Herminie lived on the Rue de Monceau in one of the numerous dwellings of which M. Bouffard was the owner. She occupied a room on the ground floor, reached by a small hallway opening under the archway of the porte-cochère. The two windows looked out upon a pretty garden, enclosed on one side by an evergreen hedge, and on the other by a tall lattice that separated it from the adjoining street.

This garden really pertained to a much larger apartment on the ground floor, an apartment which, together with another suite of rooms on the third floor, was unoccupied,—an unpleasant state of things, which considerably increased M. Bouffard's ill-humour towards his delinquent tenants.

Nothing could have been simpler, yet in better taste, than this abode of the duchess.

A cheap but exceedingly fresh and pretty chintz covered the walls and rather low ceiling of the room. In the daytime full draperies of the same material concealed a large alcove in which the bed stood, as well as two glass doors near it, one of which opened into a tiny dressing-room, and the other into the hall, a sort of antechamber about eight feet square.

Chintz curtains, lined with pink, veiled the windows, which were also decorated with pretty white muslin sash curtains, tied back with pink ribbons. A carpet, with a white ground, with small bouquets of pink roses dropped here and there,—this carpet had been the most expensive item in Herminie's furnishing,—covered the floor. The mantel drapery, beautifully embroidered by Herminie herself, was pale blue, with garlands of roses and jonquils. Two candlesticks of exquisite Pompeian design stood, one on either side of a white marble clock, surmounted by a statuette of Joan of Arc, while at each end of the mantel stood two tall vases of grès verni, a wonderful invention, by the way. These vases, which were of the purest Etruscan form, held big bunches of fresh roses, which filled the room with their delicious fragrance.

These modest mantel decorations, being all of the cheapest materials, were of slight intrinsic value, having cost not more than fifty or sixty francs, but from an artistic point of view they were irreproachable.

Opposite the fireplace stood Herminie's piano, her bread-winner. Between the two windows was a table, which also served as a bookcase, the duchess having arranged several works by her favourite authors upon it, as well as a few books which she had received as prizes during her school-days.

Here and there upon the wall, in plain pine frames, so highly polished that they looked like citron wood, hung a few well-chosen engravings, among them "Mignon Pining for Her Native Land," and "Mignon Longing for Heaven," both by Scheffer, hanging one on either side of Francesca da Rimini, by the same artist.

In two corners of the room small étagères held several plaster statuettes, reduced copies of famous antiques. A small rosewood cabinet, bought for a song from some second-hand furniture dealer in the Batignolles, two pretty tapestry-covered chairs,—Herminie's handiwork,—and a large armchair of green satin decorated with beautiful silk embroidery in brilliant hues, representing flowers and birds, completed the furniture of the room.

By means of industry and intelligence, combined with exquisite taste, Herminie had been able to create for herself this elegant and refined home at comparatively little expense.

Culinary duties or details may have been distasteful to this fastidious duchess. At all events, she had managed to escape that difficulty through the good offices of the portress, who, for a trifling compensation, brought her a glass of milk every morning, and in the evening a plate of excellent soup, accompanied with a dish of vegetables and some fruit,—a frugal repast rendered appetising enough by the exquisite daintiness of Herminie's dinner-table; for though the duchess possessed only two cups and half a dozen plates, they were of fine china, and when the girl had placed on her round table, covered with a napkin of dazzling whiteness, her carafe, her cut-glass tumbler, her two shining silver forks and spoons, and her pretty china plate decorated with tiny pink roses and forget-me-nots, the simplest food seemed wonderfully appetising.

But alas! to Herminie's intense chagrin, her silver spoons and forks, and her watch, the only really valuable article she possessed, were now in pawn at the mont de piété, where she had been obliged to send them by the portress, the poor girl having no other means of defraying the daily expenses of her illness, and of obtaining a small sum of money upon which she could live until she was able to resume the lessons interrupted by her illness, for a period of nearly two months.

This long delay was the cause of Herminie's extreme poverty and consequent inability to pay the one hundred and eighty francs she owed M. Bouffard for rent.

One hundred and eighty francs!

And the poor child possessed only about fifteen francs upon which she would have to live for nearly a month!

It is evident, therefore, that the foot of a man had never crossed Herminie's threshold.

The duchess, free and untrammelled in every way, had never loved,—though she had inspired love in the hearts of many, without intending or even caring to do so, for she was too proud to stoop to coquetry, and too generous to enjoy the torments of an unrequited love. None of her suitors had pleased Herminie, in spite of the honesty of their matrimonial overtures, based in some cases, at least, upon a certain amount of affluence, for several had been engaged in business, while others were musicians like Herminie herself, and others clerks in dry-goods establishments, or bookkeepers.

The duchess could not fail to display, in her choice of a husband, the refined taste and exquisite delicacy which were her most prominent characteristics; but it is needless to say that the social position of the man she loved, whether high or low, would not have influenced her in the least.

