"At the expiration of a few days Mlle. Helena had succeeded in securing full information in regard to M. Célestin de Macreuse, and she began to talk of him, not occasionally, but almost incessantly.

"She told me that M. de Macreuse, by his birth and connections, was entitled to a place in the very best society; but, being endowed with the most exemplary piety, and with wonderfully philanthropic instincts, he had founded a charitable mission of the most admirable kind, and though still young, his name was uttered everywhere with the most profound affection and respect.

"Madame de la Rochaiguë, on the other hand, praised M. de Senneterre in the most extravagant way, while my guardian embraced every opportunity to laud M. de Mornand's talents and virtues to the skies.

"At first I saw nothing extraordinary in these flattering mentions of persons who seemed well worthy of praise, but I soon began to notice that the names of these gentlemen were mentioned by my guardian, his wife, or his sister only in conversations which one or the other had separately with me.

"At last came the day when M. de Maillefort so spitefully, but, alas! so truly, explained the real cause of the attentions and flattery lavished upon me, and it soon became evident to me that my guardian and his wife, apprised of the situation by Mlle. Helena, must fear the consequences of the revelation which had been such a shock to me; for the very next day each one of the three, in turn, disclosed his or her plans to me,—plans evidently conceived long before,—and assured me that the happiness of my life and the certainty of a blissful future depended upon my marrying—

"M. de Macreuse,—according to Mlle. Helena.

"M. de Senneterre,—according to Madame de la Rochaiguë.

"M. de Mornand,—according to my guardian.

"On hearing these unexpected proposals, my surprise and uneasiness were so great that I could make no coherent reply, and my embarrassed, incoherent words having been taken as a sort of tacit consent, I, after a little reflection, decided to leave the champions of these three suitors under the same erroneous impression.

"This induced them to make their confidential disclosures much more complete.

"'My brother and his wife,' said Mlle. Helena, 'are excellent people, but extremely vain and worldly. Neither of them is capable of appreciating the rare excellence of M. de Macreuse's principles, his Christian virtues, and his almost angelic piety; so we must keep our secret, my dear Ernestine, until you have chosen the husband I suggest, because he is so worthy of your choice. Then, proud and honoured by this choice, you will only have to notify my brother, your guardian, who will give his consent, I am sure, if you only evince proper firmness. If he should refuse his consent, which is not at all likely, however, we will resort to other and certain means of ensuring your happiness.'

"'My poor sister Helena,' said M. de la Rochaiguë, in his turn, 'is a most excellent woman, a saint if there ever was one, but she knows nothing in the world about mundane matters. If you should take it into your head to say anything about M. de Mornand to her, she would open her eyes in astonishment, and tell you that he cares only for the vain things of this world, that he is ambitious of power, etc. As for my wife, she is perfect, but separate her from her balls, and her toilets, and her social gossip, and her beaux who think only of the tie of their cravats, and their strawberry-coloured gloves, and she is completely at sea, for she knows nothing in the world about higher things. To her, M. de Mornand would be a grave, serious, depressing man, a statesman, in short, and by the slighting manner in which you have heard her speak of the Chamber of Peers, my dear child, you can imagine how she would regard a proposal of marriage from him. So all this must be kept a profound secret between you and me, my dear ward, and your mind once made up, as it is I who am your guardian after all, and as your marriage will depend upon my consent, you will have no difficulty in carrying out your wishes eventually.'

"'You must understand, my dear child,' said Madame de la Rochaiguë, 'that all I have just said to you about M. de Senneterre must be kept a profound secret between us. My sister Helena knows no more about matrimonial matters than a babe unborn, and that dear husband of mine has really gone politics mad. He dreams only of the Chamber of Peers, and knows no more about the fashions, and pleasure, and elegance, than a Huron Indian. In fact, he has no conception whatever of the delights of a life shared with a charming young duke, who is the most generous and amiable of men. So let us guard our secret well, my dearest child, and, when the time comes to inform your guardian of your decision, I'll attend to that, for M. de la Rochaiguë has been in the habit of letting me have my own way so long that I am sure he will offer no opposition in this instance, but readily consent to do whatever we wish in the matter. And now I want to tell you that a most fortunate idea occurred to me the other day,' continued Madame de la Rochaiguë. 'I have begged one of my friends, whom you already know, Madame de Mirecourt, to give a ball one week from to-day; so, my dear child, next Thursday, in the public tête-à-tête of a quadrille, you will have an opportunity to judge of the sincerity of the sentiment M. de Senneterre feels for you.'

"The very next morning after this conversation my guardian said to me, in the most confidential manner:

"'My wife thinks of taking you to a ball Madame de Mirecourt intends to give. You will see M. de Mornand at this entertainment, and I am sure he will not let the opportunity pass to convince you of the deep and irresistible impression the sight of you made upon him when we went to congratulate him on the success of his speech that day at the palace.'

"In like manner, a couple of days after my guardian and his wife had thus disclosed their plans, Mlle. Helena said to me:

"'My dear Ernestine, my sister-in-law intends to take you to Madame de Mirecourt's ball Thursday. I think this will be an excellent opportunity for you to meet M. de Macreuse, and though this poor young man, who is so bowed down with grief, has none of the frivolous attributes which enable one to shine at affairs of this kind, he has requested one of his particular friends—quite an important personage, by the way, the sister of the Bishop of Ratopolis—to ask Madame de Mirecourt for a card for him. This request was promptly complied with, so on Thursday you will see him, and I feel sure you will not be able to resist his eloquence when he tells you, as he has told me, how your adored image has followed him everywhere, and has even troubled his prayers ever since the first time he saw you at church.'

"It is consequently at the ball next Thursday, my dearest mother, that I am to have my first interview with Messrs. de Macreuse, de Senneterre and de Mornand.

