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Pride: One of the Seven Cardinal Sins
Olivier was in despair, but he could not help admiring this noble pride, though he deeply deplored the consequences so far as Gerald was concerned.
Suddenly a loud ring of the door-bell resounded through the room. Herminie sprang up and hastily dried her tears; then, remembering Mlle. de Beaumesnil's note, she said to Olivier:
"It must be Ernestine. Poor child, I had forgotten all about her. M. Olivier, will you have the goodness to open the door for me?"
"One word more," said Olivier, in earnest, almost solemn tones; "you have no conception of the intensity of Gerald's love for you. You know I am not prone to exaggeration, yet I am afraid, do you hear me, positively afraid, when I think of the possible consequences of your refusal."
Herminie trembled at Olivier's ominous words. For a moment she seemed to be torn by conflicting doubts and fears; but she finally triumphed, though the poor girl, exhausted by this mental conflict, answered in tones that were barely audible:
"The thought of causing Gerald suffering is terrible to me, for I can judge of his love by my own. My own sorrow, too, enables me to judge what his must be. Nevertheless, I will never sacrifice my dignity, for that is Gerald's as much as mine."
"I entreat you, mademoiselle, do not – "
"You have heard my resolve, M. Olivier. I shall not say another word. Have pity on me. Can you not see that this interview is killing me?"
Olivier, seeing that it was useless to expostulate further, bowed to Herminie in silence, and then walked towards the door; but he had scarcely opened it when he exclaimed:
"My uncle, and you, Mlle. Ernestine! Great Heavens! This pallor – and this blood on your forehead! What has happened?"
On hearing Olivier's words, Herminie rushed out of her room into the little hallway.
CHAPTER VII
GOOD NEWS
The cause of Olivier's surprise and alarm was only too apparent.
Commander Bernard, pale as death and greatly agitated, was clinging to Mlle. de Beaumesnil's arm as if for support; while the young girl, quite as pale as the old officer, and clad in a simple lawn dress, had several blood-stains on her forehead and cheek.
"What is the matter, uncle?" cried Olivier, scrutinising the veteran's face with deep anxiety. "What has happened?"
"Great Heavens! Ernestine, are you hurt?" cried Herminie, almost simultaneously.
"It is nothing, Herminie," replied the young girl, trying to smile, though her voice trembled violently. "It is nothing, but excuse me for bringing this gentleman in. Just now – I – you see – "
But the poor child could say no more. Strength and courage were alike exhausted. Every vestige of colour fled from her lips; her eyes closed, her head fell back, her limbs gave way under her, and she would have fallen if Herminie had not caught her in her arms.
"She has fainted!" cried the duchess. "Help me carry her into my room, M. Olivier."
"And I – I am the cause of all this trouble," said the commander, following Olivier and Herminie with tottering steps as they carried Ernestine into Herminie's room. "Poor child," he murmured; "what a kind heart she has! What courage she displayed!"
The duchess, having placed Ernestine in the armchair, removed her hat and pushed back from the pure white brow her beautiful chestnut hair, which rolled down in heavy, shining waves upon her shoulders; then, while Olivier supported the girl's unconscious head, Herminie with a soft handkerchief staunched the blood which was flowing from a slight wound a little way above the temple.
The old sailor stood near, watching this touching scene, his lips trembling, and unable to utter a word, while big tears dropped slowly down from his eyes upon his white moustache.
"Support her, M. Olivier, while I go for some cold water and a little cologne," said Herminie.
She returned almost immediately with a handsome china basin, and a bottle of cologne, and, after sponging the wound lightly with a mixture of cologne and water, Herminie poured a little cologne in the palm of her hand and made Mlle. de Beaumesnil inhale it.
Gradually Ernestine's pale lips recovered their wonted colour and a slight flush succeeded the pallor in her cheeks.
"Heaven be praised! She is recovering consciousness," whispered Herminie, gathering up the orphan's long tresses and securing them with her shell comb.
Olivier, who had seemed deeply affected by the scene, now said to the duchess, who was standing beside the armchair, supporting Mlle. de Beaumesnil's head on her bosom:
"Mlle. Herminie, I regret very much that it should be under such unfortunate circumstances that I have the honour of introducing to you my uncle, Commander Bernard."
The young girl responded with an almost affectionate smile and bow, and the old officer said:
"And I, mademoiselle, am doubly sorry, as I was unfortunately the cause of this accident which distresses you so much."
"But how did it happen, uncle?" asked Olivier.
So while Herminie, seeing that, thanks to her attentions, Ernestine was gradually regaining consciousness, made her again inhale a few drops of cologne, Commander Bernard began his explanation by saying:
"I went out this morning while you were talking with one of your friends, Olivier."