She knew by herself, and she gloried in the knowledge, that rare nobility and refinement of soul are sometimes found in the poorest and most obscure, and that which had oftenest offended her in her suitors were the slight imperfections, not apparent very possibly to any one save the duchess, but inexpressibly obnoxious to her.

This suitor had been too boisterous in manner; that one, too familiar and unrefined; this one had a rasping voice; that one was almost grotesque in appearance. Nevertheless, some of the rejected suitors possessed many admirable qualities of mind and heart, as Herminie herself had been the first to admit. These she considered the best and most worthy men in the world, and frankly granted them her esteem, and even her friendship, but not her love.

It was not from any feeling of disdain or foolish ambition that Herminie had refused them, but simply, as she herself had said to the unfortunates, "because she felt no love for them, and was resolved to remain single all her life rather than marry without experiencing a sincere and profound love." And yet, by reason of this very pride, fastidiousness, and sensitiveness, Herminie must have suffered much more than the generality of persons from the painful and almost inevitable annoyances inherent to the position of a young girl who is not only obliged to live alone, but who is also exposed to the unfortunate conditions which may result at any time from a lack of employment or from sickness.

For some time, alas! the duchess had been realising most cruelly the unhappy consequences of her poverty and isolation. Any person who understands Herminie's character and her pride,—a pride that had impelled the young girl, in spite of her pressing need, to proudly return the five hundred franc note sent her by the executors of the Beaumesnil estate,—can readily understand the mingled terror and dismay with which the poor child was awaiting the return of M. Bouffard, for, as he had remarked to Madame Barbançon, he intended to pay his last round of visits to his delinquent tenants that afternoon.

Herminie was trying to devise some means of satisfying this coarse and insolent man, but, having already, pawned her silver and her watch, she had nothing more to pawn. No one would have loaned her twenty francs on her mantel ornaments, tasteful as they were, and her pictures and statuettes would have brought little or nothing.

Overcome with terror at the thought of her truly pitiable condition, Herminie was weeping bitterly and shuddering in the dread expectation of hearing M. Bouffard's imperious peal of the bell at any moment.

Yet so noble and generous was this young girl's nature that, even in the midst of these cruel perplexities, Herminie never once thought of saying to herself that she might be saved by an infinitesimal portion of the enormous superabundance belonging to the sister whose sumptuous apartments she had seen a couple of days before. If the duchess thought of her sister at all, it was that she might find in the hope of seeing her some diversion from her present grief and chagrin. And for this sorrow and chagrin Herminie now blamed herself as she cast a tearful glance around her pretty room, reproaching herself the while for her unwarranted expenditures.

She ought to have saved up this money for a rainy day, she said to herself, and for such misfortunes as sickness or a lack of pupils. She ought to have resigned herself to taking a room on the fourth floor, next door to strangers, to living separated from them only by a thin partition, in a bare and desolate room with dirty walls. She ought not to have allowed herself to be tempted by this outlook upon a pretty garden, and by the seclusion of her present apartments. She ought to have kept her money, too, instead of spending it on the pretty trifles which had been the only companions of her solitude, and which had converted the little room into a delightful retreat where she had lived so happily, confident of her ability to support herself.

Who ever would have supposed that a person as proud as she was would have to submit to the coarse, but just abuse of a man to whom she owed money,—money that she could not pay?

Could anything be more humiliating?

But these severe though just reproaches for past delinquencies did not ameliorate her present misery in the least; and she remained seated in her armchair, her eyes swollen with weeping, now absorbed in a gloomy reverie, now starting violently at the slightest sound, fearing that it presaged the arrival of M. Bouffard.

At last the agonising suspense was ended by a violent pull of the bell.

"It is he," murmured the poor creature, trembling in every limb. "I am lost!" she moaned.

And she remained seated in her chair, absolutely paralysed with fear.

A second peal of the bell, even more violent than the first, resounded in the tiny hall.

Herminie dried her eyes, summoned up all her courage, and, pale and trembling, went to open the door.

She had not been deceived.

It was M. Bouffard.

This glorious representative of the nation had laid aside the uniform of a citizen soldier and donned a gray sack coat.

"Well, have you my money ready?" he demanded, roughly, planting himself on the threshold of the door the girl had opened for him with such an unsteady hand.

"But, monsieur—"

"Do you intend to pay me, yes or no?" exclaimed M. Bouffard, in such a loud voice that the question was overheard by two other persons.

One was then standing under the porte-cochère. The other was mounting the staircase which started close to the entrance to Herminie's apartments.

"I ask you for the last time, will you pay me? Answer me, yes or no!" repeated M. Bouffard, in even louder and more threatening tones.

"In pity do not speak so loud," said Herminie, in imploring accents. "I assure you that, though I cannot pay you, it is not my fault; indeed it is not."

"I am in my own house, and I will talk as I please. If any one overhears me so much the better. It may serve as a lesson to other tenants who may want to get out of paying their rent just like you."

"Step inside, monsieur, I beseech you," pleaded Herminie, clasping her hands, imploringly; "and I will explain."

