Pride: One of the Seven Cardinal Sins

"But such a state of things is unjust! It is shameful! Is there no such thing as pity for the woes of others in the world? Is it a matter of little or no consequence that there should be so many people in the world who do not know whether they will have food on the morrow?

"Oh, mother, mother, now I understand the vague fear and uneasiness I experienced when they told me I was so rich! I had good reason to say to myself, with something akin to remorse:

"Such vast wealth for myself alone? And why?

"Why should I have so much and others nothing?

"How did I acquire this immense fortune?

"Alas! I acquired it only by your death, my mother, and by your death, my father.

"So I had to lose those I held most dear in the world in, order to become so rich.

"In order that I may be so rich, it is necessary, perhaps, that thousands of young girls like Herminie should be always in danger of want, – happy to-day, filled with despair to-morrow.

"And when they have lost their only treasures, the lightheartedness and gaiety of youth, when they are old, and when not only work, but strength is lacking, what becomes of these unfortunates?

"Oh, mother, the more I think of the terrible difference between my lot and that of Herminie and so many other young girls – the more I think of the dangers that surround me, of all the nefarious schemes of which I am the object because I am rich, it seems to me that wealth imparts a strange bitterness to the heart.

"Now my reason has at last asserted itself, I must satisfy myself of the omnipotent power of wealth over venal souls; I must see to what depths of degradation I, a girl of sixteen, can make those around me stoop. Yes, for my eyes are open now. I realise with profound gratitude that M. de Maillefort's revelations alone started this train of thought that is making everything more and more clear to me every minute.

"I do not know, but it seems to me, my dear mother, that I can express my thoughts more clearly now, that my mind is developing, that my faculties are awakening from a sort of stupor, that my character is undergoing a decided change in many respects, and that, while it remains keenly susceptible to all that is sincere and generous, it is becoming strongly antagonistic and aggressive to all that is false, base and mercenary.

"I am convinced of one thing: they lied to me when they told me that M. de Maillefort was your enemy. They told me so merely because they wanted to make me distrust his counsels. It was designedly that they fostered my dislike of him, a dislike caused by the slanders of which I have been the dupe.

"No, never shall I forget that it was to M. de Maillefort's revelations that I was indebted for the idea of going to Madame Herbaut's, where I not only learned the truth concerning myself, but where I met the only two really generous and sincere persons that I have known since I lost you, my father, and you, my mother."

The morning after Madame Herbaut's ball Mlle. de Beaumesnil rang for her governess a little earlier than usual.

Madame Laîné appeared almost instantly, however.

"Did mademoiselle have a comfortable night?" she asked.

"Very, my dear Laîné but tell me, have you made the inquiries I asked you to last evening, so we may know whether any one suspected our absence."

"No one has the slightest suspicion of it, mademoiselle. Madame de la Rochaiguë did not send to inquire for you until early this morning."

"And you replied?"

"That mademoiselle had passed a very comfortable, though slightly restless, night; but that the quiet and rest had benefited mademoiselle very much."

"That is all right then, my dear Laîné, and now I have another favour to ask of you."

"I am at mademoiselle's service; but I am so distressed about what happened at Madame Herbaut's last night," said the governess. "I was in torture the whole evening."

"But what happened at Madame Herbaut's?"

"Why, mademoiselle was received with such coldness and indifference. It was shameful, for mademoiselle is in the habit of seeing everybody crowd around her as they ought."

"As they ought?"

"Most assuredly. Mademoiselle knows very well the respect that is due to her position, so last evening I was mortified and incensed beyond expression. 'Ah,' I said to myself,'if you only knew that this young lady you are neglecting is Mlle. de Beaumesnil, you would all be down on your knees in the twinkling of an eye.'"

"My dear Laîné, let me first set your mind at rest about last evening. I was delighted, and I enjoyed myself so much that I intend to go again next Sunday evening."

"What, mademoiselle wishes to go again?"

"I shall go, that is decided. Now, another thing. The reception which I met with at Madame Herbaut's, and which scandalises you so deeply, is convincing proof of the discretion I expected from you. I thank you for it, and if you always act in this way I assure you your fortune is made."

