"The testimony of these young ladies will be indispensable, M. le marquis," said the commissioner, "and I shall do myself the honour to call upon them for it presently."
An hour afterwards, the founder of the St. Polycarpe Mission and his accomplice were both placed in prison, to answer to the charge of having entered an occupied house at night by means of false keys, and of having attempted to intimidate the inmates by threats and violence.
On the return of the baron and baroness, it was decided that Ernestine and Herminie should share Madame de la Rochaigue's room the rest of the night.
As the hunchback took leave of the young girls, he smilingly remarked to them:
"I have accomplished a good deal since I last saw you. The marriage contracts are drawn up, and they will be signed at Herminie's home at seven o'clock to-morrow evening."
"At my home? How glad I am!" said the duchess.
"Is it not always customary to sign the contract at the house of the bride?" asked the marquis. "And as you and Ernestine are so devoted to each other that you are almost the same as sisters--"
"Exactly the same as sisters, you mean."
"It is only proper that Ernestine's marriage contract should be signed at the home of her elder sister."
So all the next day, Herminie, radiant with happiness, was making important preparations in her pretty, dainty room for the signing of the marriage contracts of the richest heiress in France, and of the adopted daughter of M. le Marquis de Maillefort, Prince Duc de Haut-Martel,--an adoption of which the poor musician had not as yet the slightest suspicion.
CHAPTER XXIX.
AN EVENTFUL DAY.
Herminie was not the only person who was busily engaged in preparations for the signing of these contracts.
A joyous excitement pervaded a modest little home in the Batignolles, also.
Commander Bernard, Gerald, and Olivier had insisted upon dining together that evening under the same arbour where the opening scene of this story had occurred several months before.
At the conclusion of the repast all three were to repair to Herminie's for the signing of the marriage contract.
A superb autumn afternoon had favoured the realisation of this project, and Madame Barbancon had surpassed herself in her culinary achievements.
Notified in advance this time, she had tended with the utmost solicitude a triumphant _pot au feu_, which was to be followed by some juicy cutlets, a fine roast chicken, and a boiled custard, where the snowy whites of the eggs floated in immaculate whiteness upon a rich vanilla cream.
Poor Madame Barbancon considered this decidedly commonplace menu the _ne plus ultra_ of culinary magnificence.
But, alas! in spite of the excellence of the repast, the three guests did little honour to it. Joy had deprived them of their appetites, and the worthy housekeeper, in her disappointment, could not help comparing this disheartening indifference with the zest with which Gerald and Olivier had devoured two helpings of her hastily improvised vinaigrette several months before.
Madame Barbancon had just removed the fowl almost untouched, and as she placed the snow custard on the table, she muttered between her teeth:
"They'll clean this dish sure. One doesn't have to be hungry to eat this. It is the very food for lovers."
"The devil! Mother Barbancon," said the commander, gaily, "here's a dish that reminds me of the snow-banks of Newfoundland. What a pity it is that none of us are the least bit hungry!"
"It is, indeed, for Madame Barbancon has proved herself to be a veritable _cordon bleu_ to-day," remarked Gerald.
"It is the finest snow custard that was ever concocted," added Olivier.
"We can at least devour it with our eyes."
The housekeeper, who could not believe that she was to be subjected to this last cruel affront, said, in constrained tones:
"You gentlemen must be jesting."
"Jesting about such a sacred thing as your snow custard, Mother Barbancon? The devil take me if I should dare to be as sacrilegious as all that," said the commander. "But as we're not in the least hungry, it is impossible for us to taste your _chef-d'oeuvre_."
"Yes, absolutely impossible," repeated the two young men.
The housekeeper did not utter a word, but a sudden contraction of her features betrayed the violence of her resentment plainly enough.
Seizing a soup plate, she emptied nearly half the contents of the dish into it; then, placing it in front of the astonished commander, said, in tones of authority:
"You--you will eat it, monsieur."
"But listen, Mother Barbancon--"
"It is no use to 'Mother Barbancon' me. This is only the second time in ten years that I have had occasion to make a snow custard. I made this in honour of M. Olivier's and M. Gerald's marriages. There are no 'ifs'
and 'buts' about it; you are going to eat it."
The unfortunate veteran, seeing only hostile faces around him,--for Gerald and Olivier, the traitors, pretended to uphold the housekeeper,--attempted a compromise.
"All right. I will eat it to-morrow, Mother Barbancon," he said.
"As if a snow custard would keep until to-morrow!" retorted the housekeeper, shrugging her shoulders. "You're going to eat it now, this minute."
"I won't do anything of the kind," exclaimed the veteran, testily. "I'm not going to kill myself for anybody."
"Kill yourself with a snow custard made by me!" exclaimed the housekeeper, as sadly and reproachfully as if her employer had mortally insulted her. "Ah, me! I little expected--after ten years of faithful service--and on such--such a happy day--the day when M. Olivier is to take a wife--to find myself--treated--like--this."
And the worthy woman began to sob violently.
"What on earth is the woman crying about?" exclaimed the veteran, in despair. "You are crazy, my dear woman! Upon my word of honour, you must be crazy!"
"Kill you! Ah, I shall not forget those words for many a long year, I can tell you."
"Oh, come, come now! I'll eat the--Look, don't you see that I am eating it now?" said the unfortunate commander, hastily swallowing a few spoonfuls. "It is delicious, divine, this custard of yours. Are you satisfied now?"
"Yes, monsieur; yes, that satisfies me," said the housekeeper, drying her tears. "It was a nice custard. I said to myself while I was stirring it, 'I certainly must give my recipe to M. Olivier's little wife.' I must, mustn't I, M. Olivier?"
"Of course you must, Madame Barbancon, for Mlle. Ernestine is going to prove a model housekeeper, I'm sure."