"Explain—explain what?" retorted M. Bouffard, following the girl into her room. "There's no explanation possible. The whole affair is very simple. Are you going to pay me,—yes, or no?"

"It is impossible, unfortunately, just at this time," said Herminie, dashing away a tear, "but if you will have the great kindness to wait—"

"Always the same old story!" sneered M. Bouffard, shrugging his shoulders.

Then glancing around the room with a sardonic air, he added:

"This is a pretty state of things! Here is a tenant who declares she cannot pay her rent, and yet indulges in fine carpets, chintz hangings, and all sorts of knick-knacks. If it isn't enough to make a man swear! I, who own seven houses in the city of Paris, have a carpet only in my drawing-room, and Madame Bouffard's boudoir is hung with a fifteen sous paper; and yet, here is a young woman who gives herself the airs of a princess, though she hasn't a penny."

Herminie, driven to desperation, lifted her head proudly, and, in a manner that was both firm and dignified, said:

"This piano is worth at least four times the amount of my indebtedness, monsieur. Send for it whenever you please. It is the only article of value I possess. Dispose of it; sell it whenever you like."

"Am I a dealer in pianos? How do I know what I should realise from the sale of your instrument? You must pay me my rent in money, and not in pianos."

"But good heavens, monsieur! I have no money. I offer you my piano, though I earn my living by it. What more can I do?"

"I won't accept anything of the kind. You have money, I know it. You sent a watch and some silver, too, to the pawnbroker's, for it was my portress who took them there for you. You can't humbug me, you see."

"Alas! monsieur, the paltry sum they loaned me I have been obliged to spend for—"

But Herminie did not finish the sentence. She had just perceived a gentleman standing in the open doorway. It was M. de Maillefort, and he had been an unobserved witness of the painful scene for several minutes.

Noting the girl's sudden start, and the surprised glance she was directing towards the door, M. Bouffard turned his head, and, seeing the hunchback, seemed quite as astonished as Herminie.

The marquis now advanced, and, bowing respectfully to Herminie, said:

"I beg a thousand pardons for thus intruding, mademoiselle, but I found the door open, and as I hope you will do me the honour to grant me a few moments' conversation on a very important matter, I ventured to enter."

After these words, which were uttered with as much courtesy as deference, the marquis turned to M. Bouffard and surveyed him from head to foot with such an expression of withering contempt that the ex-grocer became not only embarrassed, but thoroughly intimidated as well, in the presence of this hunchback, who said to him, coldly:

"I came, monsieur, to solicit the honour of a few minutes' conversation with this young lady."

"Oh—ah! Well, what is that to me?" grunted M. Bouffard, gradually regaining his assurance.

The marquis, without paying the slightest attention to M. Bouffard, and addressing Herminie, who was becoming more and more astonished, asked, deferentially:

"Will mademoiselle do me the favour to grant me the interview I ask?"

"But, monsieur," replied the girl, much embarrassed, "I do not know—I am not sure—"

"I must take the liberty of remarking that, as it is absolutely necessary that our conversation should be strictly confidential, it is indispensable that this—this gentleman should leave us, unless there may still be something you wish to say to him. In that case, I will retire."

"I have nothing further to say to monsieur," answered Herminie, pleased at the idea of escaping from her present painful position, even for a few moments.

"Mademoiselle has nothing more to say to you, monsieur," said the marquis to M. Bouffard, with a meaning gesture.

But the ex-grocer, who was now himself again, and who was consequently furious at the thought that he had allowed himself to be awed by the hunchback, exclaimed:

"So you fancy a man can be turned out of his own house without paying him his just dues, monsieur, and all because you support this—"

"Enough, monsieur, enough!" cried the marquis, hastily interrupting Bouffard.

And even as he spoke, he seized the offender by the arm with such violence that the ex-grocer, feeling the long, bony fingers of the hunchback hold him as in a vise, gazed at him with mingled fear and astonishment.

But the marquis, still smiling in the most amiable manner, continued with marvellous affability:

"I regret that I am unable to enjoy your delightful society any longer, my dear sir, but you see I am at mademoiselle's orders, and as she is good enough to grant me a few minutes, I must not abuse her kindness."

As he spoke, the marquis half led, half dragged M. Bouffard to the door, and that worthy, astonished to encounter such physical vigour and such an authoritative manner in a hunchback, offered no further resistance.

"I will go, as I have some other matters to attend to in the house," he exclaimed, making the best of the situation. "I am going up-stairs for awhile, but I shall return after you leave. I intend to have my money then, if I don't—"

The marquis bowed ironically, closed the door in the ex-grocer's face, and then returned to Herminie.

M. de Maillefort, much impressed by what Madame de la Rochaiguë had told him about the young musician who had been so unjustly treated, as she averred, by Madame de Beaumesnil, had again questioned Madame Dupont, a confidential attendant of the deceased countess.

This examination, which the marquis had conducted with great prudence and skill, revealed many new details concerning the relations which had existed between the countess and that young girl, and though Madame Dupont seemed to have no suspicion of the truth, M. de Maillefort felt almost certain that Herminie must be Madame de Beaumesnil's illegitimate child.

