nefarious schemes of an unscrupulous rival, and possibly my own unconscious longing for such colossal wealth, induced me to reconsider, and I finally decided to try to marry the heiress, even at the risk of making her the most wretched of women, for a mercenary marriage is sure to end disastrously."

"Well, monsieur, have you kept this resolution?"

"A subsequent conversation with two dear friends of mine, high-minded, noble-hearted men, opened my eyes. I saw that I was pursuing a course unworthy of me and of those who loved me. It was decided, however, that, out of consideration for my mother's wishes, I should meet the heiress, and if, after seeing her and knowing her, I loved her as much as I would have loved a penniless and nameless young girl, I would do my best to win her."

"Well, monsieur, have you seen this heiress?

"Yes, mademoiselle; but when I saw her it was too late."

"Too late?"

"A love as sudden as it was honourable and sincere for a person who was worthy of it no longer permitted me to appreciate, as she, I am sure, deserves, the young lady my mother wished me to marry."

On hearing this honest but delicately worded confession, Mlle. de Beaumesnil could not repress a joyous movement. Gerald loved Herminie as she deserved to be loved, and he had just given fresh proof of his nobility of character by the generosity of his conduct towards Ernestine.

The orphan's joyous start had not escaped the watchful eyes of Madame de la Rochaiguë, and that lady said, in a low tone, to the duchess:

"All is well! Look at Mlle. de Beaumesnil! See what a brilliant colour she has, and how her eyes sparkle!"

"Yes," said the duchess, leaning slightly forward to peep at Ernestine, "the poor little thing looks almost pretty, as she listens to Gerald."

"One of the greatest triumphs of love is its transfiguration of its object, my dear duchess," answered Madame de la Rochaiguë, smiling, "and I am sure your son will not be blind to this triumph."

"M. de Senneterre," said Ernestine, "I thank you most sincerely for your frankness and your wise counsels, of which I, perhaps, stand in greater need than you think; but though I am too glad of your presence here to be astonished at it, I should like to know—"

"Why I am here this evening, mademoiselle, in spite of my resolution? It is because I wished to avail myself of this opportunity—the only one I shall have, perhaps—to talk to you alone, and perhaps put you on your guard against schemes similar to those to which I so narrowly escaped becoming an accomplice, for not many men, I fear, will be as scrupulous. Your guardian and his wife will lend themselves to any scheme that will serve their interests. They care nothing about your future happiness and welfare. All this is hard, mademoiselle, very hard, and it would be cruel, indeed, in me to arouse this fear and distrust in your heart, if I could not, at the same time, offer you, as a guide and protector, a noble-hearted man who is as much feared by the base and unscrupulous as he is loved by men of worth. Have confidence, perfect confidence, in this man, mademoiselle, though strenuous efforts have been, and will be, made to prejudice you against him."

"You refer to M. de Maillefort, do you not?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. Believe me, you will never find a more faithful and devoted friend. If doubts assail you, turn to him. He is a wonderfully shrewd and discerning man. Guided by him, you are sure to escape the snares and pitfalls that surround you."

"I shall not forget this advice, M. de Senneterre. A strong liking for M. de Maillefort has succeeded the animosity I formerly felt for him, an animosity due entirely to the shameful slanders repeated to me in regard to him."

"Our quadrille is nearly over, mademoiselle," said Gerald, forcing a smile. "I have profited by the only opportunity at my disposal. To-morrow, much as it pains me to disappoint my mother, she must know the truth."

Ernestine's heart sank at the thought that Gerald would, doubtless, also confess his love for Herminie on the morrow. How terribly angry Madame de Senneterre would be to hear that her son preferred a penniless and nameless orphan to the richest heiress in France! And though she had no suspicion of the condition Herminie had attached to her marriage with Gerald, Mlle. de Beaumesnil realised what well-nigh insuperable difficulties must stand in the way of such a marriage, so she sadly replied:

"You may be sure, M. de Senneterre, that, in return for the generous interest you have manifested in me, you shall have my most fervent wishes for your own happiness, and that of the woman you love. Farewell, M. de Senneterre, I hope to be able to prove some day how grateful I am for the generosity of your conduct towards me."

The quadrille having ended, several young ladies returned to their seats near Mlle. de Beaumesnil; so Gerald rose, bowed to the orphan, and, feeling both ill and fatigued, immediately left the ball-room.