"Even if M. de Maillefort's sarcastic remarks had not harshly revealed the real cause of the admiration and affection so generally manifested for me, my fears and suspicions must now have been awakened by the duplicity of those around me, plotting unbeknown to each other, and deceiving each other in order to succeed in their nefarious designs. You can judge of my anxiety, my beloved mother, now these two successive revelations have assumed such grave importance.

"To complete my confession, my dear mother, I must tell you plainly what my first impressions were in relation to the three persons the different members of the Rochaiguë family wish me to marry.

"Up to this time, I had never given the subject of marriage so much as a thought; the day for that seemed so far off, and it was such an important matter, that if a vague thought of it ever did flit through my mind, I merely congratulated myself that there was no need of troubling myself about that matter for a long time.

"Consequently it was not with any thought of him as a possible husband that I was touched by the evident grief of M. de Macreuse, who, like myself, was mourning the loss of a mother, though what Mlle. Helena was continually saying about the sweetness of his expression, his profound melancholy, and the kindness of his heart as shown by his munificent alms, all combined to add a profound esteem to the compassion I felt for him.

"M. de Senneterre, by the frankness and generosity of his character, by his unaffected gaiety and the graceful elegance of his manners, had pleased me very much; and it seemed to me that it would be very easy, though I am naturally so reserved, to feel perfect confidence in him.

"As for M. de Mornand, he had impressed me very much, though this was probably due quite as much to what I had heard about the superiority of his talents and character as to the powerful influence he seemed to exert, so I felt almost overwhelmed, though decidedly proud of the few kind words he addressed to me when I met him in the garden of the Luxembourg.

"And now when M. de Maillefort's revelations have made me distrust everything and everybody, I hear that all three of these men desire to marry me. Is it strange, then, that I am no longer able to read my own heart, and that, tormented by all kinds of doubts and suspicions, I ask myself if these three suitors for my hand are not all actuated by the same base motives as the persons by whom I am surrounded.

"And harassed by these doubts, all that pleased me and all that I so much admired in them now disturbs and alarms me. What if M. de Macreuse's grief and piety, M. de Senneterre's charming urbanity of manner, and M. de Mornand's grand and generous utterances, all conceal base and mercenary natures!

"Oh, mother, if you knew how terrible to me are these doubts which are completing the work of destruction M. de Maillefort's revelation began.

"They are the more terrible because I shall always be obliged to live with my guardian and his family, and if I become convinced beyond a doubt that they have flattered and deceived me merely for their own aggrandisement, I shall feel for them only the bitterest contempt and aversion.

"Because I am immensely rich, must I be married only for my money?

"Am I doomed to the misery of such a marriage, the indifference, contempt, hatred, perhaps, that are sure to follow when a man is mean enough to wed a woman merely for mercenary motives?

"Oh, mother, the thought is so horrible that it haunts me continually. I can not drive it away, strive as I may.

"So I have resolved to escape from it at the cost of a dangerous, perhaps fatal experiment.

"I have been induced to make this resolve because it seemed to be the only means of satisfying my cruel doubts, not only in regard to others, but myself as well. I must know once for all what I really am, and what I really appear to be, independent of my fortune.

"Satisfied on this point, I shall easily be able to distinguish the true from the false. But how am I to ascertain what I am? How am I to discover my precise value, so to speak? Whom can I ask? Who will be frank enough to separate the young girl from the heiress in his valuation?

"Besides, would such a verdict, however severe or kindly it might be, satisfy and reassure me entirely?

"No, I must have the verdict of several disinterested parties.

"But where can I find any such persons? After a great deal of thought, I have decided upon this plan.

"Madame Laîné was telling me about a week ago of some little entertainments that one of her friends gives every Sunday. I have sought and found, this evening, a way to attend one of these reunions in company with my governess, but ostensibly as a relative of hers, a young orphan who supports herself by her daily toil, like all the other young people who compose the company.

"There no one will know me. What they really think of me will be shown conclusively by the reception given me. The rare perfections with which I am endowed—according to those around me—have had such a sudden and irresistible effect, they say, upon them, and upon the husbands they have picked out for me,—in short, I produce such a sensation at all the assemblies I frequent, that I am anxious to see if I shall prove equally irresistible to the young people at Madame Herbaut's modest entertainment.

"If I do not, I shall know that I have been basely deceived, and there is little danger that I shall ever endanger my future happiness by fixing my choice upon either of the suitors attracted solely by cupidity.

"I am also resolved to find some means of escaping the snares that seem to surround me on every side.

"What means I do not know. Alas! alone in the world as I am, in whom can I confide? In whom can I trust?

"In God and in you, my mother. I shall obey all the inspirations you send me, as I obey this, for, strange as it may appear, I cannot divest myself of the idea that this did come from you. At all events, it had its origin in a wise and noble sentiment,—a desire to know the truth, however disheartening it may be.

"So to-morrow, I am resolved to attend the reunion at Madame Herbaut's house."

So the next day, Mlle. de Beaumesnil, having feigned indisposition, and having escaped the assiduous attentions of the Rochaiguës by a firm refusal to admit them to her room, left the house soon after nightfall, accompanied by her governess, and, taking a cab some distance from the mansion, was driven to Madame Herbaut's house.

END OF VOLUME I.

THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS
PRIDE—Continued

Pride—One of the Seven Cardinal Sins.
ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS BY
ADRIAN MARCEL.
BY EUGENE SUE

IN TWO VOLUMES
VOLUME II.

Vol. II.

Madame Herbaut occupied quite a spacious suite of apartments on the third floor of the same house in which Commander Bernard lived.

The rooms devoted to these Sunday reunions consisted of the dining-room, where the young people danced to the music of the piano; the drawing-room, where there were card-tables for those who did not care to dance, and, lastly, Madame Herbaut's bedroom, where guests could sit and chat without being disturbed by the noise of the dancing, and without disturbing the card-players.

This simply furnished, but comfortable abode indicated that Madame Herbaut—who, by the way, was the widow of a small merchant—was in very comfortable circumstances, though far from rich.