In spite of this firm conviction on his part, the marquis resolved to approach Herminie with the greatest reserve, not only because any revelation of his suspicions would dishonour Madame de Beaumesnil's memory, but, also, because the countess had never revealed her secret to M. de Maillefort, who had mistrusted rather than discovered it.

Herminie, utterly unable to imagine the object of this stranger's visit, was standing by the mantel, pale and agitated when the marquis returned to her side after M. Bouffard's summary expulsion.

A single quick glance around the abode of the duchess had satisfied the marquis of the perfect order, refined taste, and exquisite neatness of the girl's home, and this, together with what Madame de la Rochaiguë had told him of her noble disinterestedness, gave him a very high opinion of Herminie, and, almost sure that he saw in her the person he was so anxious to find, he studied her charming features in the hope of discovering a resemblance to Madame de Beaumesnil, and fancied that he had succeeded.

Though she did not exactly resemble her mother, Herminie, like Madame de Beaumesnil, was a blonde. Like her, she had blue eyes, and though the contour of the two faces was not alike, there was certainly a family likeness that could not fail to strike a close observer like M. de Maillefort; so it was with an emotion that he found it difficult to conceal that he approached Herminie, who was becoming more and more embarrassed by the long silence, and by the searching though almost affectionate gaze of her strange visitor.

"Mademoiselle," he said, at last, in an almost fatherly tone, "I must beg you to excuse my delay, but I experience a sort of embarrassment in expressing the great interest I feel in you."

M. de Maillefort's voice, as he uttered these words, was so full of feeling that the young girl looked at him wonderingly, then, more and more surprised, she ventured, timidly:

"But this interest, monsieur—"

"You cannot imagine what has aroused it. Very well, I will tell you, my dear child,—for let me call you that," the hunchback continued, as if in answer to a hasty movement on the part of Herminie; "my age and the interest I feel in you certainly give me a right to call you my dear child, if you will permit such a familiarity."

"It might serve to prove my gratitude for the kind and consoling words you have just uttered, monsieur, though the humiliating position in which you just saw me placed—"

"Oh, do not trouble yourself in the least about that," interrupted the marquis, "I—"

"I am not trying to justify myself," said Herminie, proudly, interrupting the marquis in her turn. "I have nothing to blush for, and though, for some inexplicable reason, you are kind enough to evince an interest in me, it is only my duty to tell you, or to try to prove to you, that it was neither mismanagement, extravagance, nor idleness that placed me in such a humiliating position for the first time in my life. Ill for nearly two months past, I have been unable to give lessons as usual. I resumed them only a few days ago, so I have been obliged to spend the small amount of money I had saved. This is the truth, monsieur. If I am a little in debt, it is only in consequence of my illness."

"Strange," thought the marquis, mentally comparing the date of the countess's death with that of the beginning of Herminie's illness, "it was about the time of Madame de Beaumesnil's death that this poor child must have been taken ill. Can grief have been the cause?"

And in tones of touching sympathy, the marquis asked aloud:

"And was this attack of illness severe, my dear child? You were overworked, perhaps."

Herminie blushed deeply. Her embarrassment was great, for she felt that it would be necessary to utter an untruth to conceal the real cause of her illness, and it was with considerable hesitation that she finally replied:

"I think I must have been overfatigued, monsieur, for the attack was followed by a sort of mental prostration, but now, thank Heaven, I am well again."

The girl's embarrassment and hesitation did not escape the marquis, who had already noted the expression of profound melancholy on Herminie's features.

"There isn't the slightest doubt of it," he mentally exclaimed. "She became ill with grief after Madame de Beaumesnil's death. She knows, then, that the countess was her mother. But in that case, why didn't the countess, in the frequent opportunities she must have had to be alone with her daughter, give her this money she entrusted to me?"

A prey to these perplexities, the hunchback, after another silence, said to Herminie:

"My dear child, I came here with the intention of maintaining the utmost reserve. Distrusting my own judgment, and greatly in doubt as to the course I ought to pursue, I had resolved to approach the subject that brought me here with infinite caution, for it is a delicate, yes, a sacred mission, that I have to fulfil."

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Will you be kind enough to listen to me, my dear child. What I have heard about you, and what I have just seen, or rather divined, perhaps,—in short, the confidence you inspire,—had changed this determination on my part, and I am going to talk to you freely and frankly, sure that I am speaking to an honest, true-hearted woman. You know Madame de Beaumesnil,—you loved her—"

Herminie could not repress a movement of astonishment, mingled with anxiety.

"Yes, I know," continued the hunchback. "You loved Madame de Beaumesnil devotedly. Your grief at her death was the sole cause of your illness."

"Monsieur," cried Herminie, terrified to see her secret, or rather that of her mother, almost at the mercy of a stranger, "I do not know what you mean. I conceived for Madame de Beaumesnil, during the brief time we were together, the respectful affection she deserved. Like all who knew her, I deeply deplored her death, but—"

"It is only right and natural that you should answer me thus, my dear child," said the marquis, interrupting Herminie. "You cannot have much confidence in me, not knowing who I am, not knowing even my name. I am M. de Maillefort."