"But mademoiselle knows that it is not self-interest – that – "

"Yet that need not prevent me from rewarding you as you deserve, my dear Laîné. And that is not all; I want you to ask Madame Herbaut for the address of one of the young ladies I met last evening. The young lady I mean is called Herminie, and she gives music lessons."

"I shall not have to apply to Madame Herbaut for that, mademoiselle, M. le baron's steward knows the address."

"What! Our steward knows Mlle. Herminie's address?" exclaimed Ernestine, greatly astonished.

"Yes, mademoiselle. They were speaking of the young lady in the office only a few days ago."

"Of Mlle. Herminie?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. It was in relation to a five hundred franc note that she returned to the baroness. Louis, one of the footmen, heard the whole conversation through the door of the reception-room."

"Madame de la Rochaiguë knows Herminie?" cried Ernestine, whose surprise and curiosity were increased by each word the governess uttered. "And what is this about a five hundred franc note?"

"Why, it seems that this honest young girl – I told you that Madame Herbaut was exceedingly particular in the selection of her guests – this honest young girl returned the five hundred francs because she said she had already been paid by the countess."

"What countess?"

"Why, mademoiselle's mother."

"My mother paid Herminie? And for what?"

"Ah, yes, it is true that mademoiselle is not aware – I suppose no one has told mademoiselle for fear of making her still more sad."

"Has not told me what? In Heaven's name, speak!"

"Why, the late countess suffered so much towards the last, that the physicians, at their wit's end, thought that music might ameliorate her sufferings, at least to some extent."

"Great Heaven! I can not believe it. Go on, go on."

"So they sent for a young musician, and this young musician was Herminie!"

"Herminie?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. For ten days or a fortnight before Madame la comtesse died, mademoiselle came to play and sing to her every day, and they say it quieted the countess very much, but unfortunately it was too late."

While Ernestine was drying the tears these sad details, hitherto unknown to her, had brought to her eyes, Madame Laîné continued:

"It seems that, after your mother's death, the baroness, thinking Mlle. Herminie had not been paid, sent her five hundred francs, but this noble-hearted young girl brought the money back and declared that the countess owed her nothing."

"She saw my dying mother! She assuaged her sufferings," thought Ernestine, with inexpressible emotion. "Ah, how I long to tell her that I am the daughter of the lady she loved, for how could any one know my mother without loving her?"

Then starting violently at another recollection, the young girl said to herself:

"But I remember now, that, when I told her my name was Ernestine, the coincidence seemed to strike her, and she seemed to be deeply moved when she said that a lady, for whom she had a profound regard, had a daughter who was also named Ernestine. So my mother must have talked to her about me, and if my mother talked to her as confidentially as that, my mother must have loved her; so I, too, have reason to love her. In fact, it is my bounden duty. My brain whirls, my heart overflows. This is too much happiness. I can hardly believe it."

Dashing away her tears, Ernestine turned to her governess and asked:

"But how did the steward ascertain Mlle. Herminie's address."

"He went to the notary who sent the five hundred francs, for Madame de la Rochaiguë wished to ascertain the address so she could send it to M. de Maillefort."

"What, does M. de Maillefort, too, know Herminie?"

"I cannot say, mademoiselle, all I know is that the steward took Herminie's address to M. le marquis nearly a month ago."

"Get me the address at once, my dear Laîné."

In a few minutes the governess brought the address and Ernestine immediately sat down and wrote as follows:

"My Dear Herminie: – You invited me to come and see your pretty room. I shall come early day after to-morrow – Tuesday, early in the morning, so I may be sure of not interfering in your work. I look forward with delight to seeing you again. I have a thousand things to tell you. With love,

"Your sincere friend,"Ernestine."

After she had sealed this note, Mlle. de Beaumesnil said to her governess:

"I wish you to post this letter yourself, my dear Laîné."

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"How shall I manage to get out alone with Madame Laîné day after to-morrow?" Ernestine said to herself. "I have no idea, but my heart tells me that I shall see Herminie again!"

CHAPTER V

A CONSUMING FEVER OF LOVE

On the morning of the same day that mademoiselle had appointed for her visit to Herminie, Gerald de Senneterre was having a long conversation with Olivier.

