Chapter XI: Part III: XVIII (4)

“I beg pardon; by hoping one lives content, and I cling to my hope. Adieu, fair Louise; continue to behave becomingly; your remuneration will be increased doubtless, and I shall continue to put mine aside; and, as a very trivial but very shrewd popular proverb says: ‘Let’s let the mutton boil!’--I lay my homage at your feet.”

Monsieur Gérondif took his leave, and Louise was at liberty to weep without restraint. She did not bestow a thought on the tutor’s offers, she thought only of Chérubin, who no longer loved her, who had ceased to think of her, and who had mistresses. She had been afraid for a long time that he had forgotten her; but now she was certain of it, and it is a far cry from fear to certainty, in love.

The return of Madame de Noirmont and her daughter forced Louise to conceal her tears. She hastily wiped her eyes and tried to dissemble her depression, for she felt that she must not betray the secret of her heart.

On that day Monsieur de Noirmont went out after dinner. Ernestine remained with her mother, to whom, as they worked, she said whatever came into her head, especially as she saw that it was one of her moments of good humor. When Madame de Noirmont smiled at her daughter’s speeches, the latter was so delighted that she often laid her work aside to throw her arms about her mother’s neck, who sometimes held her lovingly to her heart for some moments.

Louise, for whom they rang to order tea, entered the salon at one of the times when Madame de Noirmont’s arms were about her daughter; and the sweet child, in her joy at being so fondled, cried out:

“See how happy I am, Louise! see what a dear, good mother I have!”

Louise stood still in the middle of the salon; she was glad for Ernestine’s happiness, and yet, in the touching picture before her eyes, there was something that hurt her, she did not understand why. Two great tears escaped from her eyes; but she turned quickly, so that they might not see her weeping.

Meanwhile Madame de Noirmont had resumed her grave demeanor, and Ernestine had had to return to her seat. Louise served the tea as quickly as possible, then left the room, fearing that her sadness would be noticed.

Despite all her efforts to be calm, Louise was still crying when Ernestine entered her room to ask her some question, before going to bed. Seeing that Louise’s face was wet with tears, her young mistress ran to her, and said with the most touching interest:

“Mon Dieu! crying, Louise! What’s the matter?”

“Oh! excuse me, mademoiselle. I know that I should not weep here, where everyone is so kind to me; but I could not help it!”

“Have you some reason for being unhappy? You would not cry like this for nothing. Louise, I insist on knowing why you were crying.”

“Well, mademoiselle, it is because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms to-night, the picture of the happiness you enjoy made me feel more keenly than ever the misery of my position. Oh! mademoiselle, it isn’t envy that makes me say it! I bless Heaven for making you so happy; but I could not help crying when I remembered that my mother never kissed me, that I shall never be able to throw my arms about her!”

“What’s that you say, my poor Louise? Doesn’t your mother love you?”

“It isn’t that, mademoiselle. But listen, I am going to tell you the truth, for I don’t know how to lie. And then, I don’t understand why I should make a mystery of it; you won’t be any less kind to me when you know that I am a poor girl, abandoned by her parents.”

“Is it possible? you haven’t any parents?”

“At all events, mademoiselle, I don’t know them.”

Thereupon Louise proceeded to tell Ernestine the story of how Nicole had been employed to take care of her, and of the kindness of the village people, who had kept her and treated her like their daughter, when they found that she was abandoned by her mother.

Ernestine listened to the story with the deepest interest. When Louise had ceased to speak, she kissed her affectionately, saying:

“Poor Louise! Oh! how glad I am you have told me that! It seems to me that I love you even more since I know that your parents have abandoned you. And that dear, good Nicole! those kind peasants! Ah! what splendid people they are! I will tell mamma all about it to-morrow! I am sure that it will interest her too.”

“Oh! that isn’t worth while, mademoiselle; Madame de Noirmont may not like it because I have told you about my troubles.”

