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The Clique of Gold

by Emile Gaboriau · English · Gutenberg #4604 · 958,549 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Clique of Gold

Author: Emile Gaboriau


        
Release date: April 13, 2006 [eBook #4604]
                Most recently updated: September 24, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4604

Credits: Produced by David Moynihan; Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLIQUE OF GOLD ***




Produced by David Moynihan; Dagny; John Bickers





THE CLIQUE OF GOLD

BY

EMILE GABORIAU




THE CLIQUE OF GOLD




I.

There is not in all Paris a house better kept or more inviting-looking
than No. 23 in Grange Street. As soon as you enter, you are struck by a
minute, extreme neatness, which reminds you of Holland, and almost sets
you a-laughing. The neighbors might use the brass plate on the door as a
mirror to shave in; the stone floor is polished till it shines; and the
woodwork of the staircase is varnished to perfection.

In the entrance-hall a number of notices, written in the peculiar
style which owners of houses affect, request the tenants to respect the
property of others, without regard to the high price they pay for their
share. “Clean your feet, if you please,” they say to all who come in or
go out. “No spitting allowed on the stairs.” “Dogs are not allowed in
the house.”

Nevertheless, this admirably-kept house “enjoyed” but a sorry reputation
in the neighborhood. Was it worse than other houses,--No. 21, for
instance, or No. 25? Probably not; but there is a fate for houses as
well as for men.

The first story was occupied by the families of two independent
gentlemen, whose simplicity of mind was only equalled by that of their
mode of life. A collector, who occasionally acted as broker, lived in
the second story, and had his offices there. The third story was rented
to a very rich man, a baron as people said, who only appeared there at
long intervals, preferring, according to his own account, to live on
his estates near Saintonge. The whole fourth story was occupied by a
man familiarly known as Papa Ravinet, although he was barely fifty years
old. He dealt in second-hand merchandise, furniture, curiosities, and
toilet articles; and his rooms were filled to overflowing with a medley
collection of things which he was in the habit of buying at auctions.
The fifth story, finally, was cut up in numerous small rooms and
closets, which were occupied by poor families or clerks, who, almost
without exception, disappeared early in the morning, and returned only
as late as possible at night.

An addition to the house in the rear had its own staircase, and was
probably in the hands of still humbler tenants; but then it is so
difficult to rent out small lodgings!

However this may have been, the house had a bad reputation; and the
lodgers had to bear the consequences. Not one of them would have been
trusted with a dollar’s worth of goods in any of the neighboring shops.
No one, however, stood, rightly or wrongly, in as bad repute as the
doorkeeper, or concierge, who lived in a little hole near the great
double entrance-door, and watched over the safety of the whole house.
Master Chevassat and his wife were severely “cut” by their colleagues
of adjoining houses; and the most atrocious stories were told of both
husband and wife.

Master Chevassat was reputed to be well off; but the story went that
he lent out money, and did not hesitate to charge a hundred per cent
a month. He acted, besides, it was said, as agent for two of his
tenants,--the broker, and the dealer in second-hand goods, and undertook
the executions, when poor debtors were unable to pay. Mrs. Chevassat,
however, had even graver charges to bear. People said she would do
anything for money, and had aided and encouraged many a poor girl in the
house in her evil career.

It was also asserted that the estimable couple had formerly lived in the
fashionable Faubourg St. Honore, but had been compelled to leave there
on account of several ugly occurrences. They were, finally, reported to
have a son called Justin, a handsome fellow, thirty-five years old, who
lived in the best society, and whom they nearly worshipped; while he was
ashamed of them, and despised them, although he came often at night to
ask them for money. No one, it must, however, be confessed, had ever
seen this son; and no one knew him.

The two Chevassats shrugged their shoulders, and said it would be absurd
if they should trouble themselves about public opinion, as long as their
consciences were clear, and they owed nobody anything.

Towards the end of last December, however, on a Saturday afternoon,
towards five o’clock, husband and wife were just sitting down to dinner,
when the dealer in old clothes, Papa Ravinet, rushed like a tempest into
their room.

He was a man of middle size, clean shaven, with small, bright, yellowish
eyes, which shone with restless eagerness from under thick, bushy brows.
Although he had lived for years in Paris, he was dressed like a man from
the country, wearing a flowered silk vest, and a long frock-coat with an
immense collar.

“Quick, Chevassat!” he cried, with a voice full of trouble. “Take your
lamp, and follow me; an accident has happened upstairs.”

He was so seriously disturbed, although generally very calm and cool,
that the two Chevassats were thoroughly frightened.

“An accident!” exclaimed the woman; “that was all that was wanting. But
pray, what has happened, dear M. Ravinet?”

“How do I know? This very moment, as I was just coming out of my room, I
thought I heard the death-rattle of a dying person. It was in the fifth
story. Of course I ran up a few steps, I listened. All was silent. I
went down again, thinking I had been mistaken; and at once I heard again
a sighing, a sobbing--I can’t tell you exactly what; but it sounded
exactly like the last sigh of a person in agony, and at the point of
death.”

“And then?”

“Then I ran down to tell you, and ask you to come up. I am not sure,
you understand; but I think I could swear it was the voice of Miss
Henrietta,--that pretty young girl who lives up there. Well, are you
coming?”

But they did not stir.

“Miss Henrietta is not in her room,” said Mrs. Chevassat coldly. “She
went out just now, and told me she would not be back till nine o’clock.
My dear M. Ravinet, you must have been mistaken; you had a ringing in
your ears, or”--

“No, I am sure I was not mistaken! But never mind; we must see what it
is.”

During this conversation, the door of the room had been open; and
several of the lodgers, hearing the voice of the merchant and the
exclamations of the woman as they crossed the hall, had stopped and
listened.

“Yes, we must see what it is,” they repeated.

Master Chevassat dared no longer oppose the general desire so
peremptorily expressed,--

“Let us go then, since you will have it _so_,” he sighed.

And, taking up his lamp, he began to ascend the stairs, followed by the
merchant, his wife, and five or six other persons.

The steps of all these people were heard all over the house; and from
story to story the lodgers opened their doors to see what was going on.
And, when they heard that something was likely to happen, they almost
all left their rooms, and followed the others.

So that Master Chevassat had nearly a dozen curious persons behind him,
when he stopped on the fifth floor to take breath.

The door to Miss Henrietta’s room was the first on the left in the
passage. He knocked at first gently, then harder, and at last with all
his energy, till his heavy fists shook the thin partition-walls of all
the rooms.

Between each blow he cried,--

“Miss Henrietta, Miss Henrietta, they want you!”

No reply came.

“Well!” he said triumphantly, “you see!”

But, whilst the man was knocking at the door, M. Ravinet had knelt down,
and tried to open the door a little, putting now his eye, and now his
ear, to the keyhole and to the slight opening between the door and the
frame.

Suddenly he rose deadly pale.

“It is all over; we are too late!”

And, as the neighbors expressed some doubts, he cried furiously,--

“Have you no noses? Don’t you smell that abominable charcoal?”

Everybody tried to perceive the odor; and soon all agreed that he was
right. As the door had given way a little, the passage had gradually
become filled with a sickening vapor.

The people shuddered; and a woman’s voice exclaimed,--

“She has killed herself!”

As it happens strangely enough, but too frequently, in such cases, all
hesitated.

“I am going for the police,” said at last Master Chevassat.

“That’s right!” replied the merchant. “Now there is, perhaps, a chance
yet to save the poor girl; and, when you come back, it will of course be
too late.”

“What’s to be done, then?”

“Break in the door.”

“I dare not.”

“Well, I will.”

The kind-hearted man put his shoulder to the worm-eaten door, and in a
moment the lock gave way. The bystanders shrank instinctively back; they
were frightened. The door was wide open, and masses of vapors rolled
out. Soon, however, curiosity triumphed over fear. No one doubted any
longer that the poor girl was lying in there dead; and each one tried
his best to see where she was.

In vain. The feeble light of the lamp had gone out in the foul air; and
the darkness was frightful.

Nothing could be seen but the reddish glow of the charcoal, which was
slowly going out under a little heap of white ashes in two small stoves.
No one ventured to enter.

But Papa Ravinet had not gone so far to stop now, and remain in the
passage.

“Where is the window?” he asked the concierge.

“On the right there.”

“Very well; I’ll open it.”

And boldly the strange man plunged into the dark room; and almost
instantly the noise of breaking glass was heard. A moment later, and the
air in the room had become once more fit for breathing, and everybody
rushed in.

Alas! it was the death-rattle which M. Ravinet had heard.

On the bed, on a thin mattress, without blankets or bedclothes, lay a
young girl about twenty years old, dressed in a wretched black merino
dress, stretched out at full-length, stiff, lifeless.

The women sobbed aloud.

“To die so young!” they said over and over again, “and to die thus.”

In the meantime the merchant had gone up to the bed, and examined the
poor girl.

“She is not dead yet!” he cried. “No, she cannot be dead! Come, ladies,
come here and help the poor child, till the doctor comes.”

And then, with strange self-possession, he told them what to do for the
purpose of recalling her to life.

“Give her air,” he said, “plenty of air; try to get some air into her
lungs. Cut open her dress; pour some vinegar on her face; rub her with
some woollen stuff.”

He issued his orders, and they obeyed him readily, although they had no
hope of success.

“Poor child!” said one of the women. “No doubt she was crossed in love.”

“Or she was starving,” whispered another.

There was no doubt that poverty, extreme poverty, had ruled in that
miserable chamber: the traces were easily seen all around. The whole
furniture consisted of a bed, a chest of drawers, and two chairs. There
were no curtains at the window, no dresses in the trunk, not a ribbon
in the drawers. Evidently everything that could be sold had been sold,
piece by piece, little by little. The mattresses had followed the
dresses,--first the wool, handful by handful, then the covering.

Too proud to complain, and cut off from society by bashfulness, the poor
girl who was lying there had evidently gone through all the stages of
suffering which the shipwrecked mariner endures, who floats, resting on
a stray spar in the great ocean.

Papa Ravinet was thinking of all this, when a paper lying on the bureau
attracted his eye. He took it up. It was the last will of the poor girl,
and ran thus:--


“Let no one be accused; I die voluntarily. I beg Mrs. Chevassat will
carry the two letters which I enclose to their addresses. She will be
paid whatever I may owe her. Henrietta.”


