On seeing M. de la Rochaiguë thus reappear near the sofa where she had sat during her conversation with M. de Maillefort, the baroness exclaimed:

"What, monsieur, were you there?"

"Certainly, for suspecting that your interview with M. de Maillefort would prove exceedingly interesting as soon as you two were left alone together, I slipped into the little salon, and have been listening there behind the portières close to you."

"You heard what that detestable marquis said, then?"

"Yes, madame, and I also noticed that you were so weak as to ask him to come again, instead of giving him plainly to understand that his presence here was no longer desired. You had a fine opportunity to do it, and you should have availed yourself of it."

"But, monsieur, is not the Marquis de Maillefort as dangerous in one place as another? He made me understand that very plainly; besides, one can not treat a man of M. de Maillefort's lineage and importance in a rude manner."

"What do you suppose would happen if you did?"

"This: the marquis would undoubtedly demand satisfaction of you for such an insult. Are you not aware that he has fought a number of duels, all of which resulted disastrously for his opponents, and have you not heard that only a few days ago he forced M. de Mornand to fight merely on account of an ill-timed jest in which the latter indulged?"

"But I, madame, am not as obliging and simple as M. de Mornand. I would not have fought."

"Then, M. de Maillefort would have made your life a burden by his sneers and ridicule, until you would have been compelled to hide yourself from very shame."

"But are there no laws to protect a man from such a monster? Ah, if I were in the Chamber of Peers such scandalous proceedings should not go unpunished! An honest man should not be at the mercy of the first cutthroat that happens to come along!" exclaimed the indignant baron. "But in heaven's name, what is the matter with him,—what does this damned marquis want, anyhow?"

"You must have very little penetration, monsieur, for he certainly talked with almost brutal frankness, it seemed to me. Others would have resorted to circumlocution and even falsehood, but M. de Maillefort?—no, 'You intend to marry off Mlle. de Beaumesnil,' he says. 'I intend to see in what manner and to whom you marry her, and if your choice does not please me I shall interfere.' This is what he had the audacity to say to me, and he is in a position to carry out his threat."

"Fortunately, Ernestine seems to have taken an intense dislike to this horrid hunchback, and Helena must tell her that he was the mortal enemy of the countess."

"What good will that do? Suppose we should find a party that suited us and Ernestine, isn't the marquis, by his sneers and sarcasms, quite capable of inspiring the innocent girl with an aversion for the very person we want her to marry? And it is not only here, in this house, that he can play us this shameful trick,—and many others that he is capable of concocting,—but he can do it anywhere and everywhere he meets Ernestine, for we cannot hide her. We shall be obliged to take her out into society."

"Is it this that you fear most? I should be of the same opinion, perhaps, if—"

"Do you suppose I know what I fear? I would a hundred times rather have some real danger to contend with, no matter how threatening it might be, for then I should at least know what the danger was, and perhaps contrive to escape it, while now the marquis will keep us in a state of perplexity that may cause us to commit a thousand blunders, and hamper us in every way. Consequently there is nothing for us to do but look the situation straight in the face and say to ourselves: 'Here is a man of wonderful discernment and diabolical cleverness, who sees, or will endeavour to see and know, all that we do, and who, unfortunately, has a thousand means of attaining his ends, while we have no means whatever of escaping his surveillance.'"

"I am more and more convinced that the opinion I expressed a short time ago is a just and correct one," said the baron, complacently.

"What opinion?"

"That the marquis is an abominable scoundrel."

"Good evening, monsieur," said Madame de la Rochaiguë, wrathfully, starting towards the door.

"What, you are going like that when we are in such desperate straits, and without coming to any decision!"

"Decision about what?"

"Why, about what we shall do in the matter."

"I know one thing!" exclaimed Madame de la Rochaiguë, completely beside herself, and stamping her foot angrily, "this abominable hunchback has demoralised me completely, and you—you finish by utterly stupefying me with your asinine remarks."

And Madame de la Rochaiguë flounced out of the room, slamming the door violently in the baron's very face.

During the conversation between Madame de la Rochaiguë and M. de Maillefort, Helena had taken Mlle. de Beaumesnil back to her own room. As she was about to leave the young girl she said:

"Sleep well, my dear Ernestine, and pray to the Saviour that he will not allow the face of that frightful M. de Maillefort to trouble your dreams."

"I really don't know why it is, mademoiselle, but he almost terrifies me."

"The feeling is very natural," replied the devotee, gently; "more natural than you suppose, for if you knew—"

As Helena paused, the young girl said:

"You did not finish, mademoiselle."

"There are some things which it pains one to say against one's neighbour, even though he may deserve it," remarked the devotee, with a saintly air. "This M. de Maillefort—"

"Well, mademoiselle?"

"I am afraid of paining you, my dear Ernestine—"

"Go on, I beg of you, mademoiselle."

"Ah, well, as you insist, I am compelled to tell you that this Marquis de Maillefort has always been one of your mother's bitterest enemies."

"My mother's?" cried Mlle. de Beaumesnil, wonderingly.

Then she added, with touching naïveté:

"Some one must have deceived you, mademoiselle. My mother could not have had any enemies."

In a tone of tender commiseration, Helena replied, shaking her head:

"My dear child, such artlessness does your heart credit; but, alas! the best and most inoffensive people are exposed to the animosity of the wicked. Have not the gentle lambs ravening wolves for enemies?"

"But how had my mother ever wronged M. de Maillefort, mademoiselle?" asked Ernestine, with tears in her eyes.

"Why, in no way. Just Heaven! one might as well say that an innocent dove would attack a tiger."

"Then what was the cause of M. de Maillefort's animosity?"

"Alas! my poor child, I cannot tell you that. It would be too revolting—too horrible," answered Helena, sighing heavily.

"Then I have good cause to loathe this man, and yet I blamed myself for yielding to my involuntary aversion."

"Ah, my dearest child, may you never have a less justifiable aversion," said the devotee, sanctimoniously, lifting her eyes heavenward.

Then she added:

"I must leave you, now, my dear Ernestine. Sleep sweetly. To-morrow morning, at nine o'clock, I will come for you to go to church."

"Good-bye until to-morrow, mademoiselle; but, alas! you leave me with sad thoughts,—my mother had an enemy."

"It is best to know the real character of the wicked, my dear Ernestine, for then one can at least guard against their evil doing. And now good-bye until to-morrow morning."