The worthy woman's two daughters found lucrative employment, one in painting on china, the other in copying music,—work which had led to her acquaintance with Herminie, who also copied music when pupils were scarce.

The rooms presented a scene of even more than usual gaiety that evening. There were about fifteen young girls, none over twenty years of age, all resolved to make the most of Sunday, their only day of rest and pleasure, so richly earned by toil and confinement all the week, either at the counter, in the office, in some gloomy little back shop on the Rue St. Denis or the Rue des Bourdonnais, or perhaps in some pension.

Some of these young girls were extremely pretty, and nearly all were dressed with the good taste that characterises the attire of this humble and industrious class of people only in Paris, probably.

These poor girls, being obliged to work hard all the rest of the week, reserved all their little coquettish adornments for their one fête day, the day so impatiently awaited on Saturday, and so deeply regretted on Monday.

As is usual at such reunions, the masculine element in the little assembly presented a much less elegant and stylish appearance than the feminine element. In fact, but for some almost imperceptible shades of difference, most of these young girls were as bright and attractive as if they belonged to the very best society, but this slight superiority on the part of the young girls was soon forgotten, thanks to the cordial good-humour and frank gaiety, tempered with respect, which the young men displayed towards their fair companions.

Instead of being at its best about one o'clock in the morning, as is generally the case with a fashionable ball, this little assembly reached the very zenith of animation and enjoyment about nine o'clock, as the hostess always sent her guests home relentlessly before midnight, so they would be ready to resume work the next morning at the accustomed hour.

And what a dreary time Monday morning was, with the music and laughter of the night before still ringing in your ears, and the prospect of six long days of close confinement and drudgery before you!

But with what growing impatience and transports of joy you watched the approach of the longed-for day.

It comes at last, and then what exuberant happiness!

Oh, rare and modest joys that have never been impaired by satiety!

But Madame Herbaut's guests were not philosophising much that evening. They were reserving their philosophy for Monday.

These untiring young people were whirling swiftly around the room to the inspiring strains of a lively polka; and such was the magic of the strains that even the ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room, in spite of their age and the grave preoccupations of Pope Joan and loto,—the only games Madame Herbaut allowed,—moved their heads to and fro and kept time with their feet, in short, executed a sort of antiquated sitting polka, which testified to the skill of the musician at the piano.

And this musician was Herminie.

About a month had passed since her first meeting with Gerald. Had other meetings followed that interview begun under most unpleasant auspices and ending with a gracious forgiveness? We shall know in due time.

This evening, in a dress of some soft, pale blue material that cost, perhaps, twenty sous a yard, and a large bow of ribbon of the same delicate hue in her magnificent golden hair, the duchess was ravishingly beautiful.

A faint rose tint suffused her cheeks, her large blue eyes shone like stars, and her half smiling scarlet lips revealed a row of pearl-white teeth, while her girlish bosom rose and fell gently beneath the thin fabric that veiled it, and her little foot, daintily clad in a satin slipper, beat time to the strains of the lively polka.

To-day there could be no doubt that Herminie was very happy. Far from holding herself aloof from the amusements of her companions, Herminie greatly enjoyed seeing them enjoy themselves, and always did everything in her power to add to their pleasure, but this generosity of feeling would hardly suffice to explain the exuberance of life and youth and happiness which imparted an unusually radiant expression to the enchanting features of the duchess. One somehow felt that this charming creature knew how charming and lovely and refined she was, and that the knowledge made her, not proud, but happy,—happy like those generous possessors of wealth, who prize their wealth chiefly because it enables them to confer happiness on others.

Though the duchess was deeply interested in her polka and the dancers, she turned her head involuntarily several times on hearing the door open, but on seeing the persons who entered, she seemed rather to reproach herself for her inattention to the business in hand.

The door opened again, and again Herminie cast a quick, almost impatient glance in that direction.

The newcomer this time was Olivier, the commander's nephew.

Seeing the young soldier leave the door open as if some one was following him, Herminie blushed slightly, and ventured another glance. But alas! in the doorway behind him there appeared a stout, rosy youth of eighteen, with an honest, artless face, and hands encased in green kid gloves.

It is difficult to say why Herminie seemed a little disappointed on the entrance of this youth,—perhaps it was because she hated green kid gloves,—but the disappointment betrayed itself in a charming pout and in the increasing vivacity of the strains to which her little foot was impatiently beating time.

The polka ended, Herminie, who had been at the piano ever since the beginning of the evening, was immediately surrounded, and thanked and complimented and furthermore invited to dance by a number of the young men, but she filled the souls of the aspirants with despair by pleading a slight lameness as an excuse for not dancing that evening.

And you should have seen the gait Herminie adopted, in support of this atrocious falsehood, decided upon the minute she saw Olivier come in alone! Certainly no wounded dove ever dragged her little pink foot along with a more distressed air.

Inconsolable at this accident which deprived them of the much coveted pleasure of dancing with the duchess, the aspirants, hoping for some compensation, offered their arm to the interesting cripple, but she had the cruelty to prefer the support of Madame Herbaut's eldest daughter, and repaired with her to that lady's room to rest and get a little fresh air, she said, as the windows of that apartment overlooked Commander Bernard's garden.

Herminie had hardly left the room, leaning on Hortense Herbaut's arm, when Mlle. de Beaumesnil arrived, accompanied by Madame Laîné.

The richest heiress in France wore a dress of simple white muslin, with a narrow blue sash, and her entrance was unnoticed, though it occurred during the interval between two quadrilles.

Ernestine was not pretty, neither was she ugly, so no one paid the slightest attention to her; and as the young girl compared this reception with the flattering eagerness with which people had crowded around her heretofore, her heart sank, and she began to realise the truth of M. de Maillefort's words.

"They knew my name at the other entertainments," Ernestine said to herself, "and it was only the heiress that they gazed at, and flattered, and besieged with attentions."

