me," said the countess, affectionately, "and tell me how it is that you who can not be more than seventeen or eighteen years of age—"
"Eighteen years and six months, madame la comtesse."
"Well, then, how it is that you are such an accomplished musician at your age?"
"Madame la comtesse judges me too flatteringly. I have always had a great love for music, and I had very little trouble in learning it."
"But who was your instructor? Where did you learn music?"
"I was taught in the school I attended, madame la comtesse."
"In Paris, then, I suppose?"
"No; I have attended school in other places besides Paris."
"Where?"
"In Beauvais. I lived there until I was ten years old."
"And after that?"
"I was placed in a Parisian school."
"And how long did you remain there?"
"Until I was sixteen and a half."
"And after that?"
"I left school and began to give lessons in singing and on the piano."
"And ever since that time you have—?"
Madame de Beaumesnil hastily checked herself, then added, with no little embarrassment:
"I am really ashamed of my inquisitiveness—nothing but the deep interest I take in you could excuse it, mademoiselle."
"The questions madame la comtesse deigns to address to me are evidently so kindly meant that I am only too glad to answer them in all sincerity."
"Well, then, with whom did you make your home after leaving school?"
"With whom did I make my home, madame?"
"Yes; I mean with what persons?"
"I had no one to go to, madame."
"No one?" exclaimed Madame de Beaumesnil, with truly heroic courage. "You had no relatives? No family?"
"I have no relatives, madame la comtesse," replied Herminie, with a courage equal to that of her mother. "I have no relatives."
"I am sure now that she does not know that I am her daughter," Herminie said to herself. "If she did, she certainly would not have had the courage to ask me such a question."
"Then with whom have you lived since that time?" asked the countess.
"I have lived alone."
"Entirely alone?"
"Yes, madame."
"Forgive me this one more question, for at your age—such a position is so unusual—and so very interesting—have you always had scholars enough to support you?"
"Oh, yes, madame la comtesse," replied poor Herminie, bravely.
"And you live entirely alone, though you are so young?"
"What else could I do, madame? One can not choose one's lot; one can only accept it, and by the aid of industry and courage try to make one's existence, if not brilliant, at least happy."
"Happy!" exclaimed Madame de Beaumesnil, in accents of irrepressible delight; "you are really happy?"
As she uttered these words her countenance, as well as her voice, betrayed such intense joy and relief that Herminie's doubts returned, and she said to herself:
"Perhaps she does know that I am her daughter. If she does not, why should she be so pleased to learn that I am happy. It matters little, however. If she does know that I am her daughter, I must reassure her so as to save her from vain regrets, and perhaps remorse. If I am a stranger to her, it is no less necessary for me to reassure her, else she may think I wish to excite her commiseration, and my pride revolts at the idea of that."
Meanwhile, Madame de Beaumesnil, longing to hear Herminie repeat an assurance so precious to a mother's heart, exclaimed:
"And you say you are happy—really and truly happy?"
"Yes, madame," answered Herminie, almost gaily, "very happy."
Seeing her daughter's charming face thus radiant with innocent joy and youthful beauty, the countess was obliged to make a violent effort to keep from betraying herself, and it was with a fair imitation of Herminie's gaiety that she replied:
"Don't laugh at my question, mademoiselle, but to us, who are unfortunately accustomed to all the luxuries and superfluities of wealth, there are many things that seem incomprehensible. When you left school, however modest your wants may have been, how did you manage to supply them?"
"Oh, I was rich, then, madame la comtesse," said Herminie, smiling.
"How was that?"
"Two years after I was placed at a Parisian school, the remittances which had, up to that time, been received for my schooling ceased. I was then twelve years old, and the principal of the school was very fond of me. 'My child,' she said to me one day, 'your friends have ceased to pay for you, but that makes no difference; you shall stay on just the same.'"
"Noble woman!"
"She was the best woman that ever lived, madame la comtesse, but, unfortunately, she is dead now," said Herminie, sadly.
Then, unwilling to leave the countess under a painful impression, she added, smilingly:
"But the kind-hearted woman had not taken my greatest fault into consideration in making these plans. For, as you ask me to be perfectly frank with you, madame, I am forced to admit that I have one great and deplorable fault."
"And what is it, may I ask?"
"Alas! madame, it is pride."
"Pride?"
"Yes; so when our kind-hearted principal offered to keep me out of charity, my pride revolted, and I told her I would accept her offer only upon condition that I was allowed to pay by my work for what she offered me gratuitously."
"You said that at the age of twelve. What a little braggart she must have thought you. And how did you propose to pay her, pray?"
"By superintending the practising of the younger music pupils, for I was very far advanced for my age, having always had a passion for music."
"And did she accept your proposal?"
"Gladly, madame la comtesse. My determination to be independent seemed to touch her deeply."
"I can readily understand that."
"Thanks to her, I soon had a large number of pupils, several of them much older than myself—my pride