"Yes, uncle, Madame Barbançon told me that you had been so imprudent as to go out in spite of your extreme weakness, but she felt less anxious about you, I thought, from the fact that you had seemed in unusually good spirits when you left the house."
"Yes, yes, I was unusually gay because I was happy, oh, very happy, for this morning – "
But the commander, checking himself suddenly, gazed at Olivier with a peculiar expression, then added, with a sigh:
"No, no, I must not tell you now. Well, as I said before, I went out – "
"It was a very imprudent thing for you to do, uncle."
"Perhaps it was, but I had my reasons for wanting to go; besides, I thought a walk in the open air might do me good. Still, being a little doubtful of my strength, instead of going out on the plain as usual, I followed the broad grassy terrace that borders the railroad track in this direction. Feeling tired after I had walked a short distance, I sat down to rest and sun myself on the top of a bank on the side of one of those new streets which have been graded and paved, but on which no houses have yet been erected. I sat there a quarter of an hour, perhaps, then, thinking myself sufficiently rested, I decided that I would get up and start for home. But the walk, short as it was, had exhausted my strength completely, for I had scarcely gotten upon my feet before I was seized with vertigo, my knees trembled under me, I lost my balance; the bank was steep – "
"And you fell?" asked Olivier, anxiously.
"I must have slidden rather than fallen to the foot of the bank, I think, and my situation would not have been at all dangerous, I suppose, if a big wagon, loaded with stones and drawn by horses which had been left to guide themselves by the driver who was walking on ahead, had not happened to come along just then."
"Great God!" exclaimed Olivier.
"How terrible!" cried Herminie.
"Ah, yes, especially to that dear young lady you see lying there wounded, yes, wounded by risking her own life to save mine!"
"What, uncle, this wound of Mlle. Ernestine's – ?"
"When I fell from the top of the bank," resumed the old man, interrupting his nephew, who had cast a look of inexpressible gratitude on Mlle. de Beaumesnil, "my head struck the pavement, and I lay there unable to make the slightest movement, though I seemed to see the horses advancing towards me through a sort of mist. My head could not have been more than a yard from the wheel when I heard a loud cry, and dimly perceived a woman, who was coming in the opposite direction from the horses, rush towards me. Then consciousness deserted me entirely. When I regained it," continued the old man, with increasing emotion, "I was half lying, half sitting, on the bank a couple of yards from the spot where I had fallen, and a young girl, an angel of goodness and courage, was kneeling beside me, with clasped hands, her face still pale with terror, and her forehead covered with blood. And it was she," exclaimed the old officer, turning to Ernestine, who had now entirely recovered her senses, "yes, it was you, mademoiselle, who saved my life at the risk of your own, – you, a frail, delicate creature who listened only to the promptings of your noble heart and indomitable courage."
"Oh, Ernestine, how proud I am of being your friend!" cried the duchess, pressing the blushing and embarrassed girl to her heart.
"Yes, you may well be!" cried the old man, enthusiastically.
"Mademoiselle," said Olivier, in his turn, addressing Mlle. de Beaumesnil with unmistakable agitation, "I can only say – but I feel sure that you will understand what these words mean to me – I owe the life of my uncle, or rather of the most tenderly loved father, to you."
"M. Olivier," replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil, averting her eyes after a wondering glance at the young man, "what you say makes me doubly happy, for until now I was entirely ignorant that this gentleman was that dear relative of yours Herminie was telling me about day before yesterday."
"But how are you feeling now, mademoiselle?" inquired the old man, with deep interest. "Don't you think it would be well to send for a physician, Mlle. Herminie? Olivier will run and get one."
"Pray do nothing of the kind, M. Olivier," cried Ernestine, hastily. "My head hurts me very little; the wound must be scarcely more than a scratch, for I hardly feel it. When I fainted just now, it was more from excitement than pain."
"That makes no difference, you must have a little rest, all the same," said Herminie. "I think, with you, that your wound is slight, but you have had such a fright that I intend to keep you a few hours."
"Oh, so far as that prescription is concerned, I will take it with pleasure, my dear Herminie," responded Mlle. de Beaumesnil, smiling; "and I shall try to make my convalescence last as long as possible."
"And now, Olivier, if you will give me your arm, we will leave these young ladies," said the veteran.
"M. Olivier, it will not do at all for Commander Bernard to return home on foot, weak as he is. You had better tell our portress to call a cab for you."
"No, no, my dear young lady, with Olivier's assistance I shall get along nicely. The fresh air will do me a world of good, and then I can show Olivier the place where I should have been killed but for this guardian angel here. I am not much of a devotee, mademoiselle, but I shall often make a sort of pilgrimage to that grassy slope to pray after my fashion for the noble-hearted girl who saved me at a time I was so anxious to live, for this very morning – "
And then, for the second time, to Olivier's great surprise, the veteran seemed to check words which were almost upon his lips.
