"I have come, madame," said Herminie, gently but proudly, "to return the money. I have been paid."
No one present realised or could realise the bitter sorrow hidden in these words:
"I have been paid."
But Herminie's dignity and disinterestedness, a disinterestedness which the shabby garments of the young girl rendered the more remarkable, made a deep impression on Madame de la Rochaiguë, and she said:
"Really, mademoiselle, I can not praise too highly this delicacy and keen sense of honour on your part. The family did not know that you had been paid, but," added the baroness, hesitatingly, for Herminie's air of quiet dignity impressed her not a little,—"but I—I feel that I may, in the name of the family, beg you to keep this five hundred francs—as—as a gift."
And the baroness held out the bank-note to the young girl, casting another quick glance at her shabby garments as she did so.
Again a blush of wounded pride mounted to Herminie's brow, but it is impossible to describe the perfect courtesy and proud simplicity with which the girl replied:
"Will you, madame, kindly reserve this generous gift for the many persons who must appeal to you for charity."
Then, without another word, Herminie bowed to Madame de la Rochaiguë, and turned towards the door.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle," cried the baroness, "one word more, just one."