Madame Laîné was just introducing Ernestine to Madame Herbaut when that lady's eldest daughter, who had accompanied Herminie to the bedroom, said, after a glance into the drawing-room:

"I must leave you, my dear duchess. I notice that a lady has just come in who wrote to mamma this morning, asking permission to bring a young relative with her, so you see—"

"Why, go, of course, my dear Hortense. You must do the honours of your house, certainly," replied Herminie, not sorry, perhaps, to be left alone awhile.

So Mlle. Herbaut rejoined her mother, who was welcoming Ernestine with simple cordiality.

"You will soon become used to our ways, my dear," she was saying. "The young girls and the young men dance in the dining-room, while their mothers and fathers—when they come—play cards in the drawing-room, so you see each guest amuses himself to his liking."

Then, to her daughter, she added:

"Hortense, take mademoiselle to the dining-room. You, my dear friend," she continued, addressing the governess, "must come to the Pope Joan table. I know your taste, you see."

As we said before, this introduction had taken place in the interval between the polka and a quadrille, and a young painter, a very good musician, having taken Herminie's seat, now struck a few chords as a signal for the dancers to take their places.

The Herbaut girls, being daughters of the house, and being also extremely pretty and good-natured, seldom lacked for partners, and Olivier, wearing with much grace the dashing uniform which would have sufficed to distinguish him from the other men, even if he had not been remarkably prepossessing in appearance, approached Mlle. Herbaut just as she was entering the dining-room, in company with Ernestine, and said:

"You haven't forgotten, I hope, that this quadrille belongs to me, Mlle. Hortense. Don't you think we had better take our places?"

"I will be at your service in a second, M. Olivier," replied Hortense, who was conducting Mlle. de Beaumesnil towards a long couch, on which several other young girls were seated.

"I hope you will pardon me for leaving you so soon," she remarked to Ernestine, "but I am engaged for this dance. Won't you take a seat here on the couch. I'm sure you will not lack for partners."

"Pray do not trouble yourself any further about me, mademoiselle," replied Ernestine.

The sounds of the piano becoming more and more peremptory, Hortense Herbaut hurried off to join her partner, and Mlle. de Beaumesnil seated herself on the couch.

The test on which Ernestine had so courageously resolved was beginning in earnest. Near her sat five or six young girls, the least attractive, it must be admitted, of the guests, and who, not having been engaged in advance, like the belles of the ball, were modestly waiting for an invitation to take part in the quadrille.

Either because Ernestine's companions were prettier than she was, or because their manner was more attractive, she saw one after another of them invited, without any apparent notice being taken of her.

Only one very plain-looking young girl was sharing Mlle. de Beaumesnil's neglected condition when some one exclaimed:

"Another couple is needed! We must have another couple here!"

The youth so gorgeously adorned with the apple-green kid gloves was anxious to do his part towards filling the vacancy, so, seeing two young girls still unengaged, he rushed forward to invite one of them, but instead of making his choice unhesitatingly, so as to spare the one that was left the petty humiliation of feeling herself weighed in the balance only to be found wanting, he stood for a few seconds as if undecided, and then selected Mlle. de Beaumesnil's neighbour, his preference being, doubtless, due to the greater showiness of her apparel.

Trivial as this incident seems, perhaps, it would be difficult to describe the intense anguish that wrung Mlle. de Beaumesnil's heart.

On seeing several of the other young girls invited in turn, Ernestine's natural modesty had excused the preference thus evinced, but in proportion as the number of her companions diminished, and when she at last found herself left alone with this unprepossessing companion, whose homeliness was not even redeemed by any pretensions to elegance of manner, her heart sank within her, but when she saw herself disdained, as it were, after having been compared with her companion, she experienced a terrible shock.

"Alas!" she said to herself, with infinite sadness, "if I cannot stand comparison with these young girls around me, and particularly with this last one, nobody can ever care for me, and any one who tries to convince me to the contrary must be—I see plainly now—actuated only by base and mercenary motives. All these young girls who have been preferred to me can, at least, feel assured that the preference is sincere,—there are no cruel doubts to mar the pleasure of their innocent triumph; but I—I shall never know even this slight happiness."

And Mlle. de Beaumesnil's grief at the thought was so poignant that she had all she could do to repress her tears.

But though these tears did not flow, her pale face betrayed such painful emotion that two generous-hearted people each noticed it in turn.

The quadrille was going on while mademoiselle abandoned herself to these gloomy reflections, and Olivier, who was dancing with Mlle. Hortense Herbaut, found himself directly opposite Ernestine, and thus in a position to observe the humiliating situation in which she was placed, as well as the almost heart-broken expression of her face. Olivier was so deeply touched that he asked:

"Who is that young lady sitting alone over there? I have never seen her here before, I think."

"No, M. Olivier, she is a stranger. One of mamma's friends brought her this evening."

"She is not pretty, and she doesn't seem to know anybody. At least nobody has asked her to dance. Poor little thing, how dull it must be for her!"

"If I had not been engaged for this dance, I should have stayed with her, but—"

"Of course, Mlle. Hortense, you have your duties as hostess to attend to, but I will certainly ask her to dance the next quadrille with me. I don't like to see her so neglected."

"Mother and I will both feel exceedingly grateful to you, M. Olivier. It would be a real deed of charity," said Hortense.

Almost at the same instant that Olivier first noticed Mlle. de Beaumesnil's isolation, Herminie entered the salon from the adjoining bedroom, and, walking up to one of the card-tables, leaned over the back of Madame Herbaut's chair to watch the game. From where she stood she could look straight out into the dining-room through the folding doors, and, chancing to raise her eyes, she exclaimed:

"Why, who is that young girl sitting there alone on the couch, and looking so sad?"

Madame Herbaut, glancing up from her cards, answered:

"It is a young girl one of my friends over there at the Pope Joan table brought with her this evening. She doesn't know anybody here, and, not being at all pretty, it is not surprising that she has no partner."