Madame de Senneterre, delighted by the favourable indications which she, as well as Madame de la Rochaiguë, had observed, whispered to the baroness:

"Try to find out what effect Gerald has produced."

So Madame de la Rochaiguë, leaning towards Mlle. de Beaumesnil, said to her:

"Ah, my dear child, is he not charming?"

"No one could be more agreeable or evince more noble and refined feelings."

"Then, my dear child, you are the Duchesse de Senneterre. At least, it depends solely upon yourself. Come, say yes, here and now!"

"You embarrass me very much, madame," responded Ernestine, casting down her eyes.

"Oh, yes, I understand," replied Madame de la Rochaiguë, thinking that maidenly reserve alone prevented Ernestine from confessing that she wished to marry Gerald.

"Well, my dear, he has quite turned her head, has he not?" asked Madame de Senneterre, nudging the baroness slightly with her elbow.

"Completely, completely, my dear duchess. But give me your arm, and let us go and find M. de Senneterre, to tell him of his success."

"The dear child is ours at last, and Gerald will be the largest landowner in France. As for our little private compact, my dear baroness," added Madame de Senneterre, in even more subdued tones, "I scarcely need assure you that it shall be carried out with scrupulous exactitude. I have said nothing to my son about it, understand, but I will vouch for him."

"We will not talk of that now, my dear duchess; but as Madame de Mirecourt has been so exceedingly kind, don't you think it would be in excellent taste for him—"

"Oh, that is understood, of course," said Madame de Senneterre, hastily interrupting the baroness. "Nothing could be more just, I am sure. But let us make haste and find Gerald. Do you see him anywhere?"

"No, my dear duchess, but he is in the gallery, doubtless. Come, let us look for him there."

Then turning to Ernestine, Madame de la Rochaiguë said:

"We shall leave you only for a moment, my dear child. We are merely going to make some one as happy as a king."

And without waiting for any reply from Ernestine, Madame de la Rochaiguë gave her arm to the duchess, and the two ladies hastened towards the gallery.

M. de Maillefort, who seemed to have noted the departure of the two ladies, now approached Ernestine, and, availing himself of one of the privileges accorded a man of his years, took the seat beside the young girl which Madame de la Rochaiguë had just vacated.

As M. de Maillefort seated himself beside Ernestine, he remarked, with a smile:

"So you are no longer afraid of me, I see."

"Ah, monsieur," replied the girl, "I am so thankful for this opportunity to thank you—"

"For my discretion? That will stand any test, I assure you. I give you my word that no one knows or ever will know that I met you at the home of the very best and noblest young woman I know."

"Is she not, monsieur? But if I know Herminie, monsieur, it is to you that I am indebted for the honour."

"To me?"

"You remember, perhaps, that one evening in Mlle. Helena's presence you said some very hard, but alas! only too true things about me."

"Yes, my poor child. I knew how much you disliked me. I could never find an opportunity to see you alone, and, though I was watching over you, it was necessary, imperatively necessary, that your eyes should be opened, and that you should understand the object of the fulsome flattery of which you might eventually become the dupe."

"Ah, well, monsieur, your words did open my eyes, and I saw very plainly that those around me were deceiving me, and that I was already on the verge of becoming a victim to their shameful flattery. I made a resolve then and there, and, in order to discover the truth concerning myself, I arranged with my governess to attend a little dancing party given by one of her friends, where I was to be introduced as a poor orphan relative of hers."

"And at this party you met Herminie. She told me so. I understand everything now. So you wished to know your own intrinsic worth without your fortune, eh?"

"Yes, monsieur, and the test was a very painful though profitable one. It has taught me among other things to appreciate the value and the sincerity of the attentions showered upon me this evening," she added, meaningly.

And as the hunchback, hardly able to repress his emotion, gazed at Ernestine in silence, deeply touched by the strength of character this young and defenceless girl had displayed, she asked, timidly:

"Can you blame me, monsieur?"

"Blame you, my poor child, no, no. The only blame attaches to the unscrupulous persons whose baseness almost compelled you to take such a step—a step I not only approve but admire, for you yourself do not realise how much courage and nobility of character you evinced."

A rather elderly man, approaching the divan upon which M. de Maillefort was seated, leaned over the back of it, and said to the hunchback, in a low tone:

"My dear marquis, Morainville and Hauterive are at your service. They are standing by the window opposite you."

"Very well, my dear friend. A thousand thanks for your kindness and theirs! You have informed them of the condition of affairs, have you not?"

"Fully."

"And they make no objection?"