There were the two letters. On the first he read,--

Count Ville-Handry, Rue de Varennest 115. And, on the other,--

M. Maxime de Brevan, 62 Rue Laffitte.

A sudden light seemed to brighten up the small yellowish eye of the
dealer in old clothes; a wicked smile played on his lips; and he uttered
a very peculiar, “Ah!”

But all this passed away in a moment.

His brow grew as dark as ever; and he looked around anxiously and
suspiciously to see if anybody had caught the impression produced upon
him by the letters.

No, nobody had noticed him, nobody was thinking of him; for everybody
was occupied with Miss Henrietta.

Thereupon he slipped the paper and the two letters into the vast pocket
of his huge frock-coat with a dexterity and a rapidity which would have
excited the envy of an accomplished pickpocket. It was high time;
for the women who were bending over the bed of the young girl were
exhibiting signs of intense excitement. One of them said she was sure
the body had trembled under her hand, and the others insisted upon it
that she was mistaken. The matter was soon to be decided, however.

After, perhaps, twenty seconds of unspeakable anguish, during which all
held their breath, and solemn stillness reigned in the room, a cry of
hope and joy broke forth suddenly.

“_She_ has trembled, she has moved!”

This time there was no doubt, no denial possible. The unfortunate girl
had certainly moved, very faintly and feebly; but still she had stirred.

A slight color returned to her pallid cheeks; her bosom rose painfully,
and sank again; her teeth, closely shut, opened; and with parted
lips she stretched forth her neck as if to draw in the fresh air
instinctively.

“She is alive!” exclaimed the women, almost frightened, and as if they
had seen a miracle performed,--“she is alive!”

In an instant, M. Ravinet was by her side.

One of the women, the wife of the gentleman in the first story, held the
head of the girl on her arm, and the poor child looked around with that
blank, unmeaning eye which we see in mad-houses. They spoke to her; but
she did not answer; evidently she did not hear.

“Never mind!” said the merchant, “she is saved; and, _when_ the doctor
comes, he will have little else to do. But she must be attended to, the
poor child, and we cannot leave her here alone.”

The bystanders knew very well what that meant; and yet hardly any one
ventured timidly to assent, and say, “Oh, of course!”

This reluctance did not deter the good man.

“We must put her to bed,” he went on; “and, of course, she must have a
mattress, bedclothes and blankets. We want wood also (for it is terribly
cold here), and sugar for her tea, and a candle.”

He did not mention all that was needed, but nearly so, and a great deal
too much for the people who stood by. As a proof of this, the wife
of the broker put grandly a five-franc piece on the mantlepiece, and
quietly slipped out. Some of the others followed her example; but they
left nothing. When Papa Ravinet had finished his little speech, there
was nobody left but the two ladies who lived on the first floor, and the
concierge and his wife. The two ladies, moreover, looked at each other
in great embarrassment, as if they did not know what their curiosity
might cost them. Had the shrewd man foreseen this noble abandonment of
the poor girl? One would have fancied so; for he smiled bitterly, and
said,--

“Excellent hearts--pshaw!”

Then, shrugging his shoulders, he added,--

“Luckily, I deal in all possible things. Wait a minute. I’ll run down
stairs, and I’ll be back in a moment with all that is needed. After
that, we shall see what can be done.”

The face of the concierge’s wife was a picture. Never in her life had
she been so much astonished.

“They have changed Papa Ravinet, or I am mad.”

The fact is, that the man was not exactly considered a benevolent and
generous mortal. They told stories of him that would have made Harpagon
envious, and touched the heart of a constable.

Nevertheless, he re-appeared soon after, almost succumbing under the
weight of two excellent mattresses; and, when he came back a second
time, he brought much more than he had mentioned.

Miss Henrietta was breathing more freely, but her face was still
painfully rigid. Life had come back before the mind had recovered; and
it was evident that she was utterly unconscious of her situation, and of
what was going on around her. This troubled the two ladies not a little,
although they felt very much relieved, and disposed to do everything,
now that they were no longer expected to open their purses.

“Well, that is always the way,” said Papa Ravinet boldly. “However, the
doctor will bleed her, if there is any necessity.”

And, turning to Master Chevassat, he added,--

“But we are in the way of these ladies; suppose we go down and take
something? We can come back when the child is comfortably put to bed.”

The good man lived, to tell the truth, in the same rooms in which the
thousand and one things he was continually buying were piled up in vast
heaps. There was no fixed place for his bed even. He slept where he
could, or, rather, wherever an accidental sale had cleared a space for
the time,--one night in a costly bed of the days of Louis XIV., and the
next night on a lounge that he would have sold for a few francs. Just
now he occupied a little closet not more than three-quarters full; and
here he asked the concierge to enter.

He poured some brandy into two small wineglasses, put a teakettle on the
fire, and sank into an arm-chair; then he said,--

“Well, M. Chevassat, what a terrible thing this is!”

His visitor had been well drilled by his wife, and said neither yes nor
no; but the old merchant was a man of experience, and knew how to loosen
his tongue.

“The most disagreeable thing about it,” he said with an absent air, “is,
that the doctor will report the matter to the police, and there will be
an investigation.”

Master Chevassat nearly dropped his glass.

“What? The police in the house? Well, good-by, then, to our lodgers; we
are lost. Why did that stupid girl want to die, I wonder! But no doubt
you are mistaken, my dear sir.”

“No, I am not. But you go too fast. They will simply ask you who that
girl is, how she supports herself, and where she lived before she came
here.”

“That is exactly what I cannot tell.”

The dealer in old clothes seemed to be amazed; he frowned and said,--

“Halloo! that makes matters worse. How came it about that Miss Henrietta
had rooms in your house?”

The concierge was evidently ill at ease; something was troubling him
sorely.

“Oh! that is as clear as sunlight,” he replied; “and, if you wish it,
I’ll tell you the story; you will see there is no harm done.”

“Well, let us hear.”

“Well, then, it was about a year ago this very day, when a gentleman
came in, well dressed, an eyeglass stuck in his eye, impudent like a
hangman’s assistant, in fact a thoroughly fashionable young man. He said
he had seen the notice that there was a room for rent up stairs, and
wanted to see it. Of course I told him it was a wretched garret, unfit
for people like him; but he insisted, and _I_ took him up.”

“To the room in which Miss Henrietta is now staying?”

“Exactly. I thought he would be disgusted; but no. He looked out of the
window, tried the door if it would shut, examined the partition-wall,
and at last he said, ‘This suits me; I take the room.’ And thereupon he
hands me a twenty-franc piece to make it a bargain. I was amazed.”

If M. Ravinet felt any interest in the story, he took pains not to show
it; for his eyes wandered to and fro as if his thoughts were elsewhere,
and he was heartily tired of the tedious account.

“And who is that fashionable young man?” he asked.

“Ah! that is more than I know, except that his name is Maxime.”

That name made the old merchant jump as if a shower-bath had suddenly
fallen upon his head. He changed color; and his small yellowish eyes had
a strange look in them.

But he recovered promptly, so promptly, that his visitor saw nothing;
and then he said in a tone of indifference,--

“The young man did not give you his family name?”

“No.”

“But ought you not to have inquired?”

“Ah, there is the trouble! I did not do it.”

Gradually, and by a great effort, Master Chevassat began to master
his embarrassment. It looked as if he were preparing himself for the
assault, and to get ready for the police-officer.

“I know it was wrong,” he continued; “but you would not have acted
differently in my place, my dear sir, I am sure. Just think! My room
belonged to M. Maxime, for I had his money in my pocket. I asked him
politely where he lived, and if there was any furniture to come. I
caught it nicely. He laughed me in the face, and did not even let me
finish my question. ‘Do I look,’ he said, ‘like a man who lives in a
place like this?’ And when he saw I was puzzled, he went on to tell me
that he took the room for a young person from the country, in whom he
took an interest, and that the contract and the receipts for rent must
all be made out in the name of Miss Henrietta. That was clear enough,
wasn’t it? Still it was my duty to know who Miss Henrietta was; so I
asked him civilly. But he got angry, and told me that was none of my
business, and that some furniture would be sent presently.”

He stopped, waiting for his host to express his approbation by a word or
a sign; but, as nothing came, he went on,--

“In fine, I did not dare to insist, and all was done as he wanted it
done. That very day a dealer in second-hand furniture brought the pieces
you have seen up stairs; and the day after, about eleven o’clock, Miss
Henrietta herself appeared. She had not much baggage, I tell you; she
brought every thing she owned in a little carpet-bag in her hand.”

The old merchant was stooping over the fire as if his whole attention
was given to the teakettle, in which the water was beginning to boil.

“It seems to me, my good friend,” he said, “that you did not act very
wisely. Still, if that is really all, I don’t think they are likely to
trouble you.”

“What else could there be?”

“How do I know? But if that young damsel had been carried off by M.
Maxime, if you were lending a hand in an elopement, I think you would
be in a bad box. The law is pretty strict about it, in the case of a
minor.”

The concierge protested with a solemn air.

“I have told you the whole truth,” he declared.

But Papa Ravinet did not by any means seem so sure of that.

“That is your lookout,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Still, you
may be sure they will ask you how it could happen that one of your
tenants should fall into such a state of abject poverty without your
giving notice to anybody.”

“Why, in the first place, I do not wait upon my lodgers. They are free
to do what they choose in their rooms.”

“Quite right, Master Chevassat! quite right! So you did not know that M.
Maxime no longer came to see Miss Henrietta?”

“He still came to see her.”

In the most natural manner in the world, Papa Ravinet raised his arms to
heaven, and exclaimed as if horror-struck,--

“What! is it possible? That handsome young man knew how the poor girl
suffered? he knew that she was dying of hunger?”

Master Chevassat became more and more troubled. He began to see what the
old merchant meant by his questions, and how unsatisfactory his answers
were.

“Ah! you ask too many questions,” he said at last. “It was not my duty
to watch over M. Maxime. As for Miss Henrietta, as soon as she is able
to move, the serpent! I tell you I’ll send her off pretty quickly!”

The old merchant shook his head, and said in his softest voice,--

“My dear sir, you won’t do that, because from today I’ll pay the rent
for her room. And, more than that, if you wish to oblige me, you will
be very kind to the poor girl, you hear, and even respectful, if you
please.”

There was no misunderstanding the meaning of the word “oblige,” from the
manner in which he pronounced it; and yet he was about to enforce the
recommendation, when a fretting voice exclaimed on the stairs,--

“Chevassat! where are you, Chevassat?”

“It’s my wife,” said the concierge.

And, delighted to get away, he said to Papa Ravinet--

“I understand; she shall be treated as politely as if she were the
daughter of the owner of the house. But excuse me, I must attend to the
door; they call me, and I must go down stairs.”

He slipped out without waiting for an answer, and utterly unable to
guess why the old merchant should take such a sudden interest in the
lodger on the fifth floor.

“The rascal!” said Papa Ravinet to himself,--“the rascal!”

But he had found out what he wanted to know. He was alone, and he knew
he had no time to lose.

Quickly he drew the teakettle from the fire; and, pulling out Miss
Henrietta’s two letters, he held the one that was addressed to M. Maxime
de Brevan over the steam of the boiling water. In a moment the mucilage
of the envelope was dissolved, and the letter could easily be opened
without showing in any way that it had ever been broken open. And now
the old man read the following words:--


“You are victorious, M. de Brevan. When you read this, I shall be no
longer alive.

“You may raise your head again; you are relieved of all fears. Daniel
can come back. I shall carry the secret of your infamy and your
cowardice into the grave with me.

“And yet, no!

“I can pardon you, having but a few moments longer to live; but God
will not pardon you. I--I shall be avenged. And, if it should require a
miracle, that miracle will be done, so as to inform that honorable man
who thought you were his friend, how and why the poor girl died whom he
had intrusted to your honor. H.”


The old man was furious.

“The honor of Maxime de Brevan!” he growled with a voice of intense
hatred,--“the honor of Maxime de Brevan!”

But his terrible excitement did not keep him from manipulating the
other letter, addressed to Count Ville-Handry, in the same manner. The
operation was successful; and, without the slightest hesitation, he
read:--


“Dear father,--Broken down with anxiety, and faint from exhaustion, I
have waited till this morning for an answer to my humble letter, which I
had written to you on my knees.

“You have never replied to it; you are inexorable. I see I must die. I
shall die. Alas! I can hardly say I die willingly.

“I must appear very guilty in your eyes, father, that you should abandon
me thus to the hatred of Sarah Brandon and her people. And yet--ah! I
have suffered terribly. I have struggled hard before I could make up my
mind to leave your house,--the house where my mother had died, where I
had been so happy, and so tenderly beloved as a child by both of you.
Ah, if you but knew!

“And yet it was so little I asked of you!--barely enough to bury my
undeserved disgrace in a convent.

“Yes, undeserved, father; for I tell you at this hour, when no one
utters a falsehood, if my reputation was lost, my honor was not lost.”


Big tears rolled down the cheeks of the old man; and he said in a
half-stifled voice,--

“Poor, poor child! And to think that for a whole year I have lived under
the same roof with her, without knowing it. But I am here. I am still in
time. Oh, what a friend _chance_ can be when it chooses!”

Most assuredly not one of the inmates of the house would have recognized
Papa Ravinet at this moment; he was literally transfigured. He was no
longer the cunning dealer in second-hand articles, the old scamp with
the sharp, vulgar face, so well known at all public sales, where he sat
in the front rank, watching for good bargains, and keeping cool when all
around him were in a state of fervent excitement.

The two letters he had just read had opened anew in his heart more than
one badly-healed and badly-scarred wound. He was suffering intensely;
and his pain, his wrath, and his hope of vengeance long delayed, gave
to his features a strange expression of energy and nobility. With
his elbows on the table, holding his head in his hands, and looking
apparently into the far past, he seemed to call up the miseries of the
past, and to trace out in the future the vague outlines of some great
scheme. And as his thoughts began to overflow, so to say, he broke out
in a strange, spasmodic monologue,--

“Yes,” he murmured, “yes, I recognize you, Sarah Brandon! Poor child,
poor child! Overcome by such horrible intrigues! And that Daniel, who
intrusted her to the care of Maxime de Brevan--who is he? Why did she
not write to him when she suffered thus? Ah, if she had trusted me! What
a sad fate! And how can I ever hope to make her confide in _me_?”

An old clock struck seven, and the merchant was suddenly recalled to the
present; he trembled in all his limbs.

“Nonsense!” he growled. “I was falling asleep; and that is what I cannot
afford to do. I must go up stairs, and hear the child’s confession.”

Instantly, and with amazing dexterity, he replaced the letters in their
envelopes, dried them, pasted them up again, and smoothed them down,
till every trace of the steam had entirely disappeared. Then looking at
his work with an air of satisfaction, he said,--

“That was not so badly done. An expert in the post-office would not
suspect it. I may risk it.”

And, thus re-assured, he rapidly mounted up to the fifth story; but
there Mrs. Chevassat suddenly barred his way, coming down stairs in a
manner which showed clearly that she had lain in wait for him.

“Well, my dear sir,” she said with her sweetest manner: “so you have
become Miss Henrietta’s banker?”

“Yes; do you object to it?”

“Oh, not at all! It is none of my business, only”--

She stopped, smiling wickedly, and then added,--

“Only she is a prodigiously pretty girl; and I was just saying to
myself, ‘Upon my word, M. Ravinet’s taste is not bad.’”

The merchant was on the point of giving her a pretty sharp, indignant
reply; but he controlled himself, because he knew how important it was
to mislead the woman; and, forcing himself to smile, he said,--

“You know I count upon your being discreet.”

When he got up, he found that he ought, at least, to give credit to
Mamma Chevassat and the two ladies from the first floor, for having
employed their time well, and for having skilfully made use of the
articles he had contributed. The room, a short time ago cold and bare,
had an air of comfort about it now, which was delightful. On the
bureau stood a lamp with a shade to prevent the light from hurting the
patient’s eyes; a bright fire blazed on the hearth; several old curtains
had been hung before the window, one before the other, to replace for
the time the missing panes; and on the table stood a teakettle, a china
cup, and two small medicine-bottles.

Evidently the doctor had been here during Ravinet’s absence. He had
bled the poor girl, prescribed some medicines, and left again, with the
assurance that nothing more was needed but perfect quiet.

In fact, there was no trace left of the sufferings and the terrible
danger from which the patient had so marvellously escaped, except the
deep pallor of her face. Stretched out at full-length on her comfortable
bed with its thick mattresses and snow-white sheets, her head propped
up high on a couple of pillows, she was breathing freely, as was easily
seen by the steady, regular rising and falling of her bosom under the
cover.

But life and consciousness had also brought back to her a sense of the
horror of her position, and of her capacity for suffering.

Her brow resting on her arm, which was almost concealed by masses of
golden hair, immovable, and her eyes fixed steadily upon infinite space,
as if trying to pierce the darkness of the future, she would have looked
like a statue of sorrow rather than of resignation, but for the big
tears which were slowly dropping down her cheeks.

Her exquisite beauty looked almost ethereal under the circumstances; and
Papa Ravinet, when he saw her, remained fixed by admiration, standing
upon the threshold of the open door. But it occurred to him at once that
he might be looked upon as a spy, and that his feelings would be sure
to be misinterpreted. He coughed, therefore, to give warning, and then
stepped in.

At the noise he made, Henrietta roused herself. When she saw the old
merchant, she said in a faint, feeble voice,--

“Ah! it is you, sir. These kind ladies have told me all. You have saved
my life.” Then, shaking her head, she added,--

“You have rendered me a sad service, sir.”

She uttered these words so simply, but in a tone of such harrowing
grief, that Papa Ravinet was overcome.

“Unhappy child!” he exclaimed, “you do not think of trying it over
again?”

She made no answer. It was as good as if she had said, Yes.

“Why, you must be mad!” said the old man, excited almost beyond control.
“Only twenty years old, and give up life! That has never been done
before. You are suffering now; but you can hardly imagine what
compensation Providence may have in store for you hereafter”--

She interrupted him by a gesture, and said,--

“There was no future for me, sir, when I sought refuge in death.”

“But”--

“Oh, don’t try to convince me, sir! What I did, I had to do. I felt how
life was leaving me, and I only wished to shorten the agony. I had not
eaten any thing for three days when I lit that charcoal. Even to get the
charcoal, I had to risk a falsehood, and cheat the woman who let me have
it in credit. And yet God knows I was not wanting in courage. I would
have done the coarsest, hardest work cheerfully, joyously. But how did
I know how to get work? I asked Mrs. Chevassat a hundred times to obtain
employment for me; but she always laughed at me; and, when I begged
hard, she said”--

She stopped; and her face became crimson with shame. She dared not
repeat what the wife of the concierge had said. But she added in a voice
trembling with womanly shame and deep indignation,--

“Ah, that woman is a wicked creature!”

The old merchant was probably fully aware of the character of Mrs.
Chevassat. He guessed only too readily what kind of advice she had given
this poor girl of twenty, who had turned to her for help in her great
suffering. He uttered an oath which would have startled even that
estimable woman, and then said warmly,--

“I understand, Miss Henrietta, I understand. Do you think I don’t know
what you must have suffered? I know poverty, as well as you. I can
understand your purpose but too well. Who would not give up life itself
when everybody abandons us? But I do not understand your despair, now
that circumstances have changed.”

“Alas, sir, how have they changed?”

“How? What do you mean? Don’t you see me? Do you think I would leave
you, after having been just in time to save your life? That would be
nice! No, my dear child, compose yourself; poverty shall not come near
you again, I’ll see to that. You want somebody to advise you, to defend
you; and here I am; if you have enemies, let them beware! Come, smile
again, and think of the good times a-coming.”

But she did not smile; she looked frightened, almost stupefied. Making
a supreme effort, she looked fixedly at the old man to see if she could
read in his face what were his real thoughts. He, on his part, was
seriously troubled by his failure to inspire her with confidence.

“Do you doubt my promises?” he asked her.

She shook her head; and uttering her words one by one, as if to give
them greater weight, she said,--

“I beg your pardon, sir. I do not doubt you. But I cannot understand why
you should offer me your kind protection.”

Papa Ravinet affected a greater surprise than he really felt, and said,
raising his hands to heaven,--

“Great God! she mistrusts my good will.”

“Sir!”

“Pray what can you have to fear from me? I am an old man; you are almost
a child. I come to help you. Is not that perfectly natural, and quite
simple?”

She said nothing; and he remained a few moments buried in thought, as if
trying to find out her motive for refusing his help. Suddenly he cried
out, beating his forehead,--

“Ah, I have it. That woman Chevassat has talked to you about me, no
doubt. Ah, the viper! I’ll crush her one of these days! Come, let us be
frank; what has she told you?”

He hoped she would say a word at least. He waited; but nothing came.

Then he broke forth, with a vehemence scarcely controlled, and in words
very unexpected from a man like him,--

“Well, I will tell you what the old thief has told you. She told you
Papa Ravinet was a dangerous, ill-reputed man, who carried on in the
dark all kind of suspicious trades. She told you the old scamp was a
usurer, who knew no law, and kept no promise; whose only principle was
profit; who dealt in every thing with everybody, selling to-day old iron
in junk-shops, and to-morrow cashmere shawls to fashionable ladies; and
who lent money on imaginary securities--the talent of men and the beauty
of women. In fine, she told you that it was a piece of good-fortune for
a woman to be under my protection, and you knew it was a disgrace.”

He stopped, as if to give the poor girl time to form her judgment, and
then went on more calmly,--

“Let us suppose there is such a Papa Ravinet as she has described. But
there is another one, whom but few people know, who has been sorely
tried by misfortune; and he is the one who now offers his aid to you.”

There is no surer way to make people believe in any virtue we have, or
wish to appear to have, than to accuse ourselves of bad qualities, or
even vices, which we do not have. But, if the old man had calculated
upon this policy, he failed signally. Henrietta remained as icy as ever,
and said,--

“Believe me, sir, I am exceedingly obliged to you for all you have done
for me, and for your effort to convince me.”

The poor man looked disappointed.

“In fact, you reject my offers, because I do not explain them to you by
any of the usual motives. But what can I tell you? Suppose I should say
to you that I have a daughter who has secretly left me, so that I do
not know what has become of her, and that her memory makes me anxious
to serve you. May I not have said to myself, that perhaps she is
struggling, just as you have done, with poverty; that she also has been
abandoned by her lover?”

The poor girl turned deadly pale as he spoke thus, and interrupted him
eagerly, raising herself on her pillows,--

“You are mistaken, sir. My position here may justify such suspicions, I
know; but I have no lover.”

He replied,--

“I believe you; I swear I believe you. But, if that is so, how did you
get here? and how were you reduced to such extreme suffering?”

At last Papa Ravinet had touched the right chord. The poor girl was
deeply moved; and the tears started in her eyes. She said in a low
voice,--

“There are secrets which cannot be revealed.”

“Not even when life and honor depend on them?”

“Yes.”

“But”--

“Oh, pray do not insist!”

If Henrietta had known the old merchant, she would have read in his eyes
the satisfaction which he felt. A moment before he had despaired of ever
gaining her confidence; now he felt almost sure of success. The time
seemed to him to have come to strike a decisive blow.

“I have tried my best to win your confidence, I confess; but it was
solely in your own interest. If it had been otherwise, do you think
I should have asked you these questions, instead of finding out every
thing by simply tearing a piece of paper?”

The poor girl could not retain a cry of terror.

“You mean my letters?”

“I have both.”

“Ah! That is why the ladies who nursed me looked for them everywhere in
vain.”

Instead of any other answer, he drew them from his pocket, and laid them
on the bed with an air of injured innocence. To all appearances, the
envelopes had not been touched. Henrietta glanced at them, and then,
holding out her hand to the old man, she said,--

“I thank you, sir!”

He did not stir; but he felt that this false evidence of honesty had
helped him more than all his eloquence. He hastily added,--

“After all, I could not resist the temptation to read the directions,
and to draw my own conclusions. Who is Count Ville-Handry? I suppose he
is your father. And M. Maxime de Brevan? No doubt he is the young man
who called to see you so often. Ah, if you would but trust me! If you
but knew how a little experience of the world often helps us to overcome
the greatest difficulties!”

He was evidently deeply moved.

“However, wait till you are perfectly well again before you come to any
decision. Consider the matter carefully. You need not tell me any thing
else but what is absolutely necessary for me to know in order to advise
you.”

“Yes, indeed! In that way I may”--

“Well, I’ll wait, why, as long as you want me to wait,--two days, ten
days.”

“Very well.”

“Only, I pray you, promise me solemnly that you will give up all idea of
suicide.”

“I promise you solemnly I will.”

Papa Ravinet’s eyes shone with delight; and he exclaimed joyously,--

“Done! I’ll come up again to-morrow; for, to tell the truth, I am tired
to death, and must go and lie down.”

But he told a fib; for he did not go back to his rooms. In spite of
the wretched weather, he left the house; and, as soon as he was in the
street, he hid himself in a dark corner, from which he could watch the
front-door of the house. He remained there a long time, exposed to wind
and rain, uttering now and then a low oath, and stamping with his feet
to keep himself warm. At last, just as it struck eleven, a hack stopped
at No. 23. A young man got out, rang the bell, and entered.

“He is Maxime de Brevan,” murmured the old man. Then he added in a
savage voice,--

“I knew he would come, the scoundrel! to see if the charcoal had done
its work.”

But the same moment the young man came out again, and jumped into the
carriage, which quickly drove off.

“Aha!” laughed the merchant. “No chance for you, my fine fellow! You
have lost your game, and you’ll have to try your luck elsewhere; and
this time I am on hand. I hold you fast; and, instead of one bill to
pay, there will be two now.”




II.

Generally it is in novels only that unknown people suddenly take it into
their heads to tell their whole private history, and to confide to their
neighbors even their most important and most jealously-guarded secrets.
In real life things do not go quite so fast.

Long after the old merchant had left Henrietta, she lay pondering, and
undecided as to what she should do on the next day. In the first place,
she asked herself who this odd man could be, who had spoken of himself
as a dangerous and suspicious person. Was he really what he appeared to
be? The girl almost doubted it. Although wholly inexperienced, she still
had been struck by certain astounding changes in Papa Ravinet. Thus,
whenever he became animated, his carriage, his gestures, and his
manners, contrasted with his country-fashioned costume, as if he had for
the moment forgotten his lesson. At the same time his language, usually
careless and incorrect, and full of slang terms belonging to his trade,
became pure and almost elegant.

What was his business? Had he been a dealer in second-hand articles
before he became a tenant in No. 23 Grange Street, three years ago? One
might very easily have imagined that Papa Ravinet (was that his real
name?) had before that been in a very different position. And why not?
Is not Paris the haven in which all shipwrecked sailors of society seek
a refuge? Does not Paris alone offer to all wretched and guilty people
a hiding-place, where they can begin a new life, lost and unknown in the
vast multitude? What discoveries might be made there? How many persons,
once brilliant lights in the great world, and then, of a sudden, sought
for in vain by friend and foe, might be found there again, disguised
in strange costumes, and earning a livelihood in most curious ways! Why
should not the old merchant be one of this class?

But, even if this were so, it would not have satisfactorily explained
to Henrietta the eagerness of Papa Ravinet to serve her, nor his
perseverance in offering her his advice. Was it merely from charity that
he did all this? Alas! Christian charity is not often so pressing.

Did he know who Henrietta was? Had he at any period of her life come in
contact with her? or had his interests ever been mixed up with hers? Was
he anxious to make a return for some kindness shown to him? or did he
count upon some reward in the future? Who could tell?

“Would it not be the height of imprudence to put myself in the power of
this man?” thought the poor girl.

If, on the other hand, she rejected his offers, she fell back into that
state of forlorn wretchedness, from which she had only been able to save
herself by suicide.

This view was all the more urgent, as the poor child, like all persons
who have been rescued from death only after having exhausted their
sufferings, now began to cling to life with an almost desperate
affection. It seemed as if the contact with death had wiped out at once
all the memory of the past, and all the threats of the future.

“O Daniel!” she said to herself, trembling all over,--“O Daniel! my only
friend upon earth, what would you suffer if you knew that you lost me
forever by the very means you chose to secure my safety!”

To refuse the assistance offered her by Papa Ravinet would have required
an amount of energy which she did not possess. The voice of reflection
continually said to her,--

“The old man is your only hope.”

It never occurred to her to conceal the truth from Papa Ravinet, or to
deceive him by a fictitious story. She only thought how she could tell
him the truth without telling him all; how she could confess enough to
enable him to serve her, and yet not to betray a secret which she held
more dear than her happiness, her reputation, and life itself.

Unfortunately, she was the victim of one of those intrigues which are
formed and carried out within the narrow circle of a family,--intrigues
of the most abominable character, which people suspect, and often even
know perfectly well, and which yet remain unpunished, because they
cannot be reached by the law.

Henrietta’s father, Count Ville-Handry, was in 1845 one of the
wealthiest land-owners of the province of Anjou. The good people near
Rosiers and Saint Mathurin were fond of pointing out to strangers the
massive towers of Ville-Handry, a magnificent castle half hid among
noble old woods on the beautiful slopes of the bluffs which line the
Loire.

“There,” they said, “lives a true gentleman, a little too proud,
perhaps, but, nevertheless, a true gentleman.”

For contrary to the usual state of things in the country, where envy
is apt to engender hatred, the count was quite popular, in spite of his
title and his large fortune. He was at that time about forty years old,
quite tall and good-looking, solemn and courteous, obliging, although
reserved, and very good-natured as long as no one spoke in his presence
of the church or the reigning family, the nobility or the clergy, of his
hounds or the wines of his vineyards, or of various other subjects on
which he had what he chose to consider his “own opinions.”

As he spoke but rarely, and said little at the time, he said fewer
foolish things than most people, and thus obtained the reputation of
being clever and well-informed, of which he was very proud and very
careful. He lived freely, almost profusely, and thus put aside every
year but little more than about half his income. He had all his clothes
made in Paris, was proud of his foot, and always wore gloves.

His house was kept handsomely; and his gardens cost him a good deal of
money. He kept a pack of hounds, and six hunters. Finally, he kept half
a dozen lazy servants in the house, whose gorgeous liveries, with
the family coat-of-arms, were a source of perpetual wonder at Saint
Mathurin.

He would have been perfect, but for his passion for hunting.

As soon as the season opened, he was sure to be found, on foot or
on horseback, crossing the stubblefields, jumping over hedges, or
floundering in the swamps. This he carried so far, that the ladies of
the neighborhood, who had daughters, blamed him to his face for
his imprudence, and scolded him for risking his precious health so
recklessly.

This nobleman, forty years old, and enjoying all that heart could
desire, was unmarried. And yet he had not lacked opportunities to remedy
the evil. There was not a good mother for twenty miles around who did
not covet this prize for her daughter,--thirty thousand dollars a year,
and a great man.

He had only to appear at a ball in the provincial towns, and he was the
hero. Mothers and daughters kept their sweetest smiles for him; and kind
welcomes were offered on all sides. But all these manoeuvres had been
fruitless; he had escaped from all snares, and resisted the most cunning
devices.

Why was he so much opposed to marriage? His friends found the
explanation in a certain person, half housekeeper, half companion, who
lived in the castle, and was very pretty and very designing. But there
are malicious tongues everywhere.

The next year, however, an event occurred which was calculated to give
some ground to these idle, gossiping tales. One fine morning in the
month of July, 1847, the lady died suddenly of apoplexy. Six weeks
later, a report began to spread that Count Ville-Handry was going to be
married.

The report was well founded. The count did marry. The fact could not
be doubted any longer, when the banns were read, and the announcement
appeared in the official journal. And whom do you think he married?
The daughter of a poor widow, the Baroness Rupert, who lived in great
poverty at a place called Rosiers, having nothing but a small pension
derived from her husband, who had been a colonel of artillery.

If she had, at least, been of good and ancient family; if she had been,
at least, a native of the province!

But no. No one knew exactly who she was, or where she came from. Some
people said the colonel had married her in Austria; others, in Sweden.
Her husband, they added, had been made a baron after the fashion of
others, who dubbed themselves such during the first empire, and had no
right to call himself noble.

On the other hand, Pauline de Rupert, then twenty-three years old, was
in the full bloom of youth, and marvellously beautiful. Moreover, she
had, up to this time, been looked upon as a sensible, modest girl, very
bright and very sweet withal; in fact, possessed of every quality and
virtue that can make life happy, and add to the fame of a great house.

But now, not a cent, no dower, not even a trousseau!

Everybody was amazed; and a perfect storm of indignation arose in the
neighborhood. Was it possible, was it natural, that a great nobleman
like the count should end thus miserably, ridiculously? that he should
marry a penniless girl, an adventuress,--he who had had the pick and
choice of the richest and greatest ladies of the land?

Was Count Ville-Handry a fool? or was he only insane about Miss Rupert?
Was she not perhaps, after all, a designing hypocrite, who had very
quietly, in her retired home, woven the net in which the lion of Anjou
was now held captive?

People would have been less astonished, if they had known, that, for
years, a great intimacy had existed between the mother of the bride and
the housekeeper at the castle. But, on the other hand, this fact might
have led to very different surmises still.

However that might be, the count was not suffered long to remain in
doubt as to the entire change of opinion in the neighborhood. He saw it
as soon as he paid the usual visits in the town of Angers, and at the
houses of the nobility near him. No more affectionate smiles, no tender
welcomes, no little white hands stealthily seeking his. The doors that
formerly seemed to fly open at his mere approach now turned but slowly
on their hinges; some remained even closed, the owners being reported
not at home, although the count knew perfectly well that they were in.

One very noble and very pious old lady, who gave the keynote to society,
had said in the most decided manner,--

“For my part, I shall never receive at my house a damsel who used to
give music-lessons to my nieces, even if she had caught and entrapped a
Bourbon!”

The charge was true. Pauline, in order to provide her mother with some
of the comforts which are almost indispensable to old people, had given
lessons on the piano in the neighborhood. Her terms had been low enough;
now they blamed her for the sacrifice. They would have blamed her for
the noblest of virtues; for all the blame was laid upon her. When people
met her, they looked away, so as not to have to bow to her. Even when
she was leaning on the count’s arm, there were persons who spoke very
kindly to him, and did not say a word to his wife, as if they had not
seen her, or she had not existed at all. This impertinence went so far,
that at last Count Ville-Handry, one day, almost beside himself with
anger, seized one of his neighbors by the collar of his coat, shook him
violently, and shouted out to him,--

“Do you see the countess, my wife, sir? How shall I chastise you to cure
you of your near-sightedness?”

Foreseeing a duel, the impertinent man made his excuses; and his
experience put the rest of them on their guard. But their opinions
remained unchanged; open war only changed into secret opposition, that
was all.

Fate, however, always more kind than man, held a reward in store for
Count Ville-Handry, which amply repaid him for his heroism in marrying
a poor girl. An uncle of his wife’s, a banker at Dresden, died, and
left his “beloved niece Pauline” half a million dollars. This immensely
wealthy man, who had never assisted his sister in her troubles, and who
would have disinherited the daughter of a soldier of fortune, had been
flattered by the idea of writing in his last will the name of his niece,
the “high and mighty Countess Ville-Handry.”

This unexpected piece of good-fortune ought to have delighted the
young wife. She might now have had her vengeance on all her miserable
slanderers, and enjoyed a boundless popularity. But far from it. She had
never appeared more sad than on the day when the great news reached her.

For on that very day she for the first time cursed her marriage. A
voice within her warned her that she ought never to have yielded to the
entreaties and the orders of her mother. An excellent daughter, as she
was to become the best of mothers, and the most faithful of wives, she
had sacrificed herself. And now an accident made all her sacrifices
useless, and punished her for having done her duty.

Ah, why had she not resisted, at least for the purpose of gaining time?

For when she was a girl she had dreamed of a very different future. Long
before giving herself to the count, she had, of her own free will, given
her heart to another. She had bestowed her first and warmest affections
upon a young man who was only two or three years older than she,--Peter
Champcey, the son of one of those marvellously rich farmers who live in
the valley of the Loire.

He worshipped her. Unfortunately one obstacle had risen between them
from the beginning,--Pauline’s poverty. It could not be expected that
those keen, thrifty peasants, Champcey’s father and mother, would ever
permit one of their sons--they had two--to commit the folly of making a
love-match.

They had worked hard for their children. The oldest, Peter, was to be a
lawyer; the other, Daniel, who wanted to become a sailor, was studying
day and night to prepare for his examination. And the old couple were
not a little proud of these “gentlemen,” their sons. They told everybody
who would listen, that, in return for the costly education they were
giving them, they expected them to marry large fortunes.

Peter knew his parents so well, that he never mentioned Pauline to them.

“When I am of age,” he said to himself, “it will be a different matter.”

Alas! Why had not Pauline’s mother waited at least till then?

Poor young girl! On the day on which she entered the castle of Ville-
Handry, she had sworn she would bury this love of hers so deep in
the innermost recesses of her heart, that it should never come up and
trouble her thoughts. And she had kept her word.

But now it suddenly broke forth, more ardent, more powerful, than ever,
till it well-nigh overcame her, and crushed her--sweetly and sadly, like
the memory of lost days, and at the same time cruel and heart-rending,
like bitter remorse.

What had become of him? When he had heard that she was going to marry
the count, he had written to her a letter full of despair, in which he
overwhelmed her with irony and contempt. Later, whether he had forgotten
her or not, he also had married; and the two lovers who had once hoped
to pursue their way through life leaning one upon the other now went
each their own way.

For long hours the poor young wife struggled in the solitude of her
chamber against these ghosts of the past which crowded around her. But,
if ever a guilty thought called up a blush on her brow, she quickly
triumphed over it. Like a brave, loyal woman, she renewed her oath, and
swore to devote herself entirely to her husband. He had rescued her from
abject poverty, and bestowed upon her his fortune and his name; and she
owed it to him in return to make him happy.

She needed all her courage, all her energy, to fulfil her vows; for
the count’s character lay fully open before her now, after two years of
married life. She knew precisely how narrow his mind was, how empty his
thoughts, and how cold his heart. She had long since found out that the
brilliant man of the world, whom everybody considered so clever, was
in reality an absolute nullity, incapable of any thought that was not
suggested to him by others, and at the same time full of overweening
self-esteem, and absurdly obstinate.

The worst, however, was, that the count was very near hating his wife.
He had heard so many people say that she was not his equal, that he
finally believed it himself. Besides, he blamed her for the prestige
which he had lost.

An ordinary woman would have shrunk from the difficult task which
Pauline had assumed, and would have thought that nothing more could be
expected of her than to keep sacred her marriage-vows. But the countess
was not an ordinary woman. Full of resignation, she meant to do more
than her duty.

Fortunately, a cradle standing by her bedside made the task somewhat
easier. She had a daughter, her Henrietta; and upon that darling curly
head she built a thousand castles in the air. From that moment she
roused herself from the languor to which she had given way for nearly
two years, and set to work to study the count with that amazing sagacity
which a high stake is apt to give.

A remark accidentally made by her husband cast a new light upon her
fate. One morning, when they had finished breakfast, he said,--

“Ah! Nancy was very fond of you. The day before she died, when she knew
she was going, she made me promise her to marry you.”

This Nancy was the count’s former housekeeper.

After this awkward speech, the poor countess saw clearly enough what
position that woman had really held at the castle. She understood how,
modestly keeping in the background, and sheltering herself under the
very humility of her position, she had been in truth the intellect, the
energy, and the strong will, of her master. Her influence over him had,
besides, been so powerful, that it had survived her, and that she had
been obeyed even in the grave.

Although cruelly humiliated by this confession of her husband’s, the
countess had sufficient self-control not to blame him for his weakness.
She said to herself,--

“Well, be it so. For his happiness and for our peace, I will stoop to
play the part Nancy played.”

This was more easily said than done; for the count was not the man to be
led openly, nor was he willing to listen to good advice, simply because
it was good. Irritable, jealous, and despotic, like all weak men, he
dreaded nothing so much as what he called an insult to his authority.
He meant to be master everywhere, in every thing, and forever. He was so
sensitive on this point, that his wife had only to show the shadow of a
purpose of her own, and he went instantly to work to oppose and prohibit
it.

“I am not a weather-cock!” was one of his favorite sayings.

Poor fellow! He did not know that those who turn to the opposite side of
the wind, nevertheless turn, as well as those who go with the wind. The
countess knew it; and this knowledge made her strong. After working for
many months patiently and cautiously, she thought she had learnt the
secret of managing him, and that henceforth she would be able to control
his will whenever she was in earnest.

The opportunity to make the experiment came very soon. Although the
great people of the neighborhood had generally come round and treated
her quite fairly now, especially since she had become an heiress, the
countess found her position unpleasant, and was anxious to leave the
country. It recalled to her, besides, too many painful memories. There
were certain roads and lanes which she could never pass without a pang
at her heart. On the other hand, it was well known that the count had
sworn he would end his life in the province. He hated large cities; and
the mere idea of leaving his castle, where every thing was arranged to
suit his habits, made him seriously angry.

People would not believe it, therefore, when report first arose that
he was going to leave Ville-Handry, that he had bought a town-house
in Paris and that he would shortly go there to establish himself
permanently in the capital.

“It was much against the will of the countess,” he said, full of delight
at her disappointment. “She would not agree to it at all; but I am not a
weather-cock. I insisted on having my way, and she yielded at last.”

So that in the latter part of October, in 1851, the Count and the
Countess Ville-Handry moved into the magnificent house in Varennes
Street, a princely mansion, which, however, did not cost them more than
a third of its actual value, as they happened to buy at a time when real
estate was very low.

But it had been comparatively child’s play to bring the count to Paris;
the real difficulty was to keep him there. Nothing was more likely than
that, deprived of the active exercise and the fresh air he enjoyed in
the country, he should miss his many occupations and duties, and either
succumb to weariness, or seek refuge in dissipation. His wife foresaw
this difficulty, and looked for an object that might give the count
abundant employment and amusement.

Already before leaving home she had dropped in his mind the seed of
that passion, which, in a man of fifty, can take the place of all
others,--ambition. Thus he came to Paris with the secret desire and the
hope of becoming a leader in politics, and making his mark in some great
affair of state.

The countess however, aware of the dangers which beset a man who
ventures upon such slippery ground, determined first to examine the
condition of things so as to be able to warn him in time. Fortunately
her fortune and her name were of great service to her in this
enterprise. She managed to assemble at her house all the celebrities of
the day. Her relations helped her; and soon her Wednesdays and Saturdays
became famous in Paris. People exerted themselves to the utmost to
obtain an invitation to her state dinners, or her smaller parties on
Sundays. Her house in Varennes Street was looked upon as neutral ground,
where political intrigues and party strife were alike tabooed. The
countess spent a whole winter in making her observations.

The world, seeing her sit modestly by her fireside, thought she was
wholly occupied with her pretty daughter, Henrietta, who was always
playing or reading by her side. But she was all the time listening, and
trying, with all her mental powers, to understand the great questions
of the day. She studied characters; watched the passions of some, and
discovered the cunning tricks of others, ever anxious to find out what
enemies she would have to fear, and what allies to conciliate. Like one
of those ill-taught professors who study in the morning what they mean
to teach in the afternoon, she prepared herself for the lessons which
she soon meant to give. Fortunately her apprenticeship was short, thanks
to her superior intellect, her womanly cleverness, and rare talents
which no one suspected.

She soon reaped the fruit of her labors.

The next winter the count, who had so far kept aloof from politics,
came out with his opinions. He soon made his mark, aided by his fine
appearance, his elegant manners, and imperturbable self-possession. He
spoke in public, and made an impression by his good common-sense.
He advised others, and they were struck by his sagacity. He had soon
enthusiastic partisans, and, of course, as violent adversaries. His
friends encouraged him to become the leader of his party; and he worked
day and night to achieve that end.

“Unfortunately I have to pay for it at home,” he said to his intimate
friends; “for my wife is one of those timid women who cannot understand
that men are made for the excitement of public life. I should be still
in the province, if I had listened to her.”

She enjoyed her work in quiet delight. The greater the success of her
husband in the world, the prouder she became of her own usefulness to
him. Her feelings were very much those of a dramatic poet who hears the
applause given to the characters which he has created.

But there was this wonderful feature in her work,--that nobody suspected
her; no one, not even her own child. She wanted Henrietta, as little as
the world, to know what she was to her husband; and she taught her not
only to love him as her father, but to respect and admire him as a man
of eminence. Of course, the count was the very last man to suspect any
thing. He might have been told all, and he would have believed nothing.

He fancied he had discovered himself the whole line of proceeding which
his wife had so carefully traced out for him. In the full sincerity
of his heart, he believed he had composed and written out the speeches
which she drew up for him; and the articles for the newspapers, and the
letters, which she dictated, appeared to him all to have sprung from his
own fertile brains. He was even sometimes surprised at the want of good
sense in his wife, and pointed out to her, quite ironically, that
the steps from which she tried hardest to dissuade him were the most
successful he took. But no irony could turn the countess from the path
which she had traced out for herself; nor did she ever allow a word or
even a smile to escape her, that might have betrayed her secret. When
her husband became sarcastic, she bowed her head, and said nothing. But,
the more he gloried in his utter nullity, the more she delighted in
her work, and found ample compensation in the approval of her own
conscience.

The count had been so exceedingly good as to take her when she was
penniless; she owed him the historic name she bore and a large fortune;
but, in return, she had given him, and without his being aware of it,
a position of some eminence. She had made him happy in the only way in
which a small and ordinary man could be made happy,--by gratifying his
vanity.

Now she was no longer under obligations to him.

“Yes,” she said to herself, “we are quits, fairly quits!”

Now also, she reproached herself no longer for the long hours during
which her thoughts, escaping from the control of her will, had turned to
the man of her early choice.

Poor fellow! She had been his evil star.

His life had been imbittered from the day on which he found himself
forsaken by her whom he loved better than life itself. He had given up
every thing.

His parents had “hunted up” an heiress, as they called it, and he had
married her dutifully. But the good old people had been unlucky. The
bride, chosen among a thousand, had brought their son a fortune of a
hundred thousand dollars; but she was a bad woman. And after eight years
of wretched, intolerable married life, Peter Champcey had shot himself,
unable to bear any longer his domestic misfortunes, and the infidelity
of his wife.

He had, however, avoided committing this crime at Angers, where he held
a high official position. He had gone to Rosiers, the house formerly
occupied by Pauline’s mother; and there, in a narrow lane, his body
was found by some peasants coming home from market. The ball had so
fearfully disfigured his face, that at first no one recognized him; and
the accident made a terrible sensation.

The countess heard of it first through her husband. He could not
understand, he said, how a man in good position, with a bright future
before him, and a large income to support him, could thus kill himself.

“And to choose such a strange place for his suicide!” he added. “It is
evident the man was insane.”

But the countess did not hear this. She had fainted. She understood but
too well why Peter had wished to die in that lane overshadowed by old
elm-trees.

“I killed him,” she thought, “I killed him!”

The blow was so sudden and so severe, that she came near dying.
Fortunately her mother died nearly at the same time; and this misfortune
helped to explain her utter prostration and deep grief.

Her mother had been gradually fading away, after having had all
she desired, and living in real luxury during her last years. Her
selfishness was so intense, that she never became aware of the cruelty
with which she had sacrificed her daughter.

Sacrificed, however, she really had been; for never did woman suffer
what the countess endured from the day on which her lover’s suicide
added bitter remorse to all her former grief. What would have become of
her, if her child had not bound her to life! But she resolved to live;
she felt that she was bound to live for Henrietta’s sake.

Thus she struggled on quite alone, for she had not a soul in whom she
could confide, when one afternoon, as she was going down stairs, a
servant came to tell her that there was a young man in naval uniform
below, who desired to have the honor of waiting upon her.

The servant handed her his card; she took it, and read,--


“Daniel Champcey.”


It was Daniel, Peter’s brother. Pale as death, the countess turned as if
to escape.

“What must I say?” asked the servant, rather surprised at the emotion
shown by his mistress.

The poor woman felt as if she was going to faint.

“Show him up,” she replied in a scarcely audible voice,--“show him up.”

When she looked up again, there stood before her a young man, twenty-
three or twenty-four years old, with a frank and open face, and clear,
bright eyes, beaming with intelligence and energy.

The countess pointed at a chair near her; for she could not have uttered
a word to save her daughter’s life.

He could not help noticing her embarrassment; but he did not guess the
cause. Peter had never mentioned Pauline’s name in his father’s house.

So he sat down, and explained why he came, showing neither embarrassment
nor forwardness.

As soon as he had graduated at the Naval Academy, he had been made a
midshipman on board “The Formidable,” and there he was still. A younger
man had recently been wrongly promoted over him; and he had asked for
leave of absence to appeal to the secretary of the navy. He felt
quite sure of the justice of his claims; but he also knew that strong
recommendations never spoil a good cause. In fact, he hoped that Count
Ville-Handry, of whose kindness and great influence he had heard much,
would consent to indorse his claims.

Gradually, and while listening to him, the countess recovered her
calmness.

“My husband will be happy to serve a countryman of his,” she replied;
“and he will tell you so himself, if you will be kind enough to wait for
him, and stay to dinner.”

Daniel did stay. At table he was placed by the side of Henrietta, who
was then fifteen years old; and the countess, seeing these two young
and handsome people side by side, was suddenly struck with an idea which
seemed to her nothing less than inspiration from on high. Why might she
not intrust the future happiness of her daughter to the brother of the
poor man who had loved her so dearly? Thus she might make some amends
for her own conduct, and show some respect to his memory.

“Yes,” she said to herself that night, before falling asleep, “it must
be so. Daniel shall be Henrietta’s husband.”

Thus it came about, that, only a fortnight later, Count Ville-Handry
said to one of his intimate friends, pointing out Daniel,--

“That young Champcey is a very remarkable young man; he has a great
future before him. And one of these days, when he is a lieutenant, and
a few years older, if it should so happen that he liked Henrietta, and
asked me for my consent, I should not say no. The countess might think
and say of it what she chooses, I am master.”

After that time Daniel became, unfortunately, a constant visitor at the
house in Varennes Street.

He had not only obtained ample satisfaction at headquarters, but, by the
powerful influence of certain high personages, he had been temporarily
assigned to duty in the bureau of the navy department, with the promise
of a better position in active service hereafter.

Thus Daniel and Henrietta saw a great deal of each other, and, to all
appearances, began to love each other.

“O God!” thought the countess, “why are they not a few years older?”

The poor lady had for some months been troubled by dismal presentiments.
She felt as if she would not live long; and she trembled at the idea of
leaving her child without any other protector but the count.

If Henrietta had at least known the truth, and, instead of admiring her
father as a man of superior ability, learned to mistrust his judgment!
A hundred times the countess was on the point of revealing her secret.
Alas! her great delicacy always kept her from doing so.

One night, as she returned from a great ball, she suddenly was seized
with vertigo. She did not think much of it, but sent for a cup of tea.

When it came, she was standing before the fireplace, undoing her hair;
but, instead of taking it, she suddenly raised her hand to her throat,
uttered a hoarse sound, and fell back.

They raised her up. In an instant the whole house was alive. They sent
for the doctors. All was in vain.

The Countess Ville-Handry had died from disease of the heart.




III.

Henrietta, roused by the noise all over the house, the voices in the
passages, and the steps on the staircase, and suspecting that some
accident had happened, had rushed at once into her mother’s room.

There she had heard the doctors utter the fatal words,--

“All is over!”

There were five or six of them in the room; and one of them, his eyes
swollen from sleeplessness, and overcome with fatigue, had drawn the
count into a corner, and, pressing his hands, repeated over and over
again,--

“Courage, my dear sir, courage!”

He, overcome, with downcast eye, and cold perspiration on his pallid
brow, did not understand him; for he continued to stammer incessantly,--

“It is nothing, I hope. Did you not say it was nothing?”

There are misfortunes so terrible, so overwhelming in their suddenness,
that the stunned mind refuses to believe them, and denies their
genuineness in spite of their actual presence.

How could any one imagine or comprehend that the countess, who but a
moment ago was standing there full of life, in perfect health, and
the whole vigor of her years, apparently perfectly happy, smiling, and
beloved by all,--how could one conceive that she had all at once ceased
to exist?

They had laid her on her bed in her ball costume,--a blue satin dress
trimmed with lace. The flowers were still in her hair; and the blow
had come with such suddenness, that, even in death, she retained the
appearance of life; she was still warm, her skin transparent, and her
limbs supple. Even her eyes, still wide open, retained their expression,
and betrayed the last sensation that had filled her heart,--terror. It
looked as if she had had at that last moment a revelation of the future
which her too great cautiousness had prepared for her daughter.

“My mother is not dead; oh, no! she cannot be dead!” exclaimed
Henrietta. And she went from one doctor to the other, urging them,
beseeching them, to find some means--

What were they doing there, looking so blank, instead of acting? Were
they not going to restore her,--they whose business it was to cure
people, and who surely had saved a number of people? They turned away
from her, distressed by her terrible grief, expressing their inability
to help by a gesture; and then the poor girl went back to the bed, and,
bending over her mother, watched with a painfully bewildered air for her
return to life. It seemed to her as if she felt that noble heart still
beat under her hand, and as if those lips, sealed forever by death, must
speak again to re-assure her.

They attempted to take her away from that heartrending sight; they
begged her to go to her room; but she insisted upon staying. They tried
to remove her by force; but she clung to the bed, and vowed that they
should tear her to pieces sooner than make her leave her mother.

At last, however, the truth broke upon her. She sank down upon her knees
by the side of the bed, hiding her face in the drapery, and repeating
with fierce sobs,--

“My mother, my darling mother!”

It was nearly morning, and the pale dawn was stealing into the room,
when at last some sisters of charity came, who had been sent for; and
then a couple of priests; a little later (it was towards the end of
January) one of the count’s friends appeared, who undertook all those
sickening preparations which our civilization demands in such cases. On
the next day the funeral took place.

More than two hundred persons called to condole with the count,
twenty-five or thirty ladies came and kissed Henrietta, calling her
their poor dear child.

Then horses were heard in the court-yard, coachmen quarrelling; orders
were given; and at last the hearse rolled away solemnly--and that was
all.

Henrietta wept and prayed in her chamber.

Late in the day, the count and Henrietta sat down at table alone for the
first time in their lives; but they did not eat a morsel. How could they
do it, seeing before them the empty seat, once occupied by her who was
the life of the whole house, and now never to be filled again?

And thus, for a long time, their meals were a steady reminder of their
loss. During the day they were seen wandering about the house, without
any apparent purpose, as if looking or hoping for something to happen.

But there was another true and warm heart, far from that house, which
had been sorely wounded by the death of the countess. Daniel had loved
her like a mother; and in his heart a mysterious voice warned him, that,
in losing her, he had well-nigh lost Henrietta.

He had called several times at the house of mourning; but it was only a
fortnight later that he was admitted. When Henrietta saw him, she felt
sorry she had not let him come in before. He had apparently suffered as
much as she; he looked pale; and his eyes were red.

They remained for some time seated opposite each other, without saying
a word, but deeply moved, and feeling instinctively that their common
grief bound them more firmly than ever to each other.

The count, in the meantime, walked up and down in the large room. He was
so much changed, that one might have failed to recognize him. There was
a strange want of steadiness in his movements; he looked almost like a
paralytic, whose crutches had suddenly broken down. Was he conscious
of the immense loss which he had suffered? His vanity was too great to
render that very probable.

“I shall master my grief as soon as I go back to work,” he said.

He ought not to have done it; but he resumed his duties as a politician
at a time when they had become unusually difficult, and when great
things were expected of him. Two or three absurd, ridiculous, in fact
unpardonable blunders, ruined him forever. He lost his reputation as a
statesman, and with it his influence.

As yet, however, his reputation remained uninjured. No one suspected the
truth. They attributed the sudden failure of his faculties to the great
sorrow that had befallen him in the death of his wife.

“Who would have thought that he had loved her so deeply?” they asked one
another.

Henrietta was as much misled as the others, and perhaps even more. Her
respect and her admiration, so far from being diminished, only increased
day by day. She loved him all the more dearly as she watched the
apparent effect of his incurable grief.

He was really deeply grieved, but only by his fall. How had it come
about? He tortured his mind in vain; he could not find a plausible
explanation, and said over and over again,--

“It is perfectly inexplicable.”

He talked of regular plots, of a coalition of his enemies, of the black
ingratitude of men, and their fickleness. At first he had thought of
going back to the country. But gradually, as day followed day, and
weeks grew into months, his wounded vanity began to heal; he forgot his
misfortunes, and adopted new habits of life.

He was a great deal at his club now, rode much on horseback, went to the
theatres, and dined with his friends. Henrietta was delighted; for she
had at one time begun to be seriously concerned for her father’s health.
But she was not a little amazed when she saw him lay aside his mourning,
and exchange his simple costumes, suitable to his age, for the eccentric
fashions of the day, wearing brilliant waistcoats and fancy-colored
trousers.

Some days later matters grew worse.

One morning Count Ville-Handry, who was quite gray, appeared at
breakfast with jet black beard and hair. Henrietta could not restrain
an expression of amazement. But he smiled, and said with considerable
embarrassment,--

“My servant is making an experiment; he thinks this goes better with my
complexion, and makes me look younger.”

Evidently something strange had occurred in the count’s life. But what
was it?

Henrietta, although ignorant of the world, and at that time innocence
personified, was, nevertheless, a woman, and hence had the keen instinct
of her sex, which is better than all experience. She reflected, and she
thought she could guess what had happened.

After hesitating for three days, the poor girl, saddened rather than
frightened, confided her troubles to Daniel. But she had only spoken a
few words when he interrupted her, and, blushing deeply, said,--

“Do not trouble yourself about that, Miss Henrietta; and, whatever your
father may do, do not mind it.”

That advice was more easily given than followed; for the count’s ways
became daily more extraordinary. He had gradually drifted away from
his old friends and his wife’s friends, and seemed to prefer to their
high-bred society the company of very curious people of all kinds. A
number of young men came in the forenoon on horseback, and in the most
unceremonious costumes. They came in smoking their cigars, and asked at
once for liquors and absinthe. In the afternoon, another set of men made
their appearance,--vulgar and arrogant people, with huge whiskers and
enormous watch-chains, who gesticulated vehemently, and were on most
excellent terms with the servants. They were closeted with the count;
and their discussions were so loud, they could be heard all over the
house.

What were the grave discussions that made so much noise? The count
undertook to enlighten his daughter. He told her, that, having been
ill-treated in politics, he intended to devote himself henceforth to
grand enterprises, and hoped confidently to realize an enormous fortune,
while, at the same time, rendering great service to certain branches of
industry.

A fortune? Why should he want money? What with his own estate, and what
with his wife’s fortune, he had already an income of a hundred thousand
dollars. Was that not quite enough for a man of sixty-five and for a
young girl who did not spend a thousand a year on her toilet?

Henrietta asked him timidly, for she was afraid of hurting her father’s
feelings, why he wanted more money.

He laughed heartily, tapped her cheek playfully, and said,--

“Ah, you would like to rule your papa, would you?”

Then he added more seriously,--

“Am I so old, my little lady, that I ought to go into retirement? Have
you, also, gone over to my enemies?”

“Oh, dear papa!”

“Well, my child, then you ought to know that a man such as I am cannot
condemn himself to inactivity, unless he wants to die. I do not want any
more money; what I want is an outlet for my energy and my talents.”

This was so sensible a reply, that both Henrietta and Daniel felt quite
re-assured.

Both had been taught by the countess to look upon her husband as a man
of genius; hence they felt sure that he had only to undertake a thing,
and he was sure to succeed. Besides, Daniel hoped that such grave
matters of business would keep the count from playing the fashionable
young man.

But it seemed as if nothing could turn him from this folly; he became
daily younger and faster. He wore the most eccentric hats on one ear.
He ordered his coats to be made in the very last fashion; and never
went out without a camellia or a rosebud in his buttonhole. He no longer
contented himself with dyeing his hair, but actually began to rouge,
and used such strong perfumes, that one might have followed his track
through the streets by the odors he diffused around him.

At times he would sit for hours in an arm-chair, his eyes fixed on the
ceiling, his brow knit, and his thoughts apparently bent upon some grave
question. If he was spoken to, he started like a criminal caught in the
act. He who formerly prided himself on his magnificent appetite (he
saw in it a resemblance to Louis XIV.) now hardly ate any thing. On the
other hand, he was forever complaining of oppression in the chest, and
of palpitation of the heart.

His daughter repeatedly found him with tears in his eyes,--big tears,
which passed through his dyed beard, and fell like drops of ink on his
white shirt-front. Then, again, these attacks of melancholy would be
followed by sudden outbursts of joy. He would rub his hands till they
pained him; he would sing and almost dance with delight.

Now and then a commissionaire (it was always the same man) came and
brought him a letter. The count tore it from his hands, threw him a
gold-piece, and went to shut himself up in his study.

“Poor papa!” said Henrietta to Daniel. “There are moments when I tremble
for his mind.”

At last, one evening after dinner, when he had drunk more than usually,
perhaps in order to gain courage, he drew his daughter on his knee, and
said in his softest voice,--

“Confess, my dear child, that in your innermost heart you have more than
once called me a very bad father. I dare say you blame me for leaving
you so constantly alone here in this large house, where you must die
from sheer weariness.”

Such a charge would have been but too well founded. Henrietta was
left more completely to herself than the daughter of a workman, whose
business keeps him from home all day long. The workman, however, takes
his child out, at least on Sundays.

“I am never weary, papa,” replied Henrietta.

“Really? Why, how do you occupy yourself?”

“Oh! in the first place I attend to the housekeeping, and try my best
to make home pleasant to you. Then I embroider, I sew, I study. In the
afternoon my music-teacher comes, and my English master. At night I
read.”

The count smiled; but it was a forced smile.

“Never mind!” he broke in; “such a lonely life cannot go on. A girl
of your age stands in need of some one to advise her, to pet her,--an
affectionate and devoted friend. That is why I have been thinking of
giving you another mother.”

Henrietta drew back her arm, which she had wound round her father’s
neck; and, rising suddenly, she said,--

“You think of marrying again?”

He turned his head aside, hesitated moment, and then replied,--

“Yes.”

At first the poor girl could not utter a word, so great were her stupor,
her indignation, her bitter grief; then she made an effort, and said in
a pained voice,--

“Do you really tell me so, papa? What! you would bring another wife
to this house, which is still alive with the voice of her whom we have
lost? You would make her sit down in the chair in which she used to sit,
and let her rest her feet on the cushion which she embroidered? Perhaps
you would even want me to call her mamma? Oh, dear papa! surely you do
not think of such profanation!”

The count’s trouble was pitiful to behold. And yet, if Henrietta had
been less excited, she would have read in his eye that his mind was made
up.

“What I mean to do is done in your behalf, my dear child,” he stammered
out at last. “I am old; I may die; we have no near relations; what would
become of you without a friend?”

She blushed crimson; but she said timidly,--

“But, papa, there is M. Daniel Champcey.”

“Well?”

The count’s eyes shone with delight as he saw that she was falling into
the pit he had dug for her. The poor girl went on,--

“I thought--I had hoped--poor mamma had told me--in fact, since you had
allowed M. Daniel to come here”--

“You thought I intended to make him my son-in-law?”

She made no answer.

“That was in fact the idea your mother had. She had certainly very odd
notions, against which I had to use the whole strength of my firm will.
A sailor is a sorry kind of husband, my dear child; a word from his
minister may part him for years from his wife.”

Henrietta remained silent. She began to understand the nature of the
bargain which her father proposed to her, and it made her indignant.
He thought he had said enough for this time, and left her with these
words,--

“Consider, my child; for my part, I will also think of it.”

What should she do? There were a hundred ways; but which to choose?
Finding herself alone, she took a pen, and for the first time in her
life she wrote to Daniel:--


“I must speak to you _instantly_. Pray come.

“Henrietta.”


She gave the letter to a servant, ordering him to carry it at once
to its address; and then she waited in a state of feverish anxiety,
counting the minutes.

Daniel Champcey had, in a house not far from the university, three
rooms, the windows of which looked out upon the gardens of an adjoining
mansion, where the flowers bloomed brilliantly, and the birds sang
joyously. There he spent almost all the time which was not required
by his official duties. A walk in company with his friend, Maxime de
Brevan; a visit to the theatre, when a particularly fine piece was to
be given; and two or three calls a week at Count Ville-Handry’s
house,--these were his sole and certainly very harmless amusements.

“A genuine old maid, that sailor is,” said the concierge of the house.

The truth is, that, if Daniel’s natural refinement had not kept him
from contact with what Parisians call “pleasure,” his ardent love for
Henrietta would have prevented his falling into bad company. A pure,
noble love, such as his, based upon perfect confidence in her to whom
it is given, is quite sufficient to fill up a life; for it makes the
present delightful, and paints the distant horizon of the future in all
the bright colors of the rainbow.

But, the more he loved Henrietta, the more he felt bound to be worthy of
her, and to deserve her affections. He was not ambitious. He had chosen
a profession which he loved. He had a considerable fortune of his own,
and was thus, by his private income and his pay as an officer, secured
against want. What more could he desire? Nothing for himself.

But Henrietta belonged to a great house; she was the daughter of a man
who had filled a high position; she was immensely rich; and, even if he
had married her only with her own fortune, she would have brought him
ten times as much as he had. Daniel did not want Henrietta, on the
blessed day when she should become his own, to have any thing to wish
for or to regret. Hence he worked incessantly, indefatigably, waking up
every morning anew with the determination to make himself one of those
names which weigh more than the oldest parchments, and to win one
of those positions which make a wife as proud as she is fond of her
husband. Fortunately, the times were favorable to his ambition. The
French navy was in a state of transformation; but the marine was as yet
unreformed, waiting, apparently, for the hand of a man of genius.

And why might not he be that man? Supported by his love, he saw nothing
impossible in that thought, and fancied he could overcome all obstacles.

“Do you see that d---- little fellow, there, with his quiet ways?”
 said Admiral Penhoel to his young officers. “Well, look at him; he’ll
checkmate you all.”

Daniel was busy in his study, finishing a paper for the minister, when
the count’s servant came and brought him Henrietta’s letter. He knew
that something extraordinary must have happened to induce Henrietta,
with her usual reserve, to take such a step, and, above all, to write to
him in such brief but urgent terms.

“Has any thing happened at the house?” he asked the servant.

“No, sir, not that I know.”

“The count is not sick?”

“No, sir.”

“And Miss Henrietta?”

“My mistress is perfectly well.”

Daniel breathed more freely.

“Tell Miss Henrietta I am coming at once; and make haste, or I shall be
there before you.”

As soon as the servant had left, Daniel dressed, and a moment later he
was out of the house. As he walked rapidly up the street in which the
count lived, he thought,--

“I have no doubt taken the alarm too soon; perhaps she has only some
commission for me.”

But he was beset with dark presentiments, and had to tell himself that
that was not likely to be the case. He felt worse than ever, when, upon
being shown into the drawing-room, he saw Henrietta sitting by the fire,
deadly pale, with her eyes all red and inflamed from weeping.

“What is the matter with you?” he cried, without waiting for the door to
be closed behind him. “What has happened?”

“Something terrible, M. Daniel.”

“Tell me, pray, what. You frighten me.”

“My father is going to marry again.”

At first Daniel was amazed. Then, recalling at once the gradual
transformation of the count, he said,--

“Oh, oh, oh! That explains every thing.”

But Henrietta interrupted him; and, making a great effort, she repeated
to him in a half-stifled voice almost literally her conversation with
her father. When she had ended, Daniel said,--

“You have guessed right, Miss Henrietta. Your father evidently does
propose to you a bargain.”

“Ah! but that is horrible.”

“He wanted you to understand, that, if you would consent to his
marriage, he would consent”--

Shocked at what he was going to add, he stopped; but Henrietta said
boldly,--

“To ours, you mean,--to ours? Yes, so I understood it; and that was my
reason for sending for you to advise me.”

Poor fellow! She was asking him to seal his fate.

“I think you ought to consent!” he stammered out.

She rose, trembling with indignation, and replied,--

“Never, never!”

Daniel was overcome by this sudden shock. Never. He saw all his hopes
dashed in an instant, his life’s happiness destroyed forever, Henrietta
lost to him. But the very imminence of the danger restored to him his
energy. He mastered his grief, and said in an almost calm voice,--

“I beseech you, let me explain to you why I advised you so. Believe me,
your father does not want your consent at all. You cannot do without his
consent; but he can marry without asking you for yours. There is no law
which authorizes children to oppose the follies of their parents. What
your father wants is your silent approval, the certainty that his
new wife will be kindly received. If you refuse, he will go on,
nevertheless, and not mind your objections.”

“Oh!”

“I am, unfortunately, but too sure of that. If he spoke to you of his
plans, you may be sure he had made up his mind. Your resistance
will lead only to our separation. He might possibly forgive you; but
she--Don’t you think she should avail herself to the utmost of her
influence over him? Who can foresee to what extremities she might be led
by her hatred against you? And she must be a dangerous woman, Henrietta,
a woman who is capable of any thing.”

“Why?”

He hesitated for a moment, not daring to speak out fully what he
thought; and at last he said slowly, as if weighing his words,--

“Because, because this marriage cannot be any thing else but a barefaced
speculation. Your father is immensely rich; she wants his fortune.”

Daniel’s reasoning was so sensible, and he pleaded his cause with such
eagerness, that Henrietta’s resolution was evidently shaken.

“You want me to yield?” she asked.

“I beseech you to do it.”

She shook her head sadly, and said in a tone of utter dejection,--

“Very well. It shall be done as you wish it. I shall not object to this
profanation. But you may be sure, my weakness will do us no good.”

It struck ten. She rose, offered her hand to Daniel, and said,--

“I will see you to-morrow evening. By that time I shall know, and I will
tell you, the name of the woman whom father is going to marry; for I
shall ask him who she is.”

She was spared that trouble. Next morning, the first words of the count
were,--

“Well, have you thought it over?”

She looked at him till he felt compelled to turn his head away; and then
she replied in a tone of resignation,--

“Father, you are master here. I should not tell you the truth, if I said
I was not going to suffer cruelly at the idea of a stranger coming here
to--But I shall receive her with all due respect.”

Ah! The count was not prepared for such a speedy consent.

“Do not speak of respect,” he said. “Tell me that you will be tender,
affectionate, and kind. Ah, if you knew her, Henrietta! She is an
angel.”

“What is her age?”

“Twenty-five.”

The count read in his daughter’s face that she thought his new wife much
too young for him; and therefore he added, quickly,--

“Your mother was two years younger when I married her.”

That was so; but he forgot that that was twenty years ago.

“However,” he added, “you will see her; I shall ask her to let me
present you to her. She _is_ a foreigner, of excellent family, very
rich, marvellously clever and beautiful; and her name is Sarah Brandon.”

That evening, when Henrietta told Daniel the name of her future
mother-in-law, he started with an air of utter despair, and said,--

“Great God! If Maxime de Brevan is not mistaken, that is worse than any
thing we could possibly anticipate.”




IV.

When Henrietta saw how the young officer was overcome by the mere
mention of that name, Sarah Brandon, she felt the blood turn to ice in
her veins. She knew perfectly well that a man like Daniel was not likely
to be so utterly overwhelmed unless there was something fearful, unheard
of, in the matter.

“Do you know the woman, Daniel?”

But he, regretting his want of self-possession, was already thinking how
he could make amends for his imprudence.

“I swear to you