The two young men were sitting under the little arbour of which Commander Bernard was so fond.

The young duke's face was extremely pale and agitated. In fact, he seemed a prey to the deepest anxiety and distress.

"So you will see her, my dear Olivier," he was saying to his friend.

"At once. I wrote to her last evening requesting an interview. She has not answered my note, so she consents."

"Then in an hour my fate will be decided," groaned Gerald.

"I am forced to admit that I think this a very serious matter," said Olivier. "You know, even better than I do, how proud this young girl is, and that which would be our greatest chance of success with any one else will be almost sure to have an exactly opposite effect in her case. Still, we will not despair."

"But, Olivier, if I should be obliged to give her up, I don't know how I could bear it!" exclaimed Gerald, hoarsely. "I should kill myself, I believe!"

"Gerald! Gerald!"

"Yes, I admit it. I love her to distraction. I never believed before that even the most impassioned love could attain such a degree of intensity. My love is a consuming fever, – a fixed idea that absorbs me utterly. You know Herminie – "

"Yes, and I know that a more noble and beautiful creature never lived."

"Olivier, I am the most miserable of men!" exclaimed Gerald, burying his face in his hands.

"Come, come, Gerald, don't give way so. You can rely upon me. I believe, too, that you can trust her. Does she not love you as much as you love her? So don't be despondent. On the contrary, hope, and if, unfortunately – "

"But I tell you that I can not and will not live without her."

There was such evident sincerity in the words, as well as such passionate resolve, that Olivier shuddered, for he knew what an indomitable will his former comrade possessed.

"Gerald," he said, with deep emotion, "again I tell you that you should not despair. Wait here until my return."

"You are right," said Gerald, passing his hand across his fevered brow. "I will wait for you."

Olivier, unwilling to leave his friend in such a despondent mood, continued:

"I forgot to tell you that I informed my uncle of your intentions in regard to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, and they have his unqualified approval. 'Such conduct is worthy of him,' he said to me, so day after to-morrow, Gerald – "

"Day after to-morrow!" exclaimed the young duke, bitterly and impatiently. "I am not thinking of anything so far off. It is as much as I can do to see my way from hour to hour."

"But, Gerald, it is a duty you have to perform."

"Don't talk to me about anything but Herminie. I am utterly indifferent to everything else. What are these so-called duties and obligations to me when I am in torture?"

"You do not realise what you are saying."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you do not."

"Olivier!"

"Oh, you may rebel as much as you please, but I tell you that your conduct, now as ever, shall be that of a man of honour. You will go to this ball to meet Mlle. de Beaumesnil."

"I'll be d – d if I will. I am at liberty to do as I please, I think, monsieur."

"No, Gerald, you are not at liberty to do anything that is dishonest or dishonourable."

"Do you know that what you are saying – " began the young duke, pale with anger; but seeing the expression of sorrowful astonishment on Olivier's features, Gerald became ashamed of his outburst, and, extending his hand to his friend, he said, in an almost beseeching voice:

"Forgive me, Olivier, forgive me! To think that almost at the very moment that you are undertaking the gravest and most delicate mission for me, I should so far forget myself – "

"Come, come, you needn't go to making excuses," said Olivier, preventing his friend from continuing by affectionately pressing his hand.

"You must have compassion on me, Olivier," said Gerald, despondently. "I really believe I must be mad."

The conversation was here interrupted by the sudden arrival of Madame Barbançon, who rushed into the arbour, crying:

"Oh, M. Olivier, M. Olivier!"

"What is the matter, Madame Barbançon?"

"The commander!"

"Well?"

"He has gone out!"

"What, suffering as he is to-day!" exclaimed Olivier, anxiously. "It was very imprudent. Didn't you try to prevent him from going, Mother Barbançon?"

"Alas! M. Olivier, I really believe the commander is not in his right mind."

"What?"

"I was out, and it was the porter who admitted M. Gerald in my absence. When I returned a few minutes ago, M. Bernard was laughing and singing, and I really believe even dancing, in spite of his weakness, and at last he flung his arms around me, shouting like a maniac, 'Victory, Mother Barbançon, victory!'"