"Oh, well, never mind," he continued, "I shall pray after my fashion for my guardian angel, for really," added the veteran, smilingly, "the world seems to be upside down, for now it is young girls who save old soldiers, – but fortunately the old soldiers have heart enough left for gratitude and devotion."
Olivier, with his eyes riveted on Mlle. de Beaumesnil's sad and gentle face, was experiencing a feeling of compassionate tenderness which was full of charm. His heart throbbed with conflicting emotions as he gazed at the young girl, and recalled the incidents of his first meeting with her, her ingenuous frankness and quaint originality, and, above all, Herminie's intimation that her friend's lot was far from being a happy one. Olivier had long been an ardent admirer of Herminie's rare beauty, but at this moment Ernestine seemed equally attractive in his eyes.
The young soldier was so absorbed that his uncle was obliged to take him by the arm and say to him:
"Come, my boy, we must no longer trespass on the hospitality which Mlle. Herminie will surely pardon me for having accepted."
"The fact is, Herminie," said Ernestine, "knowing you lived only a short distance from the scene of the accident, I thought I might venture – "
"Surely you are not going to apologise for having acted as any friend would have done?" the duchess exclaimed, interrupting her.
"We will bid you adieu, young ladies," said the old naval officer, then, turning to Ernestine, he said earnestly:
"It would grieve me too much to think that I had seen you to-day for the first and last time. Oh, have no fears, mademoiselle," exclaimed the old man, noting a slight expression of embarrassment on the girl's tell-tale face, "my gratitude gives me no excuse for intruding myself upon you, but I should consider it a great favour if you and Mlle. Herminie would occasionally permit me to call and see you, – for it is not enough to have a heart full of gratitude, one should at least be allowed to sometimes give expression to it."
"M. Bernard," replied Herminie, "this desire on your part is too natural for Ernestine and me to feel any inclination to oppose it; and some evening when Ernestine will be at liberty, we will let you know, and you must do us the honour to come and take a cup of tea with us."
"May I really?" the veteran exclaimed, joyfully. Then he added:
"Yes, yes, the world does indeed seem to be upside down, for it is those who are already under heavy obligations who have benefits heaped upon them by their benefactors; but I am more than resigned, so adieu, my dear young ladies, or, rather, au revoir. Are you ready, Olivier?"
But as he reached the door he paused, and seemed to hesitate, then after a moment's reflection he came back, and said:
"I cannot do it, my dear young ladies; I cannot carry my secret away with me."
"A secret, M. Bernard?"
"Yes; I have been on the point of telling it twice, but both times I have checked myself, because I had promised to keep silence; but after all, it is only right that Mlle. Ernestine, to whom I owe my life, should at least know why I am so glad to live – "
"I, too, think you owe Ernestine this reward, M. Bernard," said Herminie.
"I assure you that I should be very happy to be honoured with your confidence, monsieur," added Mlle. de Beaumesnil.
"And it would be a real proof of confidence, mademoiselle, for, as I told you, I was advised to keep the matter a secret, and I must confess, my dear Olivier, that it was to keep it a secret from you that I went out this morning."
"But why, uncle? I do not understand."
"Why, because in spite of all the advice in the world, in my first transports of happiness over the good news which I had just heard, I couldn't have helped falling upon your neck and telling you all. So I went out, hoping to become sufficiently accustomed to my happiness to be able to conceal it from you afterwards."
"But, uncle, what good news do you refer to?" inquired Olivier, with increasing surprise.
"Your friend who was at the house this morning did not tell you that his first visit was to me, did he?"
"No, uncle, when he came out into the garden to find me, I supposed he had just arrived."
"Yes, for we had agreed to say nothing about our interview, as it was he who brought me the good news, and Heaven knows he was pleased enough about it, though everything else seemed to be going wrong with him. In short, young ladies, you will understand my happiness, I think, when I tell you that my brave Olivier has been made an officer."
"I?" exclaimed Olivier, with rapturous delight, "I an officer?"
"Oh, what happiness for you, M. Olivier," cried Herminie.
"Yes, my brave boy," exclaimed the veteran, pressing Olivier's hands warmly, "yes, you are an officer; but I was to keep the secret from you until the day you will receive your commission, so your happiness would be complete, for you do not know all – "
"What more is there to tell, M. Bernard?" inquired Ernestine, who was watching the scene with lively interest.
