The Clique of Gold, Emile Gaboriau [if you liked this book .txt] 📗

with many sighs his portemonnaie from its secret home, and counted upon the table the seven hundred francs in gold upon which Henrietta had stoutly insisted.

That was enough to pay Mrs. Chevassat for four months’ board.

“But no,” said the poor young girl to herself, “that would be pusillanimous in the highest degree.”

And that very evening she summoned all her courage, and told the formidable woman in a firm tone of voice, that henceforth she would only take one meal, dinner. She had chosen this half-way measure in order not to avoid a scene, for that she knew she could not hope for, but a regular falling-out.

Contrary to all expectations, the concierge’s wife appeared neither surprised nor angry. She only shrugged her shoulders as she said,—

“As you like, my ‘little pussy-cat.’ Only believe me, it is no use economizing in one’s eating.”

From the day of this coup d’etat, Henrietta went down every morning herself to buy her penny-roll and the little supply of milk which constituted her breakfast. For the rest of the day she did not leave her room, busying herself with her great work; and nothing broke in upon the distressing monotony of her life but the weekly visits of M. de Brevan.

For he did not forget his threat; and every week Henrietta was sure to see him come. He came in with a solemn air, and coldly asked if she had reflected since he had had the honor of presenting his respects to her. She did not answer him ordinarily, except by a look of contempt; but he did not seem in the least disconcerted. He bowed respectfully, and invariably said, before leaving the room,—

“Next time, then; I can wait. Oh! I have time; I can wait.”

If he hoped thus to conquer Henrietta more promptly, he was entirely mistaken. This periodical insult acted only as an inducement to keep up her wrath and to increase her energy. Her pride rose at the thought of this unceasing struggle; and she swore that she would be victorious. It was this sentiment which inspired her with a thought, which, in its results, was destined to have a decisive influence on her future.

It was now the end of June, and she saw with trembling her little treasure grow smaller and smaller; when one day she asked Mrs. Chevassat, who seemed to be of unusually good-humor, if she could not procure her some work. She told her that she was considered quite skilful in all kinds of needlework.

But the woman laughed at the first words, and said,—

“Leave me alone! Are hands like yours made to work?”

And when Henrietta insisted, and showed her, as a proof of what she could do, the embroidery which she had commenced, she replied,—

“That is very pretty; but embroidering from morning till night would not enable a fairy to keep a canary-bird.”

There was probably some truth in what she said, exaggerated as it sounded; and the poor girl hastened to add that she understood other kinds of work also. She was a first-class musician, for instance, and fully able to give music-lessons, or teach singing, if she could only get pupils. At these words a ray of diabolic satisfaction lighted up the old woman’s eyes; and she cried out,—

“What, my ‘pussy-cat,’ could you play dancing-music, like those artists who go to the large parties of fashionable people?”

“Certainly!”

“Well, that is a talent worth something! Why did you not tell me before? I will think of it, and you shall see.”

On the next Saturday, early in the morning, she appeared in Henrietta’s room with the bright face of a bearer of good news.

“I have thought of you,” she said as soon as she entered.

“Ah!”

“We have a tenant in the house who is going to give a large party to-night. I have mentioned you to her; and she says she will give you thirty francs if you will make her guests jump. Thirty francs! That’s a big sum; and besides, if they are pleased, you will get more customers.”

“In what part of the house does she live?”

“In the second story of the back building, looking upon the yard. Mrs. Hilaire, a very nice person, and so good! there is no one like her. You would have to be there at nine o’clock precisely.”

“I’ll come.”

Quite happy, and full of hope, Henrietta spent a part of the afternoon in mending her only dress, a black silk dress, much worn unfortunately, and already often repaired. Still, by much skill and patience, she had managed to look quite respectable when she rang the bell at Mrs. Hilaire’s door. She was shown into a room furnished with odd furniture, but brilliantly lighted, in which seven or eight ladies in flaming costumes, and as many fashionable gentlemen, were smoking and taking coffee. Both ladies and gentlemen had just risen from table; there was no mistaking it from their eyes and the sound of their voices.

“Look! there is the musician from the garret!” exclaimed a large, dark-skinned woman, pretty, but very vulgar, who seemed to be Mrs. Hilaire.

And, turning to Henrietta, she asked,—

“Will you take a little glass of something, my darling?”

The poor girl blushed crimson, and, painfully embarrassed, declined, and asked pardon for declining; when the lady broke in rather rudely, and said,—

“You are not thirsty? Very well. You’ll drink after some time. In the meantime will you play us a quadrille? and mark the time, please.”

Then imitating with distressing accuracy the barking voice of masters of ceremonies at public balls, she called out,—

“Take your positions, take your positions: a quadrille!”

Henrietta had taken her seat at the piano. She turned her back to the dancers; but she had before her a mirror, in which she saw every gesture of Mrs. Hilaire and her guests. And then she became quite sure of what she had suspected from the beginning. She understood into what company she had been inveigled by the concierge’s wife. She had, however, sufficient self-control to finish the quadrille. But, when the last figure had been danced, she rose; and, walking up to the mistress of the house, said, stammering painfully, and in extreme embarrassment,—

“Please excuse me, madam, I have to leave. I feel very unwell. I could not play any more.”

“How funny!” cried one of the gentlemen. “Here is our ball at an end!”

But the young woman said,—

“Hush, Julius! Don’t you see how pale she is,—pale like death, the poor child! What is the matter with you, darling? Is it the heat that makes you feel badly? It is stifling hot here.”

And, when Henrietta was at the door, she said,—