"But the poor child can't be allowed to sit there alone all the evening," said Herminie, "so, as I can't dance myself, I'll try to entertain the stranger and make the time seem less tedious to her."

"It is just like you to think of doing such a kind and generous act," replied Madame Herbaut, laughing, "and I assure you I shall be very grateful to you, for Hortense and Claire have so many other duties on their hands, and I fear there isn't much likelihood of this young girl's securing any partners."

"Oh, don't worry about that, madame," replied Herminie. "I'm sure I shall be able to save her from any discomfort on that account."

"How will you do it, my dear duchess?"

"Oh, that is my affair," laughed Herminie.

And still limping slightly,—deceitful creature that she was,—she walked towards the couch on which Mlle. de Beaumesnil was sitting.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil, on seeing Herminie approach, was so struck by her remarkable beauty that she entirely failed to notice the slight lameness which the duchess had feigned in order to avoid dancing that evening.

So what was Ernestine's surprise, when the duchess, seating herself beside her, said, in the most friendly manner:

"I am deputised by Madame Herbaut to come and keep you company for a little while, in place of her daughters, who, of course, have many duties to perform."

"So some one at least pities me," thought Mlle. de Beaumesnil, deeply humiliated.

But Herminie's voice and manner were so sweet and engaging, and the expression of her face was so kind, that Ernestine, reproaching herself for the bitterness of her first thought, replied:

"I thank you very much, mademoiselle, but I fear that by thus detaining you, I shall deprive you of the pleasure of—"

"Of dancing?" asked Herminie, smilingly. "I assure you, mademoiselle, that my foot hurts me too much this evening to permit of my enjoying myself in that way, so I trust you will grant me your companionship as a compensation for my misfortune."

"Really, mademoiselle, you quite overpower me by your kindness."

"I am only doing what you would gladly do for me, I am sure, mademoiselle, if you should see me sitting alone, as frequently happens when one attends a little entertainment like this for the first time."

"I do not believe, mademoiselle," replied Ernestine, smiling, and now made entirely at ease by these gracious advances,—"in fact, I am sure that you would never be left alone even the first time you went anywhere."

"Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, it is you who are overwhelming me with compliments now," laughingly protested Herminie.

"I assure you that I am only saying what I really think," Ernestine replied so artlessly that the duchess, appreciating the artless flattery, replied:

"I thank you for your very flattering words. I am sure that they are sincere; as for their being really deserved,—that is an entirely different thing. But tell me, what do you think of our little party?"

"It is charming, mademoiselle."

"I think so, too. Everybody is so gay and animated! Each guest seems determined to make the most of every minute of time. Nor is it strange. Sunday comes only once a week for all of us here, and enjoyment is really enjoyment, while to many people it is a fatiguing occupation. Surfeited with pleasure, they do not even know what it is to be amused; and it seems to me that nothing could be more sad than to be always trying hard to amuse oneself."

"Oh, yes, it must be sad, as sad as trying to find true affection, when nobody cares for you," Ernestine answered, unconsciously revealing the thought uppermost in her mind.

There was such an intense melancholy in the girl's tone and in her face, that Herminie was deeply touched by it.

"Poor child!" she said to herself, "probably she is not a favourite at home, and that makes her all the more sensitive to slights when she is out in company."

Something Herminie noticed just then seemed to confirm this suspicion, for the progress of the dance having brought the green-gloved youth and his partner directly opposite Ernestine, the duchess saw the favoured one cast several compassionate and rather patronising glances at the less fortunate damsel.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil also noticed these glances, and fancied that she must be an object of pity to every one. The thought, of course, wounded her deeply, so one can judge of her gratitude, when Herminie said, with a smile:

"Are you willing to waive all ceremony between us, mademoiselle?"

"Certainly."

"Well, I find it dreadfully warm here. Would you mind going with me to Madame Herbaut's chamber to stay awhile?"

"Oh, thank you, mademoiselle, thank you," exclaimed Ernestine, gratefully, rising eagerly as she spoke.

"But why do you thank me?" asked Herminie, drawing the younger girl's hand through her arm. "On the contrary, it is I who should thank you for consenting to leave the ballroom on my account."

"I thank you because I understand your motive, mademoiselle," replied Ernestine, as they entered Madame Herbaut's chamber, which they found entirely deserted.

"Well, now that we are alone, explain again why you thanked me a minute ago," said Herminie, when they had seated themselves.

"Mademoiselle, you are very generous, so you must be equally frank," began Ernestine.

"Frankness is one of my greatest virtues—or failings, mademoiselle," replied Herminie, smiling. "But why this appeal to my frankness?"

"Just now, when you asked me to accompany you here because the other room was too warm, you were impelled to do it merely by your kindness of heart. You said to yourself: 'This poor girl is neglected. No one asks her to dance because she is so unattractive. If she remains here, she will become an object of ridicule, and the knowledge will wound her deeply. I will save her from this humiliation by getting away under some pretext or other.' That was exactly what you said to yourself. Is it not so?" insisted Mlle. de Beaumesnil, making no effort to conceal her tears this time. "Confess that what I say is only the truth?"

"It is," said Herminie, with her accustomed honesty. "Why should I not admit that your unpleasant position excited my sympathy?"

"And I thank you for it," said Ernestine, offering her hand to her companion. "You have no idea how grateful I am, too, for your sincerity."

"And, as you insist upon my being perfectly frank, I must tell you that you have no idea how deeply you pained me just now," said Herminie, pressing the proffered hand cordially.

"I?"

"Yes; for when I remarked what a sad thing it must be to strive as hard for enjoyment as some people do, you replied, in accents that touched me to the heart, 'Yes, it must be as sad as trying to find true affection when nobody cares for you.' Have I not set you an example of frankness? Can you not be equally frank with me?"

