Pride: One of the Seven Cardinal Sins

"Monsieur," interposed Herminie, seeing her landlord attempt to detain the offender; "monsieur, I must insist – "

"But, my dear young lady, you certainly ought to know why I brought this young man here," exclaimed M. Bouffard. "You surely cannot suppose that it was with the intention of annoying you. The fact is, I met the young fellow near the barrière, and as soon as I laid eyes on him, I called out, 'Ah, my generous youth, a nice scrape you got me into with your yellow boys. Here they are; take them, and don't let me see any more of them, if you please.' And then I told him how you had felt about the service he had rendered you, and how you had cried and taken on, until monsieur turned red, and then pale, and then green, and finally said to me, apparently quite miserable about what I had told him, 'Ah, monsieur, I have unintentionally insulted a person whose unprotected position renders her all the more worthy of respect. I owe her an apology, and I will make it in your presence, as you were my involuntary accomplice. Come, monsieur, come.' Upon my word of honour, mademoiselle, these were the very words the young man said to me, and somehow what he said touched me. I can't imagine what is the matter with me to-day, I'm as chicken-hearted as a woman. I thought he was right to want to come and apologise to you, so I brought him along, or, rather, he brought me along, for he took me by the arm and dragged me along at the double-quick. In fact, I never walked so fast in my life."

The sincerity of the words was unmistakable, and as Herminie was endowed with a keen sense of justice, and she had been not a little touched by the tears she had seen glittering in Gerald's eyes, she said to the stranger, in a tone which indicated a strong desire to end this painful scene as soon as possible:

"In that case, monsieur, the offence of which I complain was unintentional, and it was not to aggravate the offence that you returned here. I believe this, monsieur, and this should satisfy you, I think."

"If you desire it, mademoiselle, I will leave at once without saying a word in my own defence."

"Do have a little pity, my dear young lady," pleaded M. Bouffard. "You have allowed me to speak, now listen to the gentleman."

Whereupon the Duc de Senneterre, taking Herminie's silence for an assent, said:

"Mademoiselle, this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I was passing along the street, looking for lodgings, and naturally paused in front of the house as I saw several notices of rooms to rent. I asked permission to inspect the apartments, and going on in advance of the portress, who promised to join me in a minute, I began to ascend the stairs. As I reached the first landing my attention was attracted by a timid, supplicating voice. This voice was yours, mademoiselle, and you were pleading with this gentleman. I paused involuntarily, not from any idle curiosity, but because I could not listen to such a touching appeal unmoved. So I heard all, and my only thought was that a woman was in trouble, and that I could save her, without her even knowing it, so seeing a man come out of your room a few minutes afterwards I called to him."

"Yes," continued M. Bouffard, "and said to me angrily, 'Here is money, pay yourself, and cease to torment a woman, who is only too unhappy already.' If I did not tell you this at first, my dear young lady, it was only because I wanted to have my little joke, and afterwards I was frightened to see how angry you were."

"That is my offence, mademoiselle," continued Gerald. "I yielded to a thoughtless, though not ungenerous impulse, whose deplorable consequences I did not foresee. I unfortunately forgot that the sacred right to render certain services belongs only to tried and trusted friends. I forgot, too, that, however spontaneous and disinterested commiseration may be, it may nevertheless be a cruel insult under some circumstances. When this gentleman told me of your just indignation, mademoiselle, and told me the wrong I had unwittingly done you, I felt it to be my duty as an honourable man to come and beg your pardon, and tell you the simple truth. I had never had the honour of seeing you; I did not even know your name, and I shall probably never see you again, but I wish that I could convince you that I had not the slightest intention of insulting you, and that I never realised the gravity of my offence until now."

Gerald was speaking the truth, and his sincerity, emotion, and tact convinced Herminie that such, indeed, was the case.

Another and entirely different idea also influenced the ingenuous girl, or, rather, an apparently trivial but to her highly significant circumstance, viz., that the stranger was seeking a modest lodging. This convinced her that he was not rich, and that the generosity he had manifested towards her must necessarily have been at the cost of no little personal sacrifice.

These considerations, aided very considerably, perhaps, – and why not, may we ask? – by the influence almost always exerted by a handsome, frank, and expressive face, appeased Herminie's wrath wonderfully. In fact, far from feeling the slightest indignation against Gerald now, she was really touched by the generous impulse to which he had yielded, and which he had just explained with such perfect frankness, and too honest and ingenuous herself to conceal her thoughts, she said to Gerald, with charming simplicity:

"My embarrassment is very great, monsieur, for I must reproach myself for having entirely misinterpreted an act, the kindness of which I now appreciate. I can only beg you to forget the intemperance of my first remarks."

"Permit me to say, on the contrary, that I shall never forget them, mademoiselle," replied Gerald, "for they will always remind me that there is one attribute which should be respected above all others in a woman, – her dignity."