"It is that my dear Olivier will not have to leave me again; at least not for a long time, for he has been appointed an officer in one of the regiments that have just come to garrison Paris. Ah, Mlle. Ernestine, have I not reason to love life now that Olivier and I are both so fortunate? Do you understand now the full extent of my gratitude to you?"
The newly made officer stood silent and thoughtful, but a strong emotion betrayed itself in his features as he glanced at Mlle. de Beaumesnil, with a new and very peculiar expression.
"Why, my boy," said the veteran, surprised and somewhat chagrined at the thoughtful silence which had followed Olivier's first exclamation of joy and astonishment, "how is this? I thought you would be so delighted to hear of your appointment. I know very well that it is only a tardily rendered acknowledgment of services rendered, still – "
"Pray do not think me ungrateful, uncle," replied Olivier, in a voice that trembled with emotion. "If I am silent, it is only because my heart is too full for utterance when I think of all the happiness this news implies; besides, I feel sure that I owe my appointment to the enthusiastic efforts of my best friend – an appointment, too, that is unspeakably precious to me," added Olivier, casting still another look at Ernestine, who blushed, though she knew not why, as she met his earnest gaze, "because – because – it is you who announce it to me, my dear uncle."
But it was evident that Olivier had not disclosed the real reason that rendered his new appointment such a boon to him.
Ernestine alone seemed to read the young man's secret thoughts, for she blushed again and a tear glittered in her eye.
"And now, Mister Officer," resumed the veteran, gaily, "as these young ladies have heard our good news, we must no longer trespass upon their good nature. I trust, however, that Mlle. Herminie will not forget her promised invitation to take tea with her. You see I have a good memory, mademoiselle."
"You need have no fears on that score, M. Bernard. I shall prove to you that my memory is quite as good as yours," responded Herminie, graciously.
While the commander was addressing a few more words of gratitude and of farewell to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, Olivier, approaching Herminie, said to her in a low, beseeching tone:
"Mlle. Herminie, this is one of those days which should incline one to clemency. What shall I say to Gerald?"
"M. Olivier," replied Herminie, her face clouding suddenly, for the poor child had almost forgotten her own sorrows for the time being, "you know my resolve."
Olivier knew Herminie's remarkable firmness of character, so he smothered a sigh as he thought of Gerald's disappointment.
"One word more, Mlle. Herminie?" he asked. "Will you have the goodness to grant me another interview to-morrow at any hour that suits you? It is upon a very important, but purely personal matter I wish to consult you this time, and you will be doing me a great favour if you grant my request."
"With pleasure, M. Olivier," replied the duchess, though she was not a little surprised at the request. "I shall expect you to-morrow morning."
"I thank you, mademoiselle. Good-bye until to-morrow, then," said Olivier.
He departed in company with Commander Bernard, and the two young girls – the two sisters – were left alone together.
CHAPTER VIII
A STARTLING REVELATION
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 Rochaiguë as usual, she had asked Madame Laîné 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 Laîné 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."
"What I know of her, and the recollection of her mother's great kindness to me, will always make me fond of her. But alas! my dear Ernestine, it is a matter of pride with me to shun any friendship that does not seem entirely disinterested, and this young lady is very wealthy and I am poor."
"You must have a poor opinion of her, then, after all," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, bitterly.
"Oh, no, Ernestine, after all her mother told me, I can not doubt her kindness of heart, but I am an entire stranger to her. Then, too, for many reasons, and more particularly from a fear of arousing sad recollections, I should not dare to speak of the circumstances which made me so intimately acquainted with her dying mother, nor of that mother's great kindness to me. Besides, would it not look very much as if I were trying to ingratiate myself with her, and presuming upon an affection to which I really have no claim?"
On hearing this admission, how earnestly Ernestine congratulated herself upon having won Herminie's affection before her new friend knew who she, Ernestine, really was! And what a strange coincidence! She had feared that, because she was the richest heiress in France, she would never be loved for herself alone; while Herminie, because she was poor, feared that her affection would not appear disinterested.
The duchess seemed to have become more and more depressed in spirits as the conversation proceeded. She had hoped to find in it a refuge from her own sad thoughts, but such had not been the case, for it was this same laudable pride which made Herminie fear that her love for Gerald might be attributed to vanity or mercenary motives, and so had led to the resolve which would inevitably ruin her only hope of happiness.
For how could she expect that Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre would ever consent to make the advances required of her? But alas! though endowed with sufficient courage to sacrifice her love to the dignity of that love, Herminie realised none the less keenly what terrible suffering this courageous sacrifice would entail.
So referring almost unconsciously to the anguish she felt, after a moment's silence, she remarked, in a strangely altered voice:
"Ah, my poor Ernestine, how sad it is that the purest and noblest affections can be thus degraded by unworthy suspicions!"