"M. de Maillefort!" exclaimed the young girl, remembering that she had written a letter addressed to the marquis for her mother.

"You have heard my name before, then!"

"Yes, monsieur. Madame la Comtesse de Beaumesnil, not feeling strong enough to write herself, asked me to do it in her stead, and the letter you received on the night of her death—"

"Was written by you?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Then you must feel, my dear child, that you owe me your entire confidence. Madame de Beaumesnil had no more devoted friend than myself,—and it was upon the strength of this friendship of more than thirty years' standing, that she felt she could rely upon me sufficiently to entrust me with a sacred mission."

"Can he mean that my mother confided the secret of my birth to him?" thought Herminie.

The marquis, noticing Herminie's increasing agitation, and confident that he had at last found Madame de Beaumesnil's illegitimate daughter, continued:

"The letter you wrote for Madame de Beaumesnil requested me to come to her even at that late hour of the night. You remember this fact, do you not?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I obeyed the summons as soon as I received it. The countess felt that her end was fast approaching," continued the hunchback, in a voice that trembled with suppressed emotion. "After commending her daughter Ernestine to my care, Madame de Beaumesnil implored me to—to do her a last service. She entreated me to—to divide my care and interest between her daughter and—and another young girl no less dear to her—"

"He knows all," Herminie said to herself, with a sinking heart. "My poor mother's sin is no secret to him."

"This other young girl," continued the hunchback, more and more overcome, "was an angel, the countess told me. Yes, those were her very words,—an angel of virtue and courage, a brave and noble-hearted girl," added the marquis, his eyes wet with tears. "A poor, lonely orphan, who, though destitute alike of friends and resources, had struggled bravely on against a most adverse fate. Ah, if you could have heard the accents of despairing tenderness in which that most unhappy woman and unfortunate mother spoke of that young girl; for I divined—though she made no such admission, deterred, doubtless, by the shame of such an avowal—that only a mother could speak thus and suffer thus on thinking of her daughter's fate. No, no, it was not a stranger that the countess commended to my care with so much earnestness on her death-bed."

The marquis, overcome by emotion, paused an instant and wiped his tear-dimmed eyes.

"Oh, my mother," Herminie said to herself, making a brave effort at self-control, "then your last thoughts were indeed of your unhappy daughter!"

"I made the dying woman a solemn promise that I would fulfil her last request, and divide my solicitude between Ernestine de Beaumesnil and the young girl the countess implored me so earnestly to protect. Then she gave me this purse," continued the hunchback, drawing it from his pocket, "which contains, she assured me, a small competence which she charged me to deliver to the young girl whose future would thus be assured. But, unfortunately, Madame de Beaumesnil breathed her last without having told me the orphan's name."

"Thank Heaven! He only has his suspicions, then!" Herminie said to herself, rapturously. "I shall not have to bear the anguish of seeing a stranger know my mother's fault. Her memory will remain untarnished."

"You can judge of my anxiety and chagrin, my dear child," continued the marquis. "How was I to comply with Madame de Beaumesnil's last request, ignorant of the young girl's name? Nevertheless, I began my search, and, at last, after many fruitless attempts, I have found that orphan girl, beautiful, courageous, generous, as her poor mother said, and that girl is—is you—my child—my dear child," cried the hunchback, seizing both Herminie's hands.

Then, in a transport of joy and ineffable tenderness, he exclaimed:

"You see I have indeed the right to call you my child. No, never was there any father prouder of his daughter!"

"Monsieur," answered Herminie, in a voice she tried hard to make calm and firm, "though it costs me a great deal to destroy this illusion on your part, it is my duty to do it."

"What!" cried the hunchback.

"I am not the person you are seeking, monsieur," replied Herminie, firmly.

The marquis recoiled a step or two and gazed at the young girl without being able to utter a word.

To resist the influence of the revelation M. de Maillefort had just made to her, Herminie needed a heroic courage born of all that was purest and noblest in her character,—filial pride.

The young girl's heart revolted at the mere thought of confessing her mother's disgrace to a stranger by acknowledging herself to be Madame de Beaumesnil's daughter.

For what right had Herminie to confirm this stranger's suspicions by revealing a secret the countess herself had been unwilling to confess to her most devoted friend, a secret, too, which her mother had had the strength to conceal from her when clasped to her bosom, her child's heart-throbs mingled with her own.

While these generous thoughts were passing swiftly through Herminie's mind, the marquis, astounded by this refusal on the part of a young girl whose identity he could not doubt, tried in vain to discover the reason of this strange determination on her part.

At last he said to Herminie:

"Some motive, which it is impossible for me to fathom, prevents you from telling me the truth, my dear child. This motive, whatever it may be, is certainly noble and generous; then, why conceal it from me, your mother's friend, a friend who feels that he is obeying your mother's last wishes in coming to you?"

