Olivier's parting words to Herminie had reawakened the grief and chagrin from which her mind had been temporarily diverted by Commander Bernard's unexpected arrival in company with Ernestine.
Ernestine, too, was silent and thoughtful for two reasons. One was the peculiar look Olivier had bestowed on her on hearing of his promotion,--a look whose tender and touching significance the young girl fancied she understood; the other was the melancholy pleasure she experienced at the recollection that this new but dearly prized friend was the young musician who had so greatly ameliorated Madame de Beaumesnil's sufferings towards the last.
Ernestine's silence was likewise prolonged by the difficulty she experienced in bringing the conversation around to the subject of her mother.
Her visit to Herminie had been easily managed. On going to church with Mlle. de la Rochaigue as usual, she had asked Madame Laine to accompany them, and on leaving church, by pretending that she had some shopping to do, she had succeeding in getting away alone with her governess, after which a cab had taken them to within a short distance of the Rue de Monceau, where Madame Laine was now awaiting, in that vehicle, the return of her youthful employer.
Though the silence of the duchess had lasted only a few moments, Ernestine, noticing the sad reverie into which her friend had fallen, said to her, with mingled tenderness and timidity:
"Herminie, I do not want to be intrusive, but it seems to me you are not in your usual good spirits this morning."
"That is true," answered the girl, frankly. "I am in great trouble."
"In great trouble, my dear Herminie?" asked Ernestine, quickly.
"Yes, and perhaps I will tell you all about it by and by, but just at this time I am too heart-broken to talk about it, so bear with me a little, until I can explain the cause of my grief, though I don't know that I ever can--"
"But why this reserve, Herminie. Don't you think me worthy of your confidence?"
"That is not the reason, my dear child, but you are so young that I ought not to talk to you about such matters, perhaps, but by and by we will see about it. Now, let us think about your comfort. You must lie down on my bed; you can rest better there than in a chair."
"But, my dearest Herminie--"
Without taking any notice of her guest's protest, Herminie stepped to the alcove and drew back the curtains, which her natural delicacy and reserve caused her to keep always closed, and Ernestine saw a little white iron bedstead covered with a pale pink counterpane, and surmounted by a canopy consisting of double draperies of the pretty chintz and fresh white muslin. The alcove, too, was hung with pale pink muslin, and the pillow-slip, dazzling in its whiteness, was edged with lace.
In fact, nothing could be daintier and prettier than this virginal couch, upon which Ernestine, at last yielding to the entreaties of the duchess, laid down to rest awhile.
Drawing the armchair up to the bedside and seating herself in it, Herminie, taking the orphan's two hands affectionately in hers, said, with tender solicitude:
"I am sure a little rest will do you a world of good, Ernestine. How do you feel now?"
"My head aches a little, that is all."
"What a frightful risk you ran, my dear child."
"I don't deserve so much praise, though, Herminie; I did not think of the danger I was incurring for an instant. I saw the old gentleman fall almost under the wheels of the wagon, it seemed to me. I shrieked, and sprang to his assistance, and though I am not very strong, I succeeded, I scarcely know how, in dragging M. Bernard enough out of the way to prevent him from being crushed."
"You dear, brave child! But the wound on your head--"
"The wheel must have struck me, I suppose, for I became unconscious almost at that same instant, and M. Bernard, on recovering his senses, noticed that I was hurt. But don't let us talk any more about it. I was more frightened than hurt, and my reputation for bravery was very cheaply won."
Then casting an admiring glance around her, the young girl continued:
"You were right in saying that your room was charming, Herminie. How pretty and dainty everything is! And those lovely engravings and beautiful statuettes and graceful vases filled with flowers are all so simple and inexpensive that it seems as if any one might have them, and yet nobody has, because one must have taste to select them. And when I think," added the girl, enthusiastically, "that it was by your own labour that you acquired all these pretty things, I do not wonder that you are proud and happy. How much you must have enjoyed yourself here."
"Yes, I have had a great deal of pleasure out of my home, it is true."
"But now all these pretty surroundings have lost their charm? Why, that sounds very ungrateful in you."
"No, no, this little room is still unspeakably dear to me!" exclaimed Herminie, quickly, recollecting that it was in this room that she had seen Gerald for the first time, and for the last time, too, perhaps.
Ernestine had not been able to devise any way of leading the conversation to the subject of her mother without arousing Herminie's suspicions, but now, happening to glance at the piano, she added:
"And there is the instrument you play so divinely. How much pleasure it would give me to hear you."
"Don't ask me just now, I beg of you, Ernestine. I should burst into tears at the sound of the first note. When I am sad, music always makes me weep."
"I can understand that, but you will let me hear you play and sing some day, will you not?"
"Oh, yes, I promise you that."
"And, by the way, speaking of music," continued Ernestine, trying to control herself, "the other night when I was at Madame Herbaut's, I heard somebody say that a very sick lady once sent for you to play and sing for her."
"That is true," replied Herminie, sadly, "and this lady was the one I spoke to you about the other evening because she had a daughter whose name was the same as yours."
"And while she was listening to you the poor lady's sufferings became less poignant?"
"Because she forgot them, but alas! this alleviation of her sufferings could not save her."
"Kind-hearted as you are, Herminie, what loving attentions you must have lavished on the poor lady."
"Her situation was so interesting, so pitiable, you see, Ernestine. To die while still so young, and deploring the absence of a beloved daughter!"
"Did she ever speak of this daughter to you, Herminie?"
"Poor unhappy mother! Her child was the subject of her every thought.
She had a portrait of her, painted when she was a mere child, and I have often seen her eyes fill with tears when they rested upon the picture.
She often told me, too, how richly her daughter deserved her tenderness by the amiability and sweetness of her disposition. She spoke, too, of letters which her daughter wrote to her every day, letters in which her beloved child's nobility of heart showed itself in every line."
"This lady must have loved you very much to make you her confidante to such an extent, Herminie."
"She treated me with the greatest kindness, so it was only natural I should become deeply attached to her."
"And the daughter of this lady who was so fond of you, and whom you seem to have loved so much in return,--have you never felt any desire to make the acquaintance of this other Ernestine?"
"Yes, for everything her mother told me about her made me love her in advance, as it were, but at that time she was in a foreign land. When she returned to France, I did, for a time, have some hope of seeing and knowing her, but I was disappointed in that."
"How did that happen, my dear Herminie?" inquired Ernestine, concealing her curiosity, at least in part, however.
"Business took me to the house of her guardian, and while I was there something was said about my giving the young lady music lessons."
Ernestine gave a joyous start. This idea had never occurred to her before, but wishing to have something to justify her curiosity in Herminie's eyes, she exclaimed, laughingly:
"You must think it strange that I ask you so many questions about this young lady. Perhaps it is because I feel that I should be dreadfully jealous if you should ever love her better than you do me."
"Oh, you need have no fears on that score," said Herminie, shaking her head, sadly.
"But why should you not love her?" asked Mlle. de Beaumesnil, eagerly; then regretting her involuntary display of anxiety, she added: "But I am not selfish enough to wish to deprive this young lady of your affection, of course."