"It is true, mademoiselle, that I do not seem to follow your example in this respect," said Ernestine, hesitatingly.

"Ah, well, let me ask you just one question, and pray do not attribute it to mere idle curiosity. Can it be that you do not find among your own relatives the affection you long for?"

"I am an orphan," replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in such a touching voice that Herminie's sympathy increased.

"An orphan!" she repeated; "an orphan! Alas! I understand, for I, too—"

"You, too, are an orphan?"

"Yes."

"How glad I am!" exclaimed Ernestine, naïvely. Then thinking how cruel or, at least, how strange the remark must have sounded, she added:

"Forgive me, mademoiselle, forgive me, but—"

"Ah, I think I read your feelings in my turn," responded Herminie. "Your exclamation simply meant: 'She knows how sad the lot of an orphan is, and she will love me, perhaps. Perhaps in her I shall find the affection I have failed to find elsewhere.' Am I right?" added Herminie, offering her hand in her turn. "Have I not read your thoughts aright?"

"Yes, that is true," replied Ernestine, yielding more and more to the singular charm that pervaded her companion's every word and look. "You have been so kind to me; you seem so honest and sincere that I do indeed long for your affection, mademoiselle. It—it is an ambition only. I dare not call it a hope, for you scarcely know me," concluded Ernestine, timidly.

"But do you know me any better than I know you?"

"No, but with you it is very different."

"And why?"

"Because I am already under deep obligations to you, and yet I ask an even greater favour."

"But how do you know that I will not be very glad to give you the friendship you ask in exchange for yours? You seem to me well worthy of it," said Herminie, who, on her side, was beginning to feel an increasing fondness for Ernestine.

Then, suddenly becoming thoughtful, she added: "Do you know that this is very strange?"

"What, mademoiselle?" asked Ernestine, a little worried by the seriousness of her companion's face.

"We have known each other barely half an hour. I do not know your name, you do not know mine; yet here we are almost exchanging confidences."

"But why should you be surprised to see affection and confidence spring up suddenly between a benefactress and the person obliged, mademoiselle?" asked Ernestine, timidly, almost imploringly, as if fearing Herminie might regret the interest she had manifested in her up to this time. "I am sure nothing could bring two persons together so quickly and so closely as compassion on one side and gratitude on the other."

"I am too anxious to believe you not to yield to your arguments very readily," Herminie answered, half laughingly, half seriously.

"But my reasoning is true, mademoiselle," said Ernestine, encouraged by her success, and anxious to make her companion share her convictions; "besides, the similarity in our situations helps to bring us together. The fact that we are both orphans is surely a bond between us."

"It is indeed," said the duchess, pressing Ernestine's hand affectionately.

"Then you will really grant me your affection some day?"

"A few minutes ago, without even knowing you, I was touched by your painful position," replied Herminie. "Now I feel that I love you because it is so evident that you have a kind and noble heart."

"Oh, if you only knew what pleasure your words give me! I will never prove ungrateful, I swear it, mademoiselle!"

Then as if bethinking herself, she added, "Mademoiselle? It seems to me that it will be very difficult for me to call you that now."

"And equally difficult for me to reply in the same ceremonious way," responded the duchess. "So call me Herminie and I will call you—"

"Ernestine."

"Ernestine," exclaimed Herminie, remembering that this was her sister's name,—the name the Comtesse de Beaumesnil had mentioned several times in the young musician's presence when speaking of her beloved daughter; "you are called Ernestine? You spoke of one bond between us just a moment ago; this is another."

"What do you mean?"

"A lady to whom I was deeply attached had a daughter who was also named Ernestine."

"You see how many reasons there are that we should love each other, Herminie," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil; "and as we are friends now, I am going to ask you all sorts of impertinent questions."

"Proceed, then!" said Herminie, smiling.

"Well, in the first place, what do you do for a living? What is your profession, Herminie?"

"I give lessons on the piano and in singing."

"How lucky your pupils are! How kind you must be to them!"

"No, indeed, I am very severe," replied the duchess, gaily. "And you, Ernestine, what do you do?"

"I—I do embroidery and tapestry work," Mlle. de Beaumesnil answered, somewhat embarrassed.

"And do you have plenty of work, my dear child?" asked Herminie, with almost maternal solicitude; "work of that kind is usually so very scarce at this season of the year."

"I came from the country only a short time ago to join my relative here," replied poor Ernestine, more and more confused; then gathering a certain amount of courage from the very exigency of the situation, she added: "So you see, Herminie, that I have never lacked work yet."

"If you ever should, I think I might be able to procure it for you, my dear Ernestine."

"You! and how?"

"I, too, have done embroidery for some of the large shops, when—well, one may surely confess it to a friend—when pupils were scarce, and I had to eke out a living in that way; so as they were very well satisfied with my work at the establishment of which I speak,—one of the largest in town by the way,—I am still on good terms with them, and feel sure that a recommendation from me would ensure you work if you need it."

"But as you embroider, too, Herminie, I should be depriving you of one of your resources, and if pupils should become scarce again, what would you do?" asked Ernestine, deeply touched by Herminie's generous offer.

"Oh, I have other resources now," answered the other girl, proudly. "I copy music, too. But the important thing, you see, Ernestine, is to be certain of work, for you, too, alas! know, perhaps, that it is not enough for those who labour for their daily bread to have energy and determination; they must have employment as well."

"Certainly, and that is very hard to find sometimes," said Ernestine, sadly, thinking for the first time of the sad lot of many young girls, and reflecting that her new friend had doubtless been in the deplorable situation of which she spoke.

"Yes, and it is terrible for one to see oneself nearing the end of one's resources, no matter how willing to work and how courageous one may be," replied Herminie, sadly. "And it is for this very reason that I will do everything in my power to spare you such misery as that, my poor Ernestine. But tell me, where do you live? I will call and see you sometime when I am out giving lessons, that is, if it is not too far out of my way, for I have to be very saving of my time."