"This conversation is as painful to me as it is to you, M. le marquis," Herminie replied, sadly, "for it brings to mind a person who treated me with the greatest kindness during the brief time I was called upon to minister to her as a musician, and in no other capacity, I give you my word. I think that this declaration should be sufficient, and that you should spare me further entreaties on this subject. I repeat that I am not the person you are seeking."

On hearing this assurance again repeated, some of M. de Maillefort's doubts returned; but unwilling to abandon all hope, he exclaimed:

"No, no, I cannot be mistaken. Never shall I forget Madame de Beaumesnil's anxiety, nor her prayers for—"

"Permit me to interrupt you, M. le marquis, and to say to you that, under the painful influence of a scene that must have been particularly trying to you, you doubtless mistook the nature of the interest Madame de Beaumesnil felt in the orphan of whom you speak. To defend Madame de Beaumesnil's memory against such a mistake, I have no other right than that of gratitude, but the respectful regard I and every one else felt for Madame la comtesse convinces me that this is an error on your part."

This manner of looking at the matter accorded too well with M. de Maillefort's own secret hopes for him to turn an entirely deaf ear to this argument. Still, remembering the terrible anguish of the countess when she commended the orphan to his protection, he said:

"This much is certain: no one would speak in such terms of a stranger."

"How do you know that, M. le marquis?" retorted Herminie, gaining ground inch by inch. "I have heard many instances cited of Madame de Beaumesnil's boundless generosity. Her affection for some persons she assisted was, I have heard, as great as that she manifested for the orphan she asked you to protect, and as this girl, you say, is as deserving as she is unfortunate, it seems to me a sufficient explanation of the great interest the countess took in her. Possibly, too, she felt her protection to be a duty. Possibly some friend had confided the girl to Madame de Beaumesnil's care, as that lady in turn confided her to yours."

"But in that case, why should she have laid such stress upon concealing the name of the donor from the person to whom I was to deliver this money?"

"Because Madame de Beaumesnil, in this case, perhaps, as in many others, wished to conceal her benevolence."

And Herminie having now entirely recovered her coolness and composure, presented these arguments with such readiness that the marquis at last began to think that he had been deceived, and that he had suspected Madame de Beaumesnil unjustly.

Then a new idea occurred to him, and he exclaimed:

"But even admitting that the merit and the misfortunes of this orphan are her only claim, do not these conditions seem especially applicable in your own case? Why should it not be you the countess meant?" he asked.

"I knew Madame de Beaumesnil too short a time for me to deserve any such mark of her bounty, M. le marquis; besides, as the countess did not designate me by name, how can I,—I appeal to your own delicacy of feeling,—how can I accept a large sum of money on the mere supposition that it may have been intended for me?"

"All that would be very true if you did not deserve the gift."

"And in what way have I deserved it, M. le marquis?"

"By your attentions to the countess, and the alleviation of suffering she secured through you. Why is it at all unlikely that she should have desired to compensate you as she did others?"

"I do not understand you, monsieur."

"The will of the countess contained several legacies. You seem to be the only person who was forgotten, in fact."

"I had no right to expect any bequest, M. le marquis. I was paid for my services."

"By Madame de Beaumesnil?"

"By Madame de Beaumesnil," answered Herminie, firmly.

"Yes, you said as much to Madame de la Rochaiguë on so nobly returning—"

"Money that did not belong to me, M. le marquis, that is all."

"No!" exclaimed M. de Maillefort, his former convictions suddenly regaining the ascendency. "No, I was not mistaken,—instinct, reason, conviction, all tell me that you are—"

"M. le marquis," said Herminie, interrupting the hunchback, for she was anxious to put an end to this painful scene, "one word more, and only one. You were Madame de Beaumesnil's most valued friend, for on her death-bed she entrusted her daughter to your care. Would she not also have told you in that supreme moment if she had another child?"

"Great Heaven, no!" exclaimed the marquis, involuntarily. "The unhappy woman would have shrunk from the shame of such an avowal."

"Yes, I am sure of that," thought Herminie, bitterly. "And is it I who will make the disgraceful confession from which my poor mother shrank?"

The conversation was here interrupted by M. Bouffard's entrance. The emotion of the marquis and of the young girl was so great that they had not noticed the opening of the hall door.

The once ferocious landlord seemed to be in a very different mood. Something must have appeased his wrath, for his coarse and brutal manner had vanished, and his rubicund visage was wreathed with a crafty smile.

"What do you want?" demanded the marquis, curtly. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to make my excuses to mademoiselle."

"Your excuses?" said the young girl, greatly surprised.

"Yes, mademoiselle, and I wish to make them before monsieur, as I reproached you for not paying me in his presence, so I now declare before him,—I swear it in the presence of God and man,—I swear that I have been paid all that mademoiselle owed me."

"You have been paid!" cried Herminie, in amazement; "and by whom, monsieur?"

"Oh, you know very well, mademoiselle," responded M. Bouffard, with the same coarse laugh. "You know very well! What a sly one you are!"