"Good night, mademoiselle."

So Mlle. de la Rochaiguë departed, proud of the perfidious cunning with which she had aroused a cruel distrust of M. de Maillefort in Mlle. de Beaumesnil's heart.

Ernestine left alone, rang for her governess, who also acted as her personal attendant.

Madame Laîné entered.

She was about forty years of age, with a somewhat insipid face, and a pleasant, though rather obsequious manner, in which there was a touch of servility that made it very different from the devotion of a faithful nurse, which is always instinct with the dignity of disinterested affection.

"Does mademoiselle wish to retire?" asked Madame Laîné.

"No, my good Laîné, not yet. Bring me my writing-desk, please."

"Yes, mademoiselle."

The desk having been brought from Ernestine's chamber, her governess said:

"There is something I wish to tell mademoiselle."

"What is it?"

"Madame has hired two other maids for mademoiselle, and—"

"I have told you that I require no other personal attendants than you and Thérèse."

"I know it, mademoiselle, and I said as much to madame, but she thinks you are not sufficiently well served."

"You satisfy me perfectly."

"But madame says these young women are to stay in case you should need them, and this suits all the better as madame dismissed her own maid recently, and these women are to attend her in the meantime."

"That is all very well," responded Ernestine, indifferently.

"Mademoiselle desires nothing?"

"No, I thank you."

"Does mademoiselle find herself comfortable here?"

"Very comfortable."

"The apartments are certainly superb, but there is nothing too good for mademoiselle. Every one says so."

"My good Laîné, you may put out what I shall require for the night," said Ernestine, without paying any attention to the governess's remark. "I can undress without your assistance, but I would like you to wake me a little before eight to-morrow morning."

"Yes, mademoiselle."

Madame Laîné turned as if to leave the room, but as Ernestine opened her desk to write, the governess paused, and said:

"I have a favour to ask of mademoiselle."

"What is it?"

"I should be very grateful to mademoiselle if she would have the goodness to spare me a couple of hours to-morrow, or the day after, to go and see a relative of mine, Madame Herbaut, who lives in the Batignolles."

"Very well, go to-morrow morning, while I am at church."

"I thank mademoiselle for her kindness."

"Good-night, my good Laîné," said Ernestine, thus dismissing her governess, who seemed inclined to continue the conversation.

This interview gives a pretty correct idea of the relations that existed between Mlle. de Beaumesnil and Madame Laîné.

The latter had often endeavoured to establish herself on a more familiar footing with her young mistress, but at the very first effort in this direction Mlle. de Beaumesnil always put an end to the conversation, not haughtily nor curtly, but by giving some order in a kindly way.

After Madame Laîné's departure, Ernestine remained lost in thought for some time; then, seating herself at the table, on which her desk had been placed, she opened it and took out a small book bound in Russia leather, the first leaves of which were already filled.

The history of this book was simple but touching.

On her departure for Italy, Ernestine had promised her mother to write every day a sort of diary of her journey. This promise the girl had kept until the sorrowful days that immediately followed her father's fatal accident, and the even more terrible days that followed the news of the Comtesse de Beaumesnil's death; and now that she had rallied a little from these crushing blows, Ernestine found a sort of pious consolation in continuing to write to her mother every day, keeping up the both pleasant and cruel illusion by continuing these confidential revelations.

The first part of this book contained copies of the letters Ernestine had written to her mother while that lady was living.

The second part, separated from the first by a black cross, contained the letters which the poor child had, alas! had no need to recopy.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil seated herself at the table, and, after she had wiped away the tears which the sight of this book always evoked, she wrote as follows:

"I have not written to you, my darling mamma, since my arrival at M. de la Rochaiguë's house, because I wished to analyse my first impressions carefully.

"Besides, you know how peculiar I am, and how, whenever I go to a strange place now, I find myself almost dazed for a day or two by the change. It seems as if I must have time to become accustomed to the new objects by which I am surrounded, to recover my mental faculties.

"The apartments set aside for my exclusive use are so magnificent and so spacious that I felt lost in them yesterday, but to-day I am becoming more accustomed to them.

"Madame de la Rochaiguë and her husband and sister have welcomed me as if I were their own child. They lavish every attention and kindness upon me, and if one could have any feeling save gratitude, for such a cordial reception, I should feel amazed that persons so much older than I am, should treat me with so much deference.

"M. de la Rochaiguë, my guardian, is kindness itself. His wife, who quite spoils me by her tenderness, is of a very gay and lively disposition. Mlle. Helena, her sister-in-law, is the gentlest and most saintly person imaginable.

"You see, my dearest mother, that you need feel no anxiety concerning your poor Ernestine's lot. Surrounded by such devoted friends, she is as happy as she can be, now.

"My chief desire is to become better acquainted with M. de la Rochaiguë and his family, for then they will doubtless treat me with less ceremony, and cease to pay me compliments which embarrass me greatly, but which they probably feel obliged to pay me in order to make me feel at ease.

"They are so kind that each person in turn seems to be racking his or her brain for the pleasantest and most complimentary thing they can say to me. By and by, I hope that they will see they do not need to flatter me to gain my affection. One would almost suppose from their manner that they were under the greatest obligations to me for being allowed to receive me into their household. This does not surprise me much, however, my dearest mother, for how often you have told me that refined people always seem grateful for the services they are able to render others.

"I have had some very painful moments to-day,—not by any fault of my guardian or his family, however.

"This morning, a gentleman (my notary, as I learned afterwards) was introduced to me by my guardian, who said:

"'My dear ward, I think it would be well for you to know the precise amount of your fortune, and this gentleman will now tell you.'

"Whereupon, the notary, opening a book he had brought with him, showed me the last page all covered with figures, and said:

"'Mademoiselle, from the exact'—he used a word here that I have forgotten—'your yearly income amounts to the sum of three million one hundred and twenty thousand francs, which gives you nearly eight thousand francs a day, so you are the richest heiress in France.'

"This, my poor dear mother, reminded me again of what, alas! I scarcely ever forget,—that I was an orphan, and alone in the world; and in spite of all my efforts to control my feelings, I wept bitterly."

Ernestine was obliged to stop writing. Her tears had burst forth afresh, for to this tender-hearted, artless child, this rich inheritance meant the loss of her mother and of her father.

