"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.