“I assure you, on the contrary, that, for all her serious manner, mamma is kind and good; and, besides, she likes you very much. She has said to me several times that your manners were just what they should be, and that is great praise from her, I tell you!--Well, good-night, Louise, sleep soundly, and don’t cry any more. If you haven’t any parents, you have some people here who love you dearly and who will take good care of you.”

Ernestine left Louise, to go to bed, and the latter felt less unhappy when she saw her young mistress’s affection for her--an affection which she shared with all the sincerity of her soul.

The next morning the Noirmont family met at the breakfast table. Ernestine had not seen her mother since the preceding night, because a headache had kept Madame de Noirmont in bed later than usual; but her father, who rarely appeared at breakfast, had just taken his seat, when Ernestine, after kissing her mother, said in a mysterious tone:

“I have something very interesting to tell you this morning, and I am glad papa came to breakfast, to hear what I am going to say.”

“Really?” said Monsieur de Noirmont, smiling, and in a tone of mild raillery. “From the way in which you say that, I imagine that it must really be something most serious.”

“Why, yes, papa, it’s very serious! Oh! you look as if you were laughing at me, but when you know what it is, I’ll bet that you will be as touched as I was last night when I found poor Louise crying!”

“What! is it something about Louise?” asked Madame de Noirmont, with an air of deep interest; “can it be that anything has gone wrong with her? I should be extremely sorry, for the girl is a very good girl indeed, and seems to deserve our kindness.”

“This is what it is; listen. Louise didn’t want me to tell you; but I am very sure that you won’t blame her for it; it isn’t her fault.”

Monsieur de Noirmont, whose interest was aroused by this exordium, said impatiently:

“Come, my child, go on, explain yourself.”

“Well, papa, last evening, when Louise came to the salon to serve the tea, she found me in mamma’s arms, and we were kissing each other.”

“That is well, my daughter; what next?”

“At night, when I went up to bed, as I couldn’t find a fichu that I wanted, I went to Louise’s room to ask her where she had put it. I found her crying hard, and I asked her why she was crying. She replied, sobbing: ‘Oh! mademoiselle, because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms to-night, I felt more keenly than ever my misfortune in never having been kissed by my mother, and in being only an abandoned child.’”

“An abandoned child!” murmured Madame de Noirmont, whose face instantly became deathly pale.

“But,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, “if I am not mistaken, Comtois told us that the girl’s parents lived in the outskirts of Paris--I don’t remember in what village.”

“Yes, papa, that is what Comtois was told when Louise was brought here; but that was a lie that her friends thought they ought to tell. Louise thought it was better to tell the truth.”

“She is right. But call your maid, Ernestine; I want to hear the whole story from her own lips. It has roused my curiosity. And you, madame--are not you curious to hear this girl’s story?”

Madame de Noirmont replied with a few almost unintelligible words; it was as if she were oppressed by some secret suffering, which she was doing her utmost to conceal.

Meanwhile, Ernestine had not waited for her father to repeat his request; she had run off to call Louise, who soon appeared before the assembled family.

Monsieur de Noirmont looked at her with more interest than he had previously displayed; Ernestine smiled at her affectionately; Madame de Noirmont lowered her eyes and became paler than ever. From the disquietude that had taken possession of her, from the anxiety that could be read upon her features, one would have taken her for a criminal awaiting judgment.

“Come, Louise, come nearer,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, motioning to her; “my daughter has told us of what you told her last evening. Do not tremble, my child; we shall not reproach you for telling us what was not true when you entered our service.”

“Oh! it was not I, monsieur!” murmured Louise.

“I know it, it was the person who obtained the situation for you, who thought it his duty to tell that falsehood.--So you do not know your parents, my poor girl?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Where were you brought up?”

“At Gagny, monsieur.”

“At Gagny. Ah! that’s it; I had forgotten the name of the village that you told me when you came here.--And the people who brought you up?”