Becoming calmer after a few moments, she resumed her pen, and continued:

"It is difficult for me to explain it, but on learning that I had eight thousand francs a day, as the notary said, I felt a great awe, not unmixed with fear.

"'So much money—just for myself! why is it?' I thought.

"It seemed to me unjust.

"What had I done to be so rich?

"And then those words which had made me weep, 'You are the richest heiress in France,' almost terrified me.

"Yes; I know not how to explain it, but the knowledge that I possessed this immense fortune made me feel strangely uneasy. It seemed to me that I must feel as people feel who have a great treasure, and who tremble at the thought of the dangers they will incur if any one tries to rob them of it.

"And yet, no; this comparison is not a just one, for I never cared very much for the money you and my father gave me each month to gratify my fancies.

"In fact, I seem unable to analyse my feelings when I think of my wealth, as they call it. It is strange and inexplicable, but perhaps I shall feel differently by and by.

"In the meantime, I am surrounded by the kindest and most devoted of relatives. What can I have to fear? It is pure childishness on my part, undoubtedly. But to whom can I tell everything, if not to you? M. de la Rochaiguë and the other members of his household are wonderfully kind to me, but I shall never make confidants of them. You know I have always been very reserved to every one but you and my father; and I often reproach myself for not being more familiar with my good Laîné, who has been with me several years. But anything like familiarity is impossible to me, though I am far from being proud."

Then alluding to the aversion she felt for M. de Maillefort, in consequence of Mlle. Helena's calumnies, Ernestine added:

"I was cruelly hurt this evening, but it was such a disgraceful thing that, out of respect to you, my dear mother, I will not write it, nor do I really believe that I should have the courage.

"Good night, my darling mamma. To-morrow and the day following, I am going to nine o'clock mass with Mlle. de la Rochaiguë. She is so good and kind that I could not refuse. But my most fervent prayers, my dear mother, are those I offer up in solitude. To-morrow morning and other mornings, in the midst of the careless crowd, I shall pray for you, but it is when I am alone, as now, that my every thought and my very soul lifts itself to thee, and that I pray to thee as one prays to God—my beloved and sainted mother!"

After having replaced the book in the writing-desk, the key of which she wore always suspended around her neck, the orphan sought her couch, and slept much more calmly and peacefully now she had made these artless confessions to an—alas!—now immortal mother.

On the morning following the day on which M. de Maillefort had been introduced to Mlle. de Beaumesnil for the first time, Commander Bernard was lying stretched out in the comfortable armchair which had been a present from Olivier.

It was a beautiful summer morning, and the old sailor gazed out sadly through the window on the parched flower beds, now full of weeds, for a month before two of the veteran's old wounds had reopened, keeping him a prisoner in his armchair, and preventing him from working in his beloved garden.

The housekeeper was seated near the commander, busy with some sewing, but for several minutes she must have been indulging in her usual recriminations against "Bû-û-onaparte," for she was now saying to the veteran, in tones of bitter indignation:

"Yes, monsieur, raw, raw; I tell you he ate it raw!"

The veteran, when his acute suffering abated a little, could not help laughing at the housekeeper's absurd stories, so he said:

"What was it that this diabolical Corsican ogre ate raw, Mother Barbançon?"

"His beef, monsieur! Yes, the night before the battle he ate his meat raw! And do you know why?"

"No," answered the veteran, turning himself with difficulty in his armchair; "I can not imagine, I am sure."

"The wretch did it to render himself more ferocious, so he would have the courage to see his soldiers exterminated by the enemy,—above all, the conscripts," added the indignant housekeeper. "His sole object in life was to provide food for cannon, as he said, and so to depopulate France by conscriptions that there would not be a single Frenchman left. That was his diabolical scheme!"

Commander Bernard replied to this tirade by another loud burst of laughter.

"Let me ask just this one question," he said. "If Bonaparte desired that there shouldn't be another Frenchman left in France, who the devil would he have had to reign over, then?"

"Why, negroes, of course," snapped the housekeeper, shrugging her shoulders impatiently, and acting quite as if an absurdly easy question had been put to her.

It was such a ridiculous answer, and so entirely unexpected, that a moment of positive stupefaction preceded a fresh outburst of hilarity on the part of the commander, who, as soon as he could control his mirth a little, inquired:

"Negroes, what negroes?"

"Why, those American negroes with whom he was always plotting, and who, while he was on his rock, began a tunnel which, starting at Champ-d'Asile, and passing under St. Helena, was intended to transport to the capital of the empire other negroes, friends of the American negroes, so Bû-û-onaparte, in company with his odious Roustan, could return to ravage all France."

"Really, Mother Barbançon," exclaimed the veteran, admiringly, "I never knew your imagination to soar to such sublime heights before."

"I don't see that there is anything to laugh at, monsieur. Would you like to have conclusive proof that the monster always intended to replace the French by negroes?"

"I should indeed, Mother Barbançon," exclaimed the veteran, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Come, let us have the proof."

"Ah, well, monsieur, hasn't everybody said for years that your Bû-û-onaparte treated the French like so many negroes?"

"Bravo, Mother Barbançon, bravo!"

"Well, isn't that proof enough that he would like to have had all negroes instead of Frenchmen under his thumb?"

"Thanks, Mother Barbançon!" exclaimed the poor commander, fairly writhing with merriment. "But this is too much, really too much!"

Two loud and imperious peals of the bell made the housekeeper spring from her chair and hurry out of the room, exclaiming:

"There is some one who rings in a lordly way, I must say."

And closing the door of the veteran's chamber behind her, Madame Barbançon flew to admit the visitor.

This proved to be a stout man about fifty years of age, wearing the uniform of a second lieutenant in the National Guard,—a uniform that gaped in a ridiculous manner behind, and disclosed to view in front an enormous stomach, over which dangled a big gold chain. This personage, who wore an immense bearskin hat that nearly covered his eyes, had a pompous and extremely self-important air.

On beholding him, Madame Barbançon knit her brows, and, evidently not very deeply impressed by the dignity of this citizen soldier, asked, in a decidedly sharp tone:

"What, you here again?"

"It would be very strange if an owner"—the word owner was uttered with the majestic air of a ruling sovereign—"if an owner could not come into his own house, when—"

"You are not in your own house, for you have rented it to the commander."