"I have no idea what you mean, monsieur," said Herminie, indignantly.

"Bah!" cried M. Bouffard, shrugging his shoulders, "I suppose you're not going to try to make me believe that handsome young men pay the rent for pretty blondes merely for the love of God!"

"Some one has paid my rent for me, monsieur?" demanded Herminie, blushing scarlet.

"Yes, some one has paid it, and in shining yellow gold," replied M. Bouffard, drawing several gleaming coins from his pocket and tossing them up in the air. "Look at the yellow boys, ain't they pretty, eh?"

"And this gold, monsieur," said Herminie, unable to believe her own ears,—"this gold—who gave it to you?"

"Oh, don't try to play innocent, my dear. The person who paid me is a handsome fellow, tall, and dark complexioned, with a brown moustache. That description would answer for his passport, if he wanted one."

The marquis had listened to M. Bouffard first with surprise, and then with utter dismay.

This young girl, in whom he had taken so deep an interest, had suddenly become hateful in his eyes; so coldly bowing to Herminie, he walked silently to the door, with an expression of bitter disappointment on his face.

"Ah," he thought, "still another lost illusion!"

"Remain, monsieur," cried the young girl, running after him, all of a tremble, and overcome with shame, "I entreat you—I implore you to remain!"

On hearing Herminie's appeal, M. de Maillefort turned and asked, coldly and sternly:

"What do you want, mademoiselle?"

"What do I want, monsieur?" the girl exclaimed, her cheeks on fire, her eyes sparkling with tears of wounded pride and indignation. "What I want is to tell this man in your presence that he lies."

"I?" snorted M. Bouffard, indignantly. "Really, this is a little too much, when I have the yellow boys right here in my pocket."

"But I tell you that you lie!" cried the girl, advancing towards him, with a commanding gesture. "I have given no one the right to pay you, or to make me the victim of such an insult."

In spite of the coarseness of his nature, M. Bouffard was not a little impressed by this display of fiery indignation, so retreating a step or two, the owner of the house stammered by way of excuse:

"But I swear to you, mademoiselle, upon my sacred word of honour, that, as I was going up-stairs a few minutes ago, I was stopped on the first landing by a handsome, dark-complexioned young man who gave me this gold to pay your rent. I'm telling you the honest truth; upon my word I am!"

"Oh, my God, to be humiliated and insulted like this!" cried the young girl, her long repressed sobs bursting forth at last.

After a moment, turning to the hunchback, a silent witness of the scene, Herminie said, in entreating tones, her beautiful face bathed with tears:

"Oh, in pity, do not believe that I have merited this insult, M. le marquis."

"A marquis!" muttered M. Bouffard, hastily removing his hat, which he had kept upon his head up to that time.

M. de Maillefort, turning to Herminie, his face beaming as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his heart, took her by the hand as a father might have done, and said:

"I believe you, I believe you, my dear child! Do not stoop to justify yourself. Your tears, and the evident sincerity of your words, as well as your just indignation, all satisfy me that you are speaking the truth, and that this insulting liberty was taken without your knowledge or consent."

"I am certainly willing to say this much," said M. Bouffard, "though I've been in the habit of coming to the house almost every day, I never saw this young man before. But why do you feel so badly about it, my dear young lady? Your rent is paid, and you may as well make the best of it. There are plenty of other people who would like to be humiliated in the same way. Ha, ha, ha!" added M. Bouffard, with his coarse laugh.

"But you will not keep this money, monsieur?" cried Herminie. "I beg you will not; sell my piano,—my bed,—anything I possess, but in pity return this money to the person who gave it to you. If you keep it, the shame is mine, monsieur!"

"How you do go on!" exclaimed M. Bouffard. "I didn't feel insulted in the least in pocketing my rent. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, you know. Besides, where am I likely to find this handsome young man to return him his money? He is a stranger to me. I haven't the slightest idea who he is or where he came from; but it can easily be arranged. When you see the fellow you can tell him that it was against your wishes that I kept his money, but that I am a regular old Shylock and all that. Put all the blame on me, I don't mind; I've got a thick hide."

"Mademoiselle," said M. de Maillefort, addressing Herminie, who, with her face buried in her hands, was silently weeping, "will you consent to take my advice?"

"What would you have me do, monsieur?"

"Accept from me, who am old enough to be your father,—from me, who was the devoted friend of a person for whom you had as much respect as affection,—accept from me a loan sufficient to pay this gentleman. Each month you can pay me in small instalments. As for the money monsieur has already received, why, he must do his best to find the stranger who gave it to him. If he fails, he must give the money to some local charity."

Herminie listened to this proposal with the liveliest gratitude.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, M. le marquis," she exclaimed. "I accept your kind offer gladly, and am proud to be under obligations to you."

"But I utterly refuse to be a party to any such arrangement," exclaimed M. Bouffard.

"And why, monsieur?" demanded the marquis.