“A kindhearted peasant woman, Nicole Frimousset. She was nursing Monsieur Chérubin de Grandvilain at the time.”

“Indeed! so this woman was the young Marquis de Grandvilain’s nurse?”

“Yes, monsieur, he is my foster-brother, and in my childhood we played together all the time.”

“Very good! But that doesn’t tell us how you went to Gagny.”

“Mon Dieu! monsieur, it was a lady--my mother, I suppose--who carried me to dear Nicole’s, and begged her to take me to nurse. I was then a year old; she left some money with Nicole and went away, saying that she would come again. The next year she sent a little more money by a messenger from Paris; but she didn’t come to see me, and no one ever after came to inquire for me.”

“But what was the lady’s name; where did she live?”

“Nicole didn’t think to ask her any of those questions; for she could not dream that she would abandon me, that she would never come again. The messenger from Paris did not know who the lady was who hired him on the street, he could not tell my good nurse anything.”

“But was no paper, no mark found on you or on your clothing?”

“Nothing, monsieur, absolutely nothing.”

“That is very strange.--Don’t you agree with me, madame?”

As he asked this question Monsieur de Noirmont turned to his wife, whom he had not looked at while questioning Louise; Ernestine, whose eyes followed her father’s, uttered a piercing shriek.

“Oh dear!” she cried, “mamma has fainted!”

Madame de Noirmont’s head had fallen against the back of her chair; she had in fact lost consciousness, and the livid pallor of her face made her condition seem most alarming.

They hastened to her assistance; Ernestine wept and lamented as she kissed her mother again and again. Louise shared her distress; she lost her head, did not know what to do, and did not hear what was said to her. But Monsieur de Noirmont, who retained all his presence of mind, called Comtois, and, with his assistance, carried his wife to her room and laid her on her bed.

After some time, Madame de Noirmont came to herself; but there was a look of gloom and anxiety in her eyes, which indicated that the cause of her trouble still existed. She turned her eyes slowly on her husband and her daughter; then, as she caught sight of Louise, who was a little farther away and who seemed to share the general anxiety, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the pillow.

“Mamma, dear mamma, how do you feel now?” cried Ernestine, squeezing her mother’s hand.

“Better, my dear, I feel better.”

“What was the cause of your sudden illness, madame?” asked Monsieur de Noirmont with interest. “You gave us a terrible fright.”

“Why, I have no idea, monsieur. I had a sudden feeling of suffocation; then a cold perspiration broke out all over me, and I lost the use of my senses.”

“You didn’t feel well this morning, you had a headache,” said Ernestine.

“Yes, that is true,” replied Madame de Noirmont hastily. “I felt poorly this morning, and that is the cause, no doubt----”

“And then Louise’s story must have grieved you, made your heart ache. That probably made you worse.”

“Do you wish me to send for the doctor, madame?”

“No, monsieur, it is not necessary; I need nothing but rest and quiet--and a little sleep, perhaps.”

“We will leave you, then.”

“But I shall be close by,” said Ernestine, “and I will come at the slightest sound.”

Madame de Noirmont seemed most desirous to be left alone. All the others went away, Ernestine still deeply moved because she had seen her mother in a swoon, and Louise very much cast down because she feared that the story of her misfortunes had touched her mistress too deeply.

Madame de Noirmont passed the rest of the day in her room; she kept her bed and expressed a wish to be alone. The next day passed in the same way; and for several days she did not leave her bed.

She refused to see a doctor, however, and declared that her trouble required no other remedy than rest.

But from the first moment of her illness, it was evident that Madame de Noirmont’s humor had changed: she hardly spoke; sometimes her daughter’s presence seemed irksome to her; she answered her curtly and received her caresses without warmth. As for Louise, while her mistress kept her room, she persistently declined her services on the pretext that she did not require them.

Poor Louise was greatly distressed.

“Madame your mother,” she said to Ernestine, “will not let me wait on her, or even go into her room. I am afraid that I have displeased her, mademoiselle; perhaps she does not like to have in her house a girl whose parents are not known.”