"This is the seventeenth of the month, and my porter has sent me a printed notice that my rent has not been paid, so I—"

"We all know that. This is the third time in the last two days that you have been here to dun us. Do you expect us to give you our last cent for the rent? We'll pay you when we can, and that is all there is about it."

"When you can? A house owner is not to be paid in promises."

"House owner! You can boast of being a house owner only because for the last twenty years you've been putting pepper in your brandy and chicory in your coffee, as well as dipping your candles in boiling water to melt off the tallow without anybody's discovering it, and with the proceeds of this cheating you've perhaps bought a few houses. I don't see anything to be so proud of in that, do you?"

"I have been a grocer, it is true. It is also true that I made money in my business, and I am proud of the fact, madame."

"You have no reason to be. Besides, if you are rich, how can you have the heart to torment a worthy man like the commander merely because he is a little behind in his rent—for the first time, too, in over three years."

"I don't care anything about that. Pay me my money, or out you go! It is very astonishing; people can't pay their rent, but they must have gardens and every modern convenience, these fastidious tenants of mine!"

"Come, come, M. Bouffard, don't go too far or you may be sorry for it! Of course he must have a garden, this brave man, crippled with wounds, for a garden is his only pleasure in life. If, instead of sticking to your counter, you had gone to the wars like the commander, and shed your blood in the four quarters of the globe, and in Russia, you wouldn't own any more houses than he does! Go, and see if you do!"

"Once, twice, I ask, will you pay me to-day?"

"Three times, a hundred times, and a thousand times, no! Since the commander's wound reopened, he can sleep only with the aid of opium. That drug is as costly as gold itself, and the one hundred and fifty francs he has received has had to go in medicine and doctor's visits."

"I don't care anything about your reasons. House owners would be in a nice fix if they listened to their tenants' excuses. It was just the same at one of my houses on the Rue de Monceau where I've just been. My tenant there is a music teacher, who can't pay her rent because she's been sick, she says, and hasn't been able to give lessons as usual. The same old story! When a person is sick, he ought to go to the hospital, and give you a chance to find another tenant."

"The hospital! Commander Bernard go to the hospital!" cried the now thoroughly exasperated housekeeper. "No, not even if I have to go out as a ragpicker at night, and nurse him in the daytime, he sha'n't go to the hospital, understand that, but you run a great risk of going there yourself if you don't clear out, for M. Olivier is coming back, and he'll give you more kicks in your miserable stomach than you have hairs in your bearskin cap."

"I would like to see any other house owner who would allow himself to be abused in this fashion in his own house. But enough of this. I'll be back at four o'clock, and if the hundred and fifty francs are not ready for me, I'll seize your furniture."

"And I'll seize my fire-shovel and give you the reception you deserve!"

And the housekeeper slammed the door in M. Bouffard's face, and went back to the commander. His fit of hilarity was over, but he was still in a very good humour, so, on seeing Madame Barbançon return with cheeks blazing with anger, the old sailor said to her:

"Well, it seems that you didn't expend all your wrath upon Bonaparte, Mother Barbançon. Who the devil are you in such a rage with now?"

"With some one who isn't a bit better than your Emperor, I can tell you that. The two would make a pretty pair. Bah!"

"And who is it that is such a good match for the emperor, Mother Barbançon?"

"It is—"

But the housekeeper suddenly checked herself.

"Poor, dear man," she thought, "it would almost kill him if I should tell him that the rent isn't paid, that the expenses of his illness have eaten up every penny of his money, as well as sixty francs of my own. I'll wait until M. Olivier comes. He may have some good news for us."

"What the deuce are you mooning about there instead of answering me, Mother Barbançon? Is it some new atrocity of the little corporal's that you are going to treat me to?"

"How glad I am! That must be M. Olivier," cried the housekeeper, hearing the bell ring again, gently this time.

And again leaving her employer, Madame Barbançon ran to the door. It was, indeed, the commander's nephew this time.

"Well, M. Olivier?" asked the housekeeper, anxiously.

"We are saved," replied the young man, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "My worthy friend, the mason, had some difficulty in getting the money he owed me, for I had not told him I should want it so soon, but here are the two hundred francs at last," said Olivier, handing a little bag of coin to the housekeeper.

"What a relief it is, M. Olivier."

"Why, has the landlord been here again?"

"He just left, the scoundrel! I told him pretty plainly what I thought of him."

"But, my dear Madame Barbançon, when one owes a man money, one must pay it. But my poor uncle suspects nothing, does he?"

"No, not a thing, I'm glad to say."

"So much the better."

"Such a capital idea has just struck me!" exclaimed the vindictive housekeeper, as she counted the money the young man had just handed her. "Such a capital idea!"

"What is it, Mother Barbançon?"

"That scoundrel will be back here at four o'clock, and I'm going to make up a hot fire in my cook-stove and put thirty of these five-franc pieces in it, and when that monster of a M. Bouffard comes, I'll tell him to wait a minute, and then I'll go and take the money out with my tongs and pile the coins up on the table, and then I'll say to him, 'There's your money; take it.' That will be fine, M. Olivier, won't it. The law doesn't forbid that, does it?"

"So you want to fire red-hot bullets at all the rich grocers, do you?" laughed Olivier. "Do better than that. Save your charcoal, and give the hundred and fifty francs to M. Bouffard cold."

"You are entirely too good-natured, M. Olivier. Let me at least spoil his pretty face with my nails, the brigand."

"Nonsense! He's much more stupid than wicked."

"He's both, M. Olivier, he's both, I tell you!"

"But how is my uncle this morning? I went out so early that he was still asleep, and I didn't like to wake him."

"He is feeling better, for he and I just had a fine dispute about his monster. And then your return, why, it is worth more to him than all the medicines in the world, and when I think that but for you that frightful Bouffard might have turned us out in three or four days! And Heaven knows that our belongings wouldn't have brought much, for our six tablespoons and the commander's watch went when he was ill three years ago."

"My good Mother Barbançon, don't talk of that, or you will drive me mad, for when my furlough is over I shall not be here, and what happened to-day may happen again at any time. But I won't even think of it. It is too terrible!"

The commander's bell rang, and on hearing the sound the housekeeper said to the young man, whose face wore an almost heart-broken expression:

"That is the commander ringing. For heaven's sake don't look so sad, M. Olivier; he will be sure to suspect something."