"I will not,—I will not, I tell you. It sha'n't be said that—in short, I'm not such a monster that—but no matter, let it be understood, once for all, that the marquis is to keep his money. I'll try to find that young coxcomb; if I don't, I'll drop his money in the poor-box. I won't sell your piano, mademoiselle, but I'll be paid, all the same. What do you say to that?"

"Have the goodness to explain, monsieur, if you please," said the marquis.

"Well, this is the long and short of it," answered M. Bouffard. "My daughter Cornelia has a music teacher, quite a famous teacher, I believe,—a M. Tonnerriliuskoff—"

"With such a name one ought certainly to make a noise in the world," said the marquis.

"And on the piano, too, M. le marquis. He's a six-footer, with a big, black moustache, and hands as big as—as shoulders of mutton. But this famous teacher costs like the devil,—fifteen francs a lesson, to say nothing of the repairs to the piano, which he almost hammers to pieces, he is so strong. Now if mademoiselle here would give Cornelia lessons at five—no, say four francs a lesson, and three lessons a week,—that would make twelve francs a week,—she could soon pay me what she owes me, and afterwards could pay her entire rent that way."

"Bravo, M. Bouffard!" cried the marquis.

"Well, what do you think of my proposition, mademoiselle?"

"I accept it most gratefully, and thank you with all my heart for this chance to free myself of my obligations to you in such an easy way. I assure you that I will do everything possible to further your daughter's progress."

"Oh, that will be all right, I'm sure. It is understood, is it? Three lessons a week, at four francs a lesson, beginning day after to-morrow. That will be twelve francs a week,—better call it ten, I guess,—it's easier to calculate. Ten francs a week makes forty francs a month,—quite a snug little sum."

"Any terms you choose to name will suit me, monsieur. I accept them gratefully."

"Ah, well, my dear sir," said the marquis, turning to M. Bouffard, "aren't you much better satisfied with yourself now than you were awhile ago, when you were frightening this poor child nearly to death by your threats?"

"That's a fact, monsieur,—that's a fact, for this young lady is certainly deserving. Then, too, I shall get rid of that odious music master, with his big, black moustache and fifteen franc lessons. Besides, he is always having his big hands on Cornelia's hands to show her the fingering, he says, and I don't like it."

"My dear M. Bouffard," said the marquis, taking the ex-grocer a little aside, "will you allow me to give you a word of advice?"

"Why certainly, M. le marquis."

"Never give masters to a young girl or a young woman, because sometimes, you see, there is a change of rôles."

"A change of rôles, M. le marquis?" repeated M. Bouffard, wonderingly.

"Yes; not unfrequently the scholar becomes the mistress,—the mistress of the master. Understand?"

"The mistress of the master? Oh, yes, very good! I understand perfectly. That is good; very good, indeed! Ha, ha, ha!"

Then, suddenly becoming serious, he added:

"But now I think of it, if that Hercule de Tonnerriliuskoff undertakes—"

"Mlle. Bouffard's virtue must be above suspicion, my dear sir; still, it might be safer—"

"The brigand shall never set foot in my house again. Thanks for your counsel, M. le marquis."

Then, returning to Herminie, M. Bouffard added:

"So we will begin day after to-morrow at two o'clock; that is Cornelia's hour."

"At two o'clock, then. I will be punctual, I promise you."

"And at ten francs a week?"

"Yes, monsieur, and even less, if you say so."

"Would you come for eight?"

"Yes," answered Herminie, smiling, in spite of herself.

"We'll say eight francs, then."

"Come, come, M. Bouffard, a wealthy real estate owner like you shouldn't stoop to any such haggling," the marquis interposed. "What! an elector,—perhaps even an officer in the National Guard,—for you seem to me quite equal to such a position—"

M. Bouffard straightened himself up proudly, and, making a military salute, responded:

"A second lieutenant in the first company of the second regiment of the first batallion, M. le marquis."

"All the more reason that you should uphold the dignity of your rank, dear M. Bouffard," replied M. de Maillefort.

"That is true, M. le marquis. I said ten francs, and ten francs it shall be. I always honour my signature. I will go and try to find that young coxcomb. He may be hanging around somewhere outside the house now. I'll ask Mother Moufflon, the portress, if she knows anything about him, and tell her to watch out for him. Your servant, M. le marquis. I'll see you again, day after to-morrow, mademoiselle."

Then, turning again, just as he reached the door, he said to Herminie:

"Mademoiselle, an idea has just occurred to me. You see I'd like to convince the marquis here that Bouffard is not such a bad fellow, after all."

"Let us hear the idea, M. Bouffard," said the hunchback.

"You see that little garden out there, M. le marquis?"

"Yes."

"It belongs to the large apartment on this floor. Ah, well, I intend to allow mademoiselle the use of this garden—until the other apartment is rented, at least."

"Do you really?" cried Herminie, overjoyed. "Oh, I thank you so much. What pleasure it will give me to walk about in that pretty garden!"

But M. Bouffard had already fled, as if his natural modesty forbade his listening to the protestations of gratitude such a generous offer must inspire.