And bowing deferentially to Herminie, Gerald turned to leave the room.

M. Bouffard had listened to the latter part of this conversation in open-mouthed wonder, it being just about as intelligible to him as if it had been carried on in Greek; but now checking Gerald, who had started towards the door, the ex-grocer, evidently with the idea that he was achieving a master-stroke, exclaimed:

"One moment, my good sir, one moment. As mademoiselle is no longer offended with you, there is no reason why you shouldn't take those nice little rooms on the third floor I was telling you about, – a small hall, and two cozy rooms; one that will answer for a sitting-room, and the other for a bedroom – just the thing for a bachelor."

On hearing this proposal, Herminie became very uneasy, for it would have been decidedly unpleasant to see Gerald installed in the same house.

But the young duke promptly replied:

"I have already told you that the rooms would not suit me, my dear sir."

"Yes, because this young lady was offended with you, and it is very unpleasant to be on bad terms with one's fellow tenants. But now this young lady has forgiven you, there is no reason you shouldn't take those nice rooms."

"I am even less inclined to take them now," replied Gerald, venturing a glance at Herminie.

The young girl did not raise her eyes, but she blushed slightly, for she appreciated the delicacy of Gerald's refusal.

"What!" exclaimed M. Bouffard, profoundly astonished; "now you have made up with mademoiselle, you are less inclined to take them than ever? Is it possible that you have noticed any objections to my house since you came back?"

"It is not precisely that which deprives me of the pleasure of taking up my abode under your roof, my dear sir, but – "

"Come, I'll let you have those rooms for two hundred and fifty francs, with a small cellar thrown in, if you want it."

"Impossible, my dear sir, impossible."

"Call it two hundred and forty, then, and say no more about it."

"I am obliged to call your attention to the fact that mademoiselle's room is not the place for this haggling, monsieur."

Then turning to Herminie and bowing profoundly, the young duke said:

"Believe me, mademoiselle, I shall always retain a most delightful recollection of this first and last interview."

The girl bowed graciously, but without raising her eyes, and Gerald departed, resolutely pursued by M. Bouffard, who seemed determined not to lose his prey.

But Gerald remained obdurate in spite of the landlord's tempting offers. The ex-grocer persisted in his efforts, so Gerald, to get rid of him, and perhaps also to have an opportunity to think over his meeting with Herminie, quickened his pace and told the landlord that he intended to extend his walk as far as the fortifications. So he started off, leaving M. Bouffard in despair at having missed this fine opportunity to rent those charming third story rooms.

A road leading to the fortifications intersected the Rue de Monceau near this point. Gerald took it, and then strolled slowly along, absorbed in a profound reverie.

Herminie's rare beauty, as well as her dignity and refinement of manner had made a deep impression on the young duke, and the more he said to himself that he had, of course, seen this charming creature for the first and last time, the more he rebelled against the thought.

Besides, upon analysing or rather comparing his former fancies with his sudden but deep interest in Herminie, and discovering nothing like it in the past, Gerald asked himself, with no little uneasiness:

"What if I should be really caught this time?"

He had just asked himself this question when he was met by an officer of engineers wearing an army redingote without epaulettes, and a big straw hat.

"Why, it's Senneterre!" exclaimed this officer.

The young duke looked up and recognised Captain Comtois, one of his former comrades in the African army.

"How are you, my dear Comtois?" he exclaimed, cordially offering his hand. "I did not expect to see you here, though you are quite in your native element, I must admit," he added, with a glance at the fortifications.

"Yes, my dear fellow, we're making the earth fly and the work is advancing rapidly. I am general-in-chief of that army of labourers and masons you see over there. In Africa, we tore down walls; here, we build them up. Did you come over to look at the works? If you did, I'll show you about."

"A thousand thanks for your kind offer, my dear Comtois, I'll remind you of your promise some day soon."

"Very well, come and take breakfast with me any morning you like. I am living in camp over there. It will remind you of old times; you'll think you're in a Bedouin camp again. Oh, by the way, you remember Clarville, that young lieutenant of spahis who resigned in order that he might have the satisfaction of fighting Colonel Duval a year afterwards?"

"Clarville? Yes, a brave fellow – I remember him perfectly."

"Well, after he resigned, he had very little to live on, and the failure of some bank swept away the little that he had. In fact, if I hadn't happened to come across him, I believe he would have starved. Fortunately, I was able to take him on as overseer, and that pays him a little something."

"Poor fellow! it was a lucky thing for him, though."

"I should think so, particularly as he is married, – a love-match, – that is to say, the girl hadn't a penny, and there are two little children in the bargain, so you can judge of his situation. He manages to make both ends meet, but that is all. I have been to see him. He lives in a side street at the end of the Rue de Monceau."

"At the end of the Rue de Monceau?" asked Gerald, hastily. "I, too, must go and see him."