"You needn't be afraid of that. But, by the way, Gerald is sure to call this morning. You must let him in."

"All right, M. Olivier. Go to the commander at once, and I will soon have your breakfast ready. Dear me, M. Olivier," she continued, with a sigh, "can you be content with—"

"My dear, good woman," cried the young soldier, without allowing her to finish, "don't I always have enough? Aren't you always depriving yourself of something to give it to me?"

"Hush! Monsieur is ringing again. Hasten to him at once!"

And Olivier obeyed.

At the sight of Olivier, the commander's features assumed a joyful expression, and, not being able to rise from his armchair, he held out both hands to his nephew, saying:

"Good morning, my boy."

"Good morning, uncle."

"I feel strongly inclined to scold you."

"Me, uncle?"'

"Certainly. Though you only returned yesterday you were off this morning almost before sunrise. I woke quite early, happy in the thought that I was not alone, as I have been for two months past. I glance over at your bed, but no Olivier is to be seen. You had already flown."

"But, uncle—"

"But, my boy, you have cheated me out of nearly two months of your leave already. A hitch in your master mason's business matters, you told me. So be it; but now, thanks to the earnings of these two months, you must be almost a millionaire, so I intend to enjoy your society from this on. You have earned plenty of money. As it is for me that you are always working, I cannot prevent you from making me presents, and Heaven only knows what you are plotting to do with your millions this very minute, M. Croesus; but I tell you one thing, if you leave me as much of the time alone as you did before you went away, I will not accept another present from you. I swear I will not!"

"But, uncle, listen to me—"

"You have only two more months to spend with me, and I am determined to make the most of them. What is the use of working as you do? Do you suppose that, with a manager like Mother Barbançon, my purse is not always full? Only two or three days ago I said to her: 'Well, Madame Steward, how are we off for funds?' 'You needn't worry about that, monsieur,' she replied; 'when one has more than one spends, there is a plenty.' I tell you that a cashier who answers like that is a comfort."

"Oh, well, uncle," said Olivier, anxious to put an end to this embarrassing conversation, "I promise that I will leave you as little as possible henceforth. Now, one thing more, do you feel able to see Gerald this morning?"

"Why, of course. What a kind and loyal heart that young duke has! When I think that during your absence he came here again and again to see me, and smoke his cigar with me! I was suffering the torments of the damned, but somehow he managed to make me feel ever so much more comfortable. 'Olivier is away,' he said to me, 'and it is my business to look after you.'"

"My good Gerald!" murmured Olivier, deeply moved.

"Yes, he is good. A young man of his position, who leaves his pleasures, his sweethearts, and friends of his own age, to come and spend two or three hours with an old cripple like me, proves conclusively that he has a good heart. But I'm not a conceited fool, I know very well that it was on your account that Gerald came to see me, my dear nephew, and because he knew it would give you pleasure."

"No, no, uncle. It was for your sake, and for yours alone, believe me!"

"Hum!"

"He will tell you so himself, presently, for he wrote yesterday to ask if he would find us at home this morning."

"Alas! he is only too certain to find me; I cannot budge from my armchair. You see the melancholy proof of that," added the old sailor, pointing to his dry and weedy flower borders. "My poor garden is nearly burnt up. Mamma Barbançon has been too busy to attend to it; besides, my illness seems to have put her all out of sorts. I suggested asking the porter to water the flowers every day or two; but you should have heard how she answered me. 'Bring strangers into the house to steal and destroy everything!' You know what a temper the good woman has, and I dared not insist, so you can see what a terrible condition my poor flowers are in."

"Never mind, uncle; I am back now, and I will act as your head gardener," said Olivier, gaily. "I have thought of it before, and if I had not been obliged to go out early this morning on business, you would have found your garden all weeded, and fresh as a rose sparkling with dew when you woke this morning. But to-morrow morning,—well, you shall see!"

The commander was about to thank Olivier when Madame Barbançon opened the door and asked if M. Gerald could come in.

"I should say he could come in!" exclaimed the old naval officer, gaily, as Olivier advanced to meet his friend.

"Thank heaven! his master mason has returned him to us at last," exclaimed the veteran, pointing to Olivier.

"Hopeless chaos seemed to reign in the worthy man's estimates," replied Olivier, "and when they were at last adjusted, the manager of the property, struck by my fine handwriting and symmetrical figures, asked me to straighten out some accounts of his, and I consented. But now I think of it, do you know, Gerald, who owns the magnificent château in which I spent the last two months?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Well, the Marquise of Carabas."

"What Marquise of Carabas?"

"The enormously wealthy heiress you were talking to us about before I went away."

"Mlle. de Beaumesnil?" exclaimed Gerald, in profound astonishment.

"The same. This magnificent estate belongs to her and yields her a yearly income of twenty thousand livres; and it seems that she has dozens of such properties."

"What the devil can one do with so much money?" exclaimed the veteran.

"It is certainly a strange coincidence," murmured Gerald, thoughtfully.

"And why?"

"Because there is a possibility of my marrying Mlle. de Beaumesnil."

"Indeed, M. Gerald," said the veteran, artlessly, "so a desire to marry has seized you since I saw you last?"

"So you are in love with Mlle. de Beaumesnil?" asked Olivier, no less naïvely.

Gerald, surprised at these questions, replied, after a moment of reflection:

"It is perfectly natural that you should speak in this way, commander, and you, too, Olivier; and among all the persons I know you are the only ones. Yes, for if I had said to a thousand other people, 'It is proposed that I should marry the richest heiress in France,' each and every one of them would have replied without a thought about anything else: 'Yes, marry her by all means. It is a splendid match; marry her, by all means!'"

Then, after another pause, Gerald added:

"Of course it is only right, but how rare, oh, how rare!"

"Upon my word, I had no idea that I was saying anything remarkable, M. Gerald. Olivier thinks exactly as I do, don't you, my boy?"

"Yes, uncle. But what is the matter with you, Gerald? Why do you seem so serious all of a sudden?"

"I will tell you," said the young duke, whose features did, indeed, wear an unusually thoughtful expression. "I came here this morning to inform you of my matrimonial intentions,—you, commander, and you, Olivier, for I regard you both as sincere and devoted friends."

"You certainly have no truer ones, M. Gerald," said the veteran, earnestly.