Mlle. de Beaumesnil's embarrassment was very great, and it was still farther augmented by the painful necessity of being compelled to utter a falsehood, so it was with no little hesitation that she replied:

"I should be very glad to see you, my dear Herminie, but—but my relative—"

"Poor child, I understand," said Herminie, quickly, unconsciously coming to Ernestine's assistance. "You are not in your own home, of course, and your relative makes you painfully conscious of the fact, sometimes, perhaps."

"That is it exactly," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, delighted with this excuse. "My relative is not bad at heart, but so peevish, and such a grumbler. I don't believe there was ever another such grumbler in the world," she added, smiling.

"That is enough for me," exclaimed Herminie, laughing in her turn. "If she's a grumbler, she'll never have a visit from me. The only way out of the difficulty, Ernestine, is for you to come and see me whenever you have time."

"I was just going to ask you to grant me that privilege."

"Yes, yes, you shall come and see how pretty my room is," said the duchess.

Then remembering that her new friend was not as comfortably housed, Herminie added:

"When I say that, I don't really mean it. My room is really very unpretentious."

But Ernestine understood Herminie's disposition and character pretty well already, so she said, smiling:

"Be honest, Herminie."

"About what?"

"Your room is charming, and you only retracted your words because you thought I would feel badly because I hadn't a room as pretty as yours."

"Do you know, Ernestine, that you would be a very dangerous person to have around if any one had a secret, for you seem to divine everything."

"I was sure of it! Your room is charming. How I shall enjoy seeing it."

"You must not say how I shall enjoy seeing it. You must say, 'Herminie, I am coming to take a glass of milk with you some morning, soon.'"

"Oh, I'll say that with all the pleasure in life."

"And I accept your offer with equal pleasure. Only when you come, Ernestine, don't let it be any later than nine o'clock, for I begin my round of lessons at ten. And now what day will you come?"

Mlle. de Beaumesnil was rescued from this embarrassing situation by Providence in the shape of a handsome non-commissioned officer of hussars, who was no other than Olivier.

Faithful to the promise made to Mlle. Herbaut, the kind-hearted fellow had come to ask Ernestine to dance the next quadrille with him, so, after having greeted Herminie in the most cordial and respectful manner, he bowed low before Ernestine, with the stereotyped phrase:

"Will mademoiselle do me the honour to dance the next quadrille with me."

Mlle. de Beaumesnil was doubly surprised, as the invitation must have been premeditated, inasmuch as she was not then in the ball-room, so having no answer ready in her astonishment, Herminie came to her assistance by saying gaily to the young soldier:

"I accept your invitation in mademoiselle's name, M. Olivier, for she is quite capable of depriving herself of the pleasure of dancing merely to keep me company."

"As mademoiselle has accepted for me," added Ernestine, smiling, "I can but follow her example."

Olivier bowed again, and turning to Herminie remarked:

"Unfortunately I arrived very late this evening, mademoiselle, for I found you had not only ceased playing, but had also abandoned all idea of dancing."

"You did come very late, M. Olivier, for I recollect seeing you come in at the conclusion of the last polka I played."

"Alas! mademoiselle, you see in me a victim of my own patience and another's unpunctuality. I was waiting for a friend who intended to come with me."

Herminie blushed slightly and averted her eyes.

"But this friend did not come," Olivier added.

"Possibly he is ill, M. Olivier," said the duchess, with feigned indifference.

"No, mademoiselle, he is perfectly well, for I saw him only a few hours ago, but I think his mother must have detained him, for the kind-hearted fellow never opposes her in anything."

The words seemed to dispel the slight cloud which had gathered, now and then, on the brow of the duchess during the evening, and she answered, gaily:

"Then you do very wrong to blame your friend if he has such a good excuse for his absence, M. Olivier."

"I am not blaming him in the least, Mlle. Herminie. I am only pitying him for not having come, and pitying myself for arriving so late, as I might, perhaps, have had the pleasure of dancing with mademoiselle sooner," added Olivier, addressing Mlle. de Beaumesnil, so she would not feel that she was left out of the conversation.

Suddenly the words, "Take your places!" resounded through the room, accompanied by a few chords on the piano.

"I am at your service, mademoiselle," said Olivier, offering his arm to Ernestine.

The girl arose to accompany Olivier, but Herminie caught her by the hand, and whispered:

"One moment, Ernestine, let me arrange your sash. It needs pinning."

And the duchess, with charming solicitude, straightened a disordered fold in the sash, fastened it with a pin she took from her own girdle, smoothed out a slight wrinkle in Ernestine's corsage,—rendered her, in short, all those little kindly services which two devoted sisters are always performing for each other.

"Now, mademoiselle," remarked Herminie, with kindly gravity, after another brief survey of Ernestine's toilet, "I will let you go and dance, but you must promise to enjoy yourself immensely."

Mlle. de Beaumesnil was so touched by Herminie's little attentions that, before accepting Olivier's arm, she found an opportunity to imprint a light kiss on the cheek of the duchess, and whisper:

"Thanks again! Many, many thanks!"

And really happy for the first time since her mother's death, Ernestine left Herminie, took the arm Olivier offered, and accompanied him into the ball-room.

The young hussar was remarkably handsome and distinguished-looking, cordial in his manner towards men, and extremely deferential to women. This, together with the fact that he wore his showy uniform, decorated with the cross he had so bravely won, with easy grace, made him a great favourite at Madame Herbaut's entertainments, so Ernestine excited not a little envy and jealousy when she appeared in the ball-room on Olivier's arm.

Even the most artless and ingenuous women are quick to discern the effect they produce upon other women.

And in Mlle. de Beaumesnil's case, these powers of penetration were united with a firm determination to observe every incident of the evening with the closest attention, so, on perceiving the envy which Olivier's preference excited, the young girl's gratitude increased.