Gerald, in spite of his own troubles, could not repress a faint smile. It seemed as if he understood the cause of the old officer's delight, but when Olivier, who was really much disturbed, asked, "Do you know anything about this, Gerald?" the young duke replied, with the most natural air in the world:

"Nothing whatever, upon my word! It seems to me more than probable, though, that the commander must have heard some good news, and there would be certainly nothing alarming about that."

"Good news!" repeated Olivier, much surprised, and trying in vain to imagine what it could be.

"Well, this much is certain," interposed Madame Barbançon, "after the commander had shouted 'Victory!' almost at the top of his voice, he asked: 'Is Olivier in the garden?' 'Yes, with M. Gerald,' I replied. 'Then get me my hat and cane quick, Mother Barbançon,' said he, 'and let me get off as soon as I can.' 'What! you are going out, weak as you are?' I exclaimed. 'You are very foolish to think of such a thing, monsieur.' But the commander wouldn't listen, and clapped his hat on his head and started as if he intended to come out here and speak to you; then he stopped short, and after reflecting a moment retraced his steps and went out at the front door, singing that miserable old song he sings only when he is in high glee about something, – which doesn't often happen with the poor, dear man!"

"I don't know what to make of it," said Olivier, "and I can't help feeling a little uneasy. My uncle has seemed so feeble since his last attack, that a half hour in the garden yesterday exhausted him completely."

"Oh, don't be alarmed, my friend, joy never kills."

"I think I had better go down the street a little way, M. Olivier," said Madame Barbançon. "He has an idea that exercise outside will do him more good than his walks in the garden, and perhaps I shall find him down there. But what on earth could he have meant by his 'Victory, Mother Barbançon, victory!' He must have heard something new in favour of his Bû-û-onaparte."

And the worthy woman hastened off.

"Don't be uneasy, Olivier," said Gerald, kindly. "The worst that can happen is that the commander may tire himself a little."

The clock in the neighbouring steeple struck nine, and Olivier, remembering the mission he had promised to fulfil, said:

"Well, it is nine o'clock. I am going."

"My dear Olivier," said Gerald, "you forget your own anxieties in your solicitude for my interests; and I, in my selfishness, haven't said so much as a word to you about your sweetheart."

"What sweetheart?"

"Why, the young girl you met at Madame Herbaut's Sunday."

"I would that your love affair were as tranquil as mine, Gerald; that is, if you can dignify with that name the interest one naturally feels in a young girl who is neither happy nor at all pretty, but who has a sweet face, an excellent disposition, and great originality of character."

"But you are thinking of this poor girl a great deal of the time, it seems to me."

"That is true, though I really don't know why. If I find out I will tell you. But never mind me. You have just displayed a vast amount of heroism in forgetting your own passion long enough to interest yourself in what you are pleased to call my love affair," said Olivier, smiling. "This generosity on your part is sure to be rewarded, so courage, my friend! Keep up a good heart and wait for me here."

Herminie, for her part, was thinking of Olivier's approaching visit with a vague uneasiness that cast a slight cloud over her usually radiant face.

"What can M. Olivier want?" thought the duchess. "This is the first time he has ever asked to call on me, and he wishes to see me on a very important matter, he says in his note. This important matter cannot concern him. What if it should concern Gerald, who is his most intimate friend? But I saw Gerald only yesterday, and I shall see him again to-day, for it is to-morrow that he is to tell his mother of our love. I can't imagine why the idea of this approaching interview worries me so. But that reminds me, I must inform the portress that I am at home to M. Olivier."

As she spoke, she pulled a bell that communicated with the room of Madame Moufflon, the portress, who promptly responded to the summons.

"Madame Moufflon, some one will call to see me this morning, and you are to admit the visitor," said Herminie.

"If it is a lady, of course. I understand."

"But it is not a lady who will call this morning," replied Herminie, with some embarrassment.

"It is not a lady? Then it must be that little hunchback I have orders to admit at any time, I suppose."

"No, Madame Moufflon, it is not M. de Maillefort, but a young man."

"A young man?" exclaimed the portress, "a young man? Well, this is the first time – "

"The young man will tell you his name. It is Olivier."