"I am certain of that, commander, and this knowledge made me doubly anxious to confide my projects to you."

"That is very natural," replied Olivier, "for you know so well that whatever interests you interests us."

"The real state of the case is this," said Gerald, replying to his friend's words by a friendly gesture. "Yesterday, my mother, dazzled by Mlle. de Beaumesnil's wealth, proposed to me that I should marry that young lady. My mother considered my success certain, if I would consent to follow her counsels. But remembering the pleasures of my bachelor life and of independence, I at first refused."

"But if you have no liking for married life, the millions upon millions should not induce you to change this determination," remarked the old naval officer, kindly.

"But wait, commander," said Gerald, with some little embarrassment. "My refusal irritated my mother. She told me I was blind, and that I had no sense; but finally her anger gave place to such profound chagrin that, seeing her inconsolable at my refusal, I—"

"You consented to the marriage?" asked Olivier.

"Yes," replied Gerald.

Then noticing a slight movement of astonishment on the part of the old sailor, Gerald added:

"Commander, my decision seems to surprise you."

"Yes, M. Gerald."

"But why? Tell me frankly."

"Well, M. Gerald, if you consent to marry contrary to your inclination, and that merely to please your mother, I fear you are making a great mistake," answered the veteran, in firm, but affectionate tones, "for sooner or later your wife will suffer for the compulsion you exert upon yourself to-day, and one ought not to marry to make a woman unhappy. Don't you agree with me, Olivier?"

"Perfectly."

"But how could I bear to see my mother weep, my mother who seems to have set her heart upon this marriage?"

"But think of seeing your wife weep, M. Gerald. Your mother has your affection to console her, while your wife, poor orphan that she is, who will console her? No one, or perhaps she will do as so many other women do,—console herself with lovers who are inferior to you in every way. They will torment her, they will disgrace her, perhaps,—another chance of misery for the poor creature!"

The young duke's head drooped, and he answered not a word.

"You asked us to be frank with you, M. Gerald," continued the commander, "and we are, because we love you sincerely."

"I did not doubt that you would be perfectly frank with me, so I ought to be equally so, and say in my defence that in consenting to this marriage I was influenced by another and not altogether ungenerous sentiment. You remember that I spoke of Macreuse, the other day, Olivier?"

"That miserable wretch who put little birds' eyes out with pins!" cried the veteran, upon whom this incident had evidently made a deep impression, "that hypocrite who is now a hanger-on of the clergy?"

"The same, commander. Well, he is one of the aspirants for Mlle. de Beaumesnil's hand."

"Macreuse!" exclaimed Olivier. "Poor girl, but he has no chance of success, has he?"

"My mother says not, but I fear that he has; for the Church supports Macreuse's claims, and the Church is very powerful."

"Such a scoundrel as that succeed!" cried the old officer. "It would be shameful!"

"And it was because I was so indignant at the idea that, already touched by my mother's disappointment, I consented to the marriage partly in order to circumvent that wretch, Macreuse."

"But afterwards, M. Gerald, you reflected, did you not, that an honourable man like yourself does not marry merely to please his mother and circumvent a rival, even if that rival is a Macreuse?"

"What, commander!" exclaimed Gerald, evidently much surprised. "Do you think it would be better to allow this wretch to marry Mlle. de Beaumesnil, when he wants her only for her money?"

"Nothing of the kind," answered the veteran, warmly. "One should always prevent a crime when one can, and if I were in your place, M. Gerald—"

"What would you do, commander?"

"I would go first to M. Macreuse, and say to him: 'You are a scoundrel, and as scoundrels should not be allowed to marry women to make them miserable all their lives, I forbid you to marry Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and I will prevent you from marrying her; I do not know her, I have no intention of marrying her myself, but I take an interest in her because she is in some danger of becoming your wife. As that, in my opinion, would be infinitely worse for her than if she were going to be bitten by a mad dog, I intend to warn her that you are worse than a mad dog.'"

"That would be doing exactly right, uncle, exactly!" cried Olivier.

But Gerald motioned him not to interrupt the veteran, who continued:

"I should then go straight to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and say to her: 'My dear young lady, there is a certain M. Macreuse who wants to marry you for your money. He is a vile cur, and I will prove it to his face whenever and wherever you like. Take my advice; it is entirely disinterested, for I haven't the slightest idea of marrying you myself, but honest men should always put unsuspecting persons on their guard against scoundrels.' I tell you, M. Gerald, my way may be unconventional, but there might be very much worse ones."

"The course my uncle suggests, though rather rough, certainly has the merit of being eminently straightforward, you must admit, my dear Gerald," said Olivier, smilingly; "but you, who are so much better versed in the ways of the world than either of us are, probably know whether you could not achieve the same result by less violent means."

But Gerald, more and more impressed by the veteran's frankness and good sense, had listened to him very respectfully.

"Thanks, commander," he exclaimed, offering him his hand, "you and Olivier have prevented me from doing a dishonourable deed, for the danger was all the greater from the fact that I was investing it with a semblance of virtue. To make my mother the happiest of women, and prevent Mlle. de Beaumesnil from becoming the victim of a man like Macreuse, seemed a very fine thing to me at first. I was deceiving myself most abominably, for I not only gave no thought whatever to the future of this young girl whom I would probably make miserable for life, but I was yielding, though unconsciously, to the fascination of her colossal wealth."

"You are wrong about that, Gerald, I am sure."

"I am not, upon my word, Olivier. So, to save myself from further temptation, I shall return to my first resolution, viz., not to marry at all. I regret only one thing in this change of plans," added Gerald, with much feeling, "and that is the deep disappointment I shall cause my mother, though she is sure to approve my course eventually."

"But listen, Gerald," interrupted Olivier; "you should not do wrong merely to please your mother, as uncle says. Yet a mother is so kind, and it grieves one so much to see her unhappy, why should you not try to satisfy her without the sacrifice of your convictions as an honest and honourable man?"

"Good, my boy!" exclaimed the veteran. "But how is that to be done?"

"Explain, Olivier."

"You have no wish to marry, you say?"

"Not the slightest."

"And you have never seen Mlle. de Beaumesnil?"

"Never."

"Then you cannot love her, of course, that is evident. But who knows but you might fall in love with her if you did see her? A bachelor life is your idea of perfect happiness now, I admit. But is it not quite possible that Mlle. de Beaumesnil might inspire you with a taste for married life instead?"