Ernestine tried to comfort her, saying:

“You are wrong. Why should you think that mamma has anything against you? No, it is this trouble of hers, it’s her nerves that make her depressed and irritable. Why, she even pushes me away now when I kiss her, and she doesn’t kiss me; that makes me unhappy too, but I am sure that mamma still loves me.”

As she spoke, the sweet child shed tears, and Louise mingled hers with them, for she could think of no other consolation to give her.

Madame de Noirmont made up her mind at last to leave her room, and she went down to the salon. The first time that Louise saw her, she longed to ask about her health, but she dared not; her mistress’s eyes seemed to avoid hers, and she did not display her former kindliness to her. For the merest trifle, Madame de Noirmont lost patience, scolded and became angry; sometimes she gave Louise ten contradictory orders in the same minute. The poor girl lost her head, was bewildered, did not know what to do, while Ernestine gazed at her mother with a surprised and grieved expression, when she saw her treat her protégée so harshly.

Sometimes, however, a violent change seemed to take place in that strange creature; after speaking sharply and severely to Louise, Madame de Noirmont, remarking the poor girl’s heartbroken expression, would suddenly change her tone; her eyes would fill with tears and follow Louise’s every movement; then she would call her in a gentle, affectionate, even tender voice, and the girl would return instantly, joyous and eager; but her mistress’s face would already have resumed its stern expression, and she would motion her away, muttering curtly:

“What do you want? I didn’t call you.”

Several weeks passed in this way. One morning, Madame de Noirmont, who seemed even more thoughtful than usual, said to her daughter when she came to kiss her:

“Really, I don’t propose to keep your maid; the girl is good for nothing; we must dismiss her. We will pay her two or three months’ wages more than is due her. Tell her, and advise her to return to her village; I think that she made a great mistake in coming to Paris to seek employment. Do not try to change my decision, it would do no good.”

Ernestine was in despair; she was very fond of Louise, and it would be a real sorrow to her to part with her; but her mother had spoken in such a stern and decided tone that the poor child dared not reply. She said nothing, but lowered her eyes with a sigh, and left the room to perform the distressing duty with which her mother had entrusted her. As she left her mother’s apartment, Ernestine met Monsieur de Noirmont, who came up to her and kissed her, and said, observing her sorrowful air:

“What is it, my child? You look as if you had been crying!”

“It’s nothing, papa.”

“You know, Ernestine, that I do not like evasions or mysteries; I insist upon knowing at once what makes you unhappy this morning.”

“Well, papa, it’s because mamma is going to send Louise away, poor Louise, our maid, who is so sweet, and whom I love so dearly. But mamma doesn’t like her any more; she says that Louise isn’t good for anything; but Louise works just as much as she ever did, and she sews like an angel. But as mamma insists, I am going to tell Louise, so that she----”

“Don’t go to her, my child, it is not necessary; Louise will stay in this house.”

“But, papa, when mamma told me----”

“I tell you the opposite, my child, and I am the only master here.”

Ernestine said no more, for her father had assumed a severe expression which in him denoted that he had formed a resolution which no one could change. Monsieur de Noirmont then went to his wife and said to her in a cold and impressive tone:

“Your humor is very capricious, madame, as anyone may see by the way in which you treat your daughter sometimes; but you extend it to defenceless servants also, and that is what I cannot endure. This young Louise, who came here to wait upon Ernestine, is honest and virtuous; her appearance is as becoming as her manners; I think that it would be difficult to find another so satisfactory; and yet you propose to dismiss her, madame--you expect me to turn a good girl out of my house, because, for some unknown reason, she has ceased to please you; because your fanciful humor makes you more difficult than ever to serve!--No, madame, that shall not be; I propose to be just before everything, and this girl shall remain in my house, because it would be unjust to send her away.”

Madame de Noirmont had not a word to say in reply; she hung her head and seemed completely crushed.