"Olivier? That is not hard to remember. I'll just think of olives; I adore them! Olivier, olives, olive oil – it is very nearly the very same thing. I sha'n't forget it. But, by the way, speaking – not of young men, for this old serpent isn't young – I saw that old scoundrel hanging around the house again last evening."

"Again?" exclaimed Herminie, with a look of scorn and disgust at the thought of Ravil.

For this cynic, since his first meeting with Herminie, had made numerous attempts to see the young girl, but the portress proving above bribery, he had written several times to Herminie, who had treated his letters with the disdain they deserved.

"Yes, mademoiselle, I saw the old snake hanging around again yesterday," continued the portress, "and when I planted myself in the doorway to watch him, he sneered at me as he passed, but I just said to myself: 'Sneer away, you old viper. You'll laugh on the other side of your mouth one of these days.'"

"I cannot help encountering this man on the street sometimes," said Herminie, "for he seems to be always trying to put himself in my way; but I needn't tell you, Madame Moufflon, that he must never be admitted to the house on any pretext whatever."

"Oh, you needn't worry about that, mademoiselle, he knows pretty well who he has to deal with by this time."

"But I forgot to mention that a young lady will probably call this morning, too, Madame Moufflon."

"Very well. But if M. Olivier should be here when the young lady calls, what then? Shall I admit her just the same?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, I never told you, did I, mademoiselle, that M. Bouffard, who was so rough to you, but who has been as gentle as a lamb ever since you began giving his daughter lessons, is always praising you to the skies now. He said to me only the other day, 'There are plenty of rosières who are not half as good and modest as Mlle. Herminie. She is a young lady who – '"

But a peal of the door-bell put a sudden end to these eulogiums.

"It is M. Olivier, I expect," said Herminie. "Show him in, please, Madame Moufflon."

And a minute afterwards that worthy dame ushered in Olivier, and Herminie found herself alone with Gerald's intimate friend.

CHAPTER VI

A DELICATE MISSION

The vague uneasiness which Herminie had felt was greatly increased at the sight of Olivier, for the young man looked unusually grave. The duchess even fancied that he avoided her gaze, as if embarrassed, and this embarrassment on his part was made still more apparent by his silence and evident reluctance to explain the object of his visit.

Herminie was the first to break this silence.

"You wrote, M. Olivier, that you wished to see me about a very important matter," she said, at last.

"Very important, mademoiselle."

"I judge so from your manner. What have you to tell me?"

"It concerns Gerald, mademoiselle."

"Great Heavens! What misfortune has befallen him?" exclaimed the duchess, much frightened.

"None, mademoiselle. I left him only a few minutes ago."

Herminie, thus reassured, felt deeply incensed with herself for her unguarded exclamation, and, blushing deeply, she said to Olivier:

"I trust you will not misinterpret – "

But the natural frankness of her character asserted itself, and she said, with quiet dignity:

"But why should I try to conceal from you something that you know already, M. Olivier. Are you not Gerald's dearest friend, in fact, almost a brother to him? Neither of us have any cause to blush for our mutual attachment. To-morrow, he is to inform his mother of his intentions and ask her consent, which he is almost certain to gain. For why should he not gain it. Our conditions in life are almost identical. He supports himself by his own exertions, as I support myself by mine. Our lot will be humble, and – But, forgive me, M. Olivier, for thus boring you. It is a fault to which all lovers are prone. But as no misfortune has befallen Gerald, what is the important matter that brings you here?"

Herminie's words indicated such a feeling of perfect security that Olivier realised the difficulties of his task even more keenly, and it was with painful hesitation that he replied:

"As I said before, no misfortune has befallen Gerald; but I come to you at his request."

Herminie's face, which had grown quite serene, became anxious again, and she said:

"Pray have the kindness to explain, M. Olivier. You say you have come at Gerald's request? Why is an intermediary needed, even in the person of his most intimate friend? This astonishes me. Why did not Gerald come himself?"

"Because there is something he is afraid to confess to you, mademoiselle."

Herminie started violently; the expression of her face changed, and, looking searchingly at Olivier, she repeated:

"There is something Gerald is afraid to confess to me?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"It must be something terrible if he dares not tell me," exclaimed the girl, paling visibly.