"You are right, Olivier," exclaimed the veteran. "You ought to see the young lady before you refuse, M. Gerald, and perhaps, as Olivier says, the desire to marry may seize you."

"Impossible, commander!" cried Gerald, gaily. "One is born a husband as one is born a poet or a cripple, and then there is another objection,—the most important of all,—that occurs to me now. It is that the young lady in question is the richest heiress in France."

"And what of that?" urged Olivier. "What difference does that make?"

"It makes a great deal of difference," replied Gerald, "for even if I was obliged to admit that Mlle. de Beaumesnil pleased me infinitely,—that I was dead in love with her, in fact, and that she shared my love,—the fact remains that she is the possessor of a princely fortune, while I have nothing; for my paltry twelve thousand a year would be but a drop in the ocean of Mlle. de Beaumesnil's millions. It would be too humiliating to a man's pride, would it not, commander, to marry a woman to whom you can give nothing, but who gives you everything? Besides, however sincere your love may be, don't you have the appearance of marrying for mercenary motives? Don't you know that everybody would say: 'Mlle. de Beaumesnil wanted to be a duchess. Gerald de Senneterre hadn't a penny, so he sold her his name and title, and threw himself in.'"

On hearing these words, the uncle glanced at his nephew with a decidedly embarrassed air.

Gerald did not fail to notice this fact, and it was with a smile that he exclaimed:

"Yes, I was sure of it, commander. There is something so humiliating to an honest man's pride in such a glaring inequality of fortune that you are as unpleasantly impressed by it as I am. Your silence proves that conclusively."

"The fact is," replied the veteran, after a moment's silence,—"the fact is, I really can't explain why such a state of things would appear perfectly natural and right to me if it was the man who possessed the fortune, and the lady had nothing."

Then the old officer added, with a good-natured smile:

"You think me a great simpleton, I expect, M. Gerald."

"Quite the contrary. Your thought owes its origin to the most profound delicacy of feeling, commander," answered Gerald. "It is the most natural thing in the world that a penniless, but charming young girl, accomplished and endowed with noble attributes of mind and heart, should marry an immensely rich man,—if their love be mutual,—but for a man who has nothing, to marry a woman who has everything—"

"Ah, uncle, and you, too, Gerald," exclaimed Olivier, interrupting his friend, "you are both entirely wrong about this matter."

"And why, if you please?"

"You admit, and so do I, that a penniless young girl is quite justified in marrying an immensely rich man, but this is only on condition that she loves the man sincerely."

"Of course!" said Gerald. "If she is actuated by mercenary motives, it becomes nothing more nor less than a business transaction."

"And disgraceful accordingly," added the old sailor.

"Very well, then," continued Olivier, "why should a poor man,—because, Gerald, you are poor in comparison with Mlle. de Beaumesnil,—why, then, I ask, should you be censured for marrying that young lady if you love her sincerely in spite of her millions,—in short, if you love her as sincerely as if she were without name and without fortune?"

"That is true, M. Gerald," chimed in the commander; "if one loves as an honest man should love, if one is certain that he loves not the money, but the woman, one's conscience is clear. What right can any one have to reproach him? In short, I advise you to see Mlle. de Beaumesnil first, and decide afterwards."

"Yes, that will, I believe, be best," Gerald replied. "That will decide everything. Ah, I was wise to come and talk over my plans with you, commander, and with you, Olivier."

"Nonsense, M. Gerald, as if, in the refined circles in which you move, there were not plenty of persons who would have said the same things Olivier and I have just said to you."

"Ah, don't you believe it," responded Gerald, shrugging his shoulders.

Then, more gravely, he added:

"It is the same in the middle classes, if not worse. Everybody cares only for money."

"But why the devil is it that Olivier and I are so superior to all the rest of the world, M. Gerald?" asked the commander, laughing.

"Why?" repeated Gerald, with much feeling. "It is because you, commander, have led for forty years the hard, rough, dangerous, unselfish life of a sailor; it is because while you were leading this life you acquired the Christian virtues of resignation and contentment with little; it is because, ignorant of the cowardly concessions of society in these matters, you consider a man who marries for money as dishonourable as a man who cheats at cards, or shirks his duty on the battle-field. Am I not right, commander?"

"But you see it all seems so very plain to me, M. Gerald, that—"

"Oh, yes, very plain to you and to Olivier, who has led, like me, though for a much longer time, the life of a soldier,—a life that teaches one unselfishness and brotherly feeling. Is this not true?"

"My brave, kind-hearted Gerald!" cried the young soldier, as deeply moved as his friend. "But you must admit that, though the life of a soldier may have developed your natural generosity, it certainly did not endow you with that virtue. You, alone, perhaps, of all the young men in your rank of life, were capable of realising the sort of cowardice one manifested in sending some poor devil to the wars to be killed in your place,—you, alone, too, seem to feel some scruples with regard to a marriage that all the others would gladly contract at any cost."

"You are not going to begin to pay me compliments at this late day, I hope," laughed Gerald. "Very well, then, it is decided that I am to see Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and leave the rest to fate. My course is marked out for me. I will not deviate from it, I promise you."

"Bravo, my dear Gerald," replied Olivier, gaily. "I see you now in my mind's eye in love, married,—a happy Benedict, in short. Ah, well, there's no happiness like it, I'm sure. And alas! I, yesterday, knowing nothing of your plans, asked Madame Herbaut's permission to introduce to her a former comrade, a very worthy young man, whom she instantly accepted on the strength of my all-potent recommendation."

"You don't say so," exclaimed Gerald, laughing. "Oh, well, you needn't consider me as good as dead and buried. I shall promptly avail myself of her kind permission to call, I assure you."

"You will?"

"Most assuredly I shall."

"But your matrimonial projects?"

"Why, they make me all the more determined on this point."

"Explain, I beg of you."

"Why, the explanation is very simple, it seems to me. The more reason I have to love a bachelor's life, the better I shall have to love Mlle. de Beaumesnil in order to renounce my pleasures, and consequently the more certain I shall be of the sentiment she inspires. So, once for all, let it be understood that you are to take me with you to Madame Herbaut's, and to make me still stronger—to resist temptation, of course, I'll become the lover of one of the rivals, or even of one of the satellites of that famous duchess who is such a bugbear to me, and with whom I strongly suspect you of being in love."