"How could they in a case like this?"

"Then all is well," responded the marquis.

Then turning to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, he asked:

"For which quadrille did M. de Mornand engage you?"

"For the next, monsieur," replied Ernestine, much surprised at the question.

"You hear, my friend," said M. de Maillefort to the gentleman who had just spoken to him.

"Very well, my dear marquis."

And M. de Maillefort's friend, after having made quite a détour, rejoined Messrs. Morainville and d'Hauterive, and said a few words to which both gave a nod of assent.

"My dear child," remarked the marquis, again turning to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, "I have been watching over you for some time past without appearing to do so, for though you never saw me at your mother's house during your childhood, I was one of your mother's friends—most devoted friends."

"Ah, monsieur, I ought to have mistrusted that sooner, for you have been so grossly maligned to me."

"That was very natural under the circumstances. Now, a word or two upon a more important matter. M. de la Rochaiguë has often spoken of M. de Mornand as a suitor for your hand, has he not? and has also assured you that you could not make a better choice?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"My poor child!" said the marquis, compassionately; then he continued, in his usual sarcastic tone:

"And Mlle. Helena, in her turn, saintly, devout creature that she is, has said the very same thing about M. Célestin de Macreuse, another extremely devout and saintly personage."

But the orphan, noting the bitter and cynical smile that played about the lips of the marquis as he spoke of the saintliness of the abbé's disciple, ventured to say:

"You have a poor opinion of M. de Macreuse, perhaps, marquis?"

"Perhaps? No, my opinion on that subject is very decided."

"I admit that I, too, distrusted M. de Macreuse," began Mlle. de Beaumesnil.

"So much the better," interrupted the marquis, hastily. "The wretch caused me far more anxiety than any of the others. I was so afraid that you would be duped by his pretended melancholy and his hypocrisy, but fortunately such persons not unfrequently excite the instinctive distrust of the honest and ingenuous."

"But you need feel no such apprehensions, I assure you," resumed Ernestine, triumphantly. "I must undeceive you on that point."

"Undeceive me?"

"In regard to M. de Macreuse? Yes."

"And why, pray?"

"Because there are no real grounds for any distrust. M. de Macreuse is a sincere and honourable man, plain-spoken almost to rudeness, in fact."

"My child, you frighten me," exclaimed M. de Maillefort, in such accents of alarm that Mlle. de Beaumesnil was thunderstruck. "Do not conceal anything from me, I beseech you," continued the hunchback. "You can have no conception of the diabolical cunning of a man like that. I have seen such hypocrites deceive the shrewdest people,—and you, my poor innocent child!"

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, impressed by M. de Maillefort's evident anxiety, and having perfect confidence in him now, proceeded to give him the gist of her recent conversation with the pious young man.

"He mistrusted your motive, my child," said the hunchback, after a moment's reflection, "and, seeing that he had been caught in a trap, audaciously resolved to turn the tables on you by pretending that he had been putting you to a similar test. I tell you that such men positively appall me."

"Good Heavens! is it possible, monsieur?" exclaimed the terrified girl. "Oh, no, he cannot be so utterly base! Besides, I am sure you would think very differently if you had seen him. Why, the tears positively came to his eyes when he spoke of the bitter grief the loss of his mother had caused him."

"The loss of his mother!" repeated the marquis. "Ah, you little know—"

Then suddenly checking himself, he added:

"There he is now! Ah, it was certainly Heaven that sent him here just at this moment. Listen and judge for yourself, my poor dear child. Ah, your innocent heart little suspects the depths of degradation to which avarice reduces such souls as his."

Then elevating his voice loud enough to make himself distinctly heard by those around him, he called out to Macreuse, who was just then crossing the ballroom in order to steal another glance at Mlle. de Beaumesnil:

"M. de Macreuse, one word, if you please."

The abbé's protégé hesitated a moment before responding to the summons, for he both hated and feared the marquis, but seeing every turned eye upon him, and encouraged by the success of his late ruse with Ernestine, he straightened himself up, and approaching M. de Maillefort, said coldly:

"You did me the honour to call me, M. le marquis."

"Yes, I did you that honour, monsieur," replied the marquis, sardonically, and without taking the trouble to rise from his seat; "and yet you are not at all polite to me, nor to the other persons who happen to have the pleasure of your company."

On hearing these words, quite a number of persons gathered around the two men, for the satirical and aggressive spirit of the marquis was well known.

"I do not understand you, M. le marquis," replied M. de Macreuse, much annoyed, and evidently fearing; some disagreeable explanation. "So far as I know I have not been lacking in respect towards you or any other person present."

"I hear that you have had the misfortune to lose your mother, monsieur," said the marquis, in his rather shrill, penetrating voice.

"Monsieur," stammered M. de Macreuse, apparently stupefied by these words.

"Would it be indiscreet in me to ask when you lost madame, your mother—if you know."

"Monsieur!" faltered this model young man, blushing scarlet. "Such a question—"

"Is very natural, it seems to me, besides being rendered almost necessary by the lack of respect of which I complain, not only in my own name, but in the name of all your acquaintances."

"Lack of respect?"

"Certainly. Why did you not politely inform your acquaintances of the sad loss which you have had the misfortune to sustain, etc?"

"I do not know what you mean, M. le marquis," replied Macreuse, who had now recovered his composure, in a measure.

"Nonsense! I, who am a great church-goer, as every one knows, heard you ask a priest at St. Thomas d'Aquin the other day to say a certain number of masses for the repose of your mother's soul."

"But, monsieur—"

"But, monsieur, there can be no doubt of the truth of my statement, as you were quite overcome with grief and despair, apparently, while praying for this beloved parent in the Chapel of the Virgin,—so completely overcome, in fact, that your good friends, the beadles, were obliged to carry you in a dead swoon to the sacristy,—a piece of shameful deception on your part that would have amused if it had not revolted me."

Staggered for a moment by this unexpected attack, the abbé's protégé had now recovered all his native impudence.

"Every one will understand why I could not and should not answer such an extraordinary—such a truly distressing question. The secret of one's prayers is sacred—"

"That is true!" cried several voices, indignantly. "Such an attack is outrageous!"

"Did any one ever hear the like of it?"

As we have remarked before, M. de Macreuse, like all persons of his stamp, had his partisans, and these partisans very naturally had a strong antipathy for M. de Maillefort, who hunted down everything false and cowardly in the most pitiless fashion, so a still louder murmur of disapproval was heard, and such expressions as: "What a distressing scene!" "Did you ever hear anything as scandalous!" and "How brutal!" were distinctly audible. But the marquis, no whit disconcerted, allowed the storm to spend itself, until Macreuse, emboldened by his opponent's silence said, boldly:

"The interest so many highly esteemed persons manifest in me makes it unnecessary for me to prolong this interview, and—"

But the marquis, interrupting him, said, in accents of withering contempt:

"M. de Macreuse, you have lied atrociously. You have not lost your mother, M. de Macreuse; your sainted mother is living, as you know very well, and your sainted father also. You see that I am sufficiently well informed concerning your antecedents. You have played an infamous part! You have cast odium upon a sentiment that even the most degraded respect,—the sentiment of filial love. The object of all this duplicity is known to me, and if I refrain from disclosing it, you may be sure that it is only because names are involved which are so honoured that they should not even be mentioned in the same breath with yours—if you possess one."

M. de Macreuse's frightful pallor and utter consternation proved the truth of these charges so conclusively that even the warmest admirers of this model young man dared not rally to his defence, while those who had always felt an instinctive dislike for the founder of the St. Polycarpe Mission, loudly applauded the marquis.

"Monsieur," cried Macreuse, terrible to behold in his suppressed rage,—for he felt that his villainy was certain to be unmasked now,—"for such an insult as this—"

"Enough, monsieur, enough. Leave this house at once. The mere sight of you is offensive to respectable people, and Madame de Mirecourt will be infinitely obliged to me for punishing you as you deserve. It is absolutely necessary that scoundrels like you should be made an example of now and then, and, distasteful as the rôle of executioner is to me, I have assumed it to-night, and my task is not yet ended by any means."

This announcement increased the confusion and excitement very considerably.

The model young man, anticipating another attack, and thinking he had had quite enough of it, straightened himself up, as a snake straightens itself up from beneath the foot that is crushing it, and said, insolently:

"After these gross insults, I will not remain another minute in this house, but I venture to hope that, in spite of the difference in our ages, M. le Marquis de Maillefort will be so kind as to accede to-morrow to a request which I shall make through two of my friends."

"Go, monsieur, go! The night brings counsel, and after a little reflection you will abandon your absurd and sanguinary pretensions."

"So be it, monsieur, but in that case you may rest assured that I shall resort to other means," retorted the model youth, casting a venomous look at the hunchback, as he turned to depart.