She did not doubt in the least that Olivier, out of the kindness of his heart, had wished to avenge the painful, almost humiliating slight she had received earlier in the evening, and a natural feeling of gratitude made Mlle. de Beaumesnil treat Olivier with less reserve, perhaps, than was quite proper in the extremely delicate position in which she was placed.

Olivier, in promising Mlle. Herbaut that he would ask Ernestine to dance, had merely yielded to a generous impulse, for, seeing Mlle. de Beaumesnil such a long way off, he had thought her almost ugly. He had never exchanged a word with her, he did not know whether she was clever or stupid, so, glad to find a topic of conversation in the warm friendship that seemed to exist between Herminie and Ernestine, he remarked to the latter, in one of the pauses of the dance:

"You seem to know Mlle. Herminie very well, mademoiselle. What a charming young lady she is!"

"I agree with you perfectly, monsieur, though I met Mlle. Herminie this evening for the first time."

"Indeed!"

"Our sudden intimacy surprises you, does it not, monsieur? But why should it? Sometimes the richest are the most generous. They do not wait to be asked; they offer their largess to you of their own accord. That was the case with Herminie this evening."

"I understand, mademoiselle. You knew no one here, and Mlle. Herminie—"

"Seeing me alone, had the goodness to come to me. This can not surprise you very much, however."

"Why not, mademoiselle?"

"Because a moment ago you, monsieur, were actuated by the same charitable impulse in asking me to dance."

"Charitable? What an expression to use in this connection, mademoiselle!"

"It is the right one, however."

"Quite the contrary, mademoiselle."

"Come, admit it, monsieur. You ought always to tell the truth, you know."

"Frankly, mademoiselle," responded Olivier, smiling in his turn, "should I be performing an act of charity—allow me to make this comparison—in culling a forgotten or unseen flower?"

"Say, rather, a rejected one."

"So be it, mademoiselle. But might this not merely show the poor taste of a person who would prefer a big red poppy to a modest violet."

And Olivier cast a laughing glance at the buxom lass whose gaudy attire did seem to justify the comparison.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil could not help smiling, but she answered, with a shake of the head:

"Ah, monsieur, kind as your reply is, it proves that I am doubly right."

"How is that, mademoiselle?"

"You took compassion on me, and you still have sufficient compassion to be unwilling to admit the fact."

"You do right to insist upon frankness, mademoiselle. It is a thousand times better than compliments."

"And what I certainly expect of you, monsieur."

"Well, yes, mademoiselle; seeing that you were the only person not dancing, I thought how dull it must be for you, and I resolved to engage you for the next quadrille. I hope my sincerity has not offended you, but you insisted—"

"Certainly, monsieur; and I am so grateful for your sincerity that if I dared—"

"Do not hesitate, I beg of you, mademoiselle."

"But no, however frank you may be, however great a lover of truth, your sincerity, I am sure, would not exceed certain limits—"

"Those you yourself prescribe, mademoiselle; no others."

"Are you in earnest?"

"I am, I assure you."

"The question I am about to put to you, monsieur, will seem so peculiar, so bold, perhaps."

"Then, mademoiselle, I shall tell you that it seems strange and bold, that is all."

"I don't think I shall ever dare—"

"Ah, mademoiselle, you seem to be afraid of frankness, in your turn," said Olivier, laughing.

"Say, rather, that I tremble for your sincerity; it will have to be so great, so rare, to stand my test."

"You need have no fears, I will vouch for it, mademoiselle."

"Well, monsieur, what do you think of my appearance?"

"Mademoiselle," stammered Olivier, who was not in the least prepared for such a brusque and embarrassing question; "really—I—"

"Ah, you see that you dare not say what you think, monsieur," exclaimed Ernestine, gaily. "But wait, to put you quite at your ease, let us suppose that on leaving this entertainment you should meet one of your friends, and in telling him about the young ladies you danced with, what would you say about me if you should happen to remember that I was one of your partners?"

"Well, mademoiselle," responded Olivier, who had partially recovered from his surprise, "I should merely say to my friend, 'I saw a young lady whom nobody asked to dance. This interested me in her, so I engaged her for the next quadrille, not supposing that our conversation would prove particularly interesting, for not knowing the young lady at all, I had nothing but commonplaces to say to her. But quite the contrary. Thanks to my partner, our conversation was extremely animated, and the time passed like a dream.'"

"And what if your friend should perhaps ask if this young lady was pretty or ugly?"

"I should say that I had not been able to distinguish her features very well from a distance," replied Olivier, intrepidly, "but on seeing her closer, and looking at her more attentively, and more particularly after I had heard her talk, I found her face so gentle and kind and characterised by such an expression of winning frankness that I ceased to think that she was not pretty. But I should add, still speaking to my friend, of course: 'Do not repeat these remarks made to you in confidence, for it is only women of great good sense and amiability who ask for, or forgive, sincerity.' It is consequently only to a very discreet friend that I should say this, mademoiselle."

"I thank you so much, monsieur. I am grateful, you have no idea how grateful, for your frankness," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in such a sincere and earnest voice that Olivier, surprised and touched in spite of himself, gazed at the girl with lively interest.

Just then the dance ended, and Olivier took Ernestine back to Herminie, who was waiting for her; then, impressed by the singular character of the young girl with whom he had just danced, he withdrew himself a little apart to think over their strange conversation.

"You enjoyed yourself very much, did you not, Ernestine?" asked Herminie, affectionately. "I knew it by your face. You talked all the time you were dancing."

"M. Olivier is very pleasant; besides, knowing that you were so well acquainted with him made me feel perfect confidence in him at once."

"And he deserves it, I assure you, Ernestine. No one could have a better heart or a nobler character. His most intimate friend"—and the duchess blushed almost imperceptibly—"tells me that M. Olivier works like a slave at the most uncongenial employment in order to utilise his leave and assist his uncle, a retired officer of marines, crippled with wounds, who resides in this same house and has only his pension to live on."