"Nonsense, Gerald!"

"Come, be frank with me. You surely can't suspect me of desire to cut you out. As if there were not plenty of duchesses in the world! Do you remember the sutler's pretty wife? You had only to say the word, and I, forthwith, left the coast clear for you."

"What, another!" cried the commander. "What a fascinating rascal my nephew must be!"

"Ah, commander, if you knew the number of hearts the scamp won in Algiers alone! Madame Herbaut's fair guests had better be on their guard if they don't want to fall victims to Olivier's fascinations!"

"I haven't any designs on the charming guests, you big simpleton," retorted Olivier, gaily. "But seriously, do you really wish me to take you to Madame Herbaut's?"

"Certainly I do," answered Gerald. Then turning to the veteran, he continued:

"You really must not consider me a harebrained fellow on account of this determination on my part, commander. I have accepted your friendly advice in regard to marriage, you say, and yet I end the conversation by begging Olivier to take me to Madame Herbaut's. Ah, well, strange as this may appear to you, commander, I say, no longer jestingly, but in all seriousness this time, that the less change I make in my habits, the more sincere my love for Mlle. de Beaumesnil will have to be to induce me to abandon them."

"Upon my word, M. Gerald, I must confess that your reasons seemed decidedly odd to me at first," replied the veteran, "but, on reflection, I find them quite sensible. There would, perhaps, be a sort of hypocritical premeditation in breaking off in advance with a life you have led so long."

"Come then, Olivier, and introduce me to Madame Herbaut's charming tribe," exclaimed Gerald, gaily. "Good-bye, commander, I shall return soon and often. What else can you expect? You can't hope to act as my father confessor without more or less trouble, you know."

"You'll find me a pretty exacting mentor as regards absolution and matters of conscience, I warn you," retorted the old sailor, gaily. "You must drop in again soon, for you are to keep me posted about the progress of your matrimonial schemes, you recollect."

"Of course. It is my bounden duty to tell you all now, commander, and I shall not fail to do it. But now I think of it, I must report with regard to a commission you entrusted to me, M. Bernard. Will you allow me a word with your uncle in private, Olivier?"

"Most assuredly," answered the young soldier, promptly leaving the room.

"I have some good news for you, commander," said Gerald, in a low tone. "Thanks partly to my own efforts, and especially to the Marquis de Maillefort's recommendation, Olivier's appointment as a second lieutenant is almost certain."

"Is it possible, M. Gerald!"

"There is very little doubt of it, I think, for it is very generally known that the Marquis de Maillefort is being strongly urged to become a deputy, and this fact has increased his influence very much."

"Ah, M. Gerald, how can I express my gratitude—"

"I must hasten to rejoin Olivier, my dear commander," said Gerald, to escape the veteran's thanks. "His suspicions are sure to be aroused by a longer conversation."

"So you have a secret with my uncle," cried Olivier, as soon as his friend rejoined him.

"Oh, yes, you know I'm a man of mysteries; and, by the way, before we adjourn to Madame Herbaut's, I have another and very mysterious favour to ask of you."

"Let me hear it."

"You know all about this neighbourhood. Can't you recommend some quiet lodgings in a retired street hereabouts?"

"What! You are thinking of deserting the Faubourg St. Germain for the Batignolles? How delightful!"

"Nonsense! Listen to me. Of course, living in my mother's house I cannot receive my friends indiscriminately,—you understand."

"Very well."

"So I have had some rooms elsewhere, but the house has changed hands, and the new owner is such a strictly moral man that he has warned me that I have got to leave when my month is up,—that is, day after to-morrow."

"All the better. It is a very fortunate thing, I think. You're about to marry, so bid farewell to your amours."

"Olivier, you have heard my ideas on the subject. Your uncle approves them. I am resolved to change none of my bachelor habits in advance, and if I should abandon the idea of marriage altogether, think of my desolate situation, homeless and loveless! No, no, I am much too cautious and far-sighted not to—to preserve a pear to quench my thirst."

"You're a man of infinite precautions, certainly. Very well, as I go and come I'll look at the notices of rooms to rent in the windows."

"Two little rooms, with a private hall, is all I need. I'll look myself when we leave Madame Herbaut's, for time presses. Day after to-morrow is the fatal day. Say, Olivier, wouldn't it be strange if I should discover what I need right here? Do you remember the lines:

"The lines seem to me a fit motto for a shepherd's pipe; but what of that? Truth needs no ornamentation. But now on, on to the house of Madame Herbaut!"

"You still insist? Consider well."

"Olivier, you are really intolerable. I'll go alone if you won't accompany me."

"Come, then, the die is cast. It is understood that you are simply Gerald Senneterre, a former comrade of mine."

"Senneterre? No; that would be too imprudent. You had better call me Gerald Auvernay, for I am adorned with the marquisate of Auvernay, my dear Olivier, though you may not be aware of the fact."

"You are M. Gerald Auvernay, then; that is decided. But the devil!"

"What's the matter now?"

"But what else are you going to be?"

"What else am I going to be?"

"Yes; what is to be your occupation?"

"Why, a bachelor of the new school."

"Pshaw! I can't introduce you to Madame Herbaut as a young man who is living on the income of the money he saved while in the army. Besides, Madame Herbaut receives no idlers. You would excite her suspicions at once, for the worthy woman strongly distrusts young men who have nothing to do but court pretty girls, for you'll find that her girls are pretty."

"All this is certainly very amusing. Well, what do you want me to be?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Let me see," said Gerald, laughing. "How would you like me to be an apothecary?"

"That would do very well, I should think."

"Oh, no, I was only joking; that wouldn't answer at all."

"But there are some very nice and gentlemanly apothecaries, I assure you, Gerald."

"But really I shouldn't dare to look any one of those pretty girls in the face."

"Let's try to think of something else, then. What do you say to being the clerk of a notary? How does that suit you?"

"Admirably. My mother has an interminable lawsuit on hand, and I drop in to see her notary and lawyer occasionally, so I can study the part from nature."

"Very well, follow me, then, and I will introduce you as Gerald Auvernay, clerk to a notary."

"Chief clerk to a notary," corrected Gerald, with great emphasis.

"Come on, ambitious youth!"

Gerald, thanks to Olivier's recommendation, was received by Madame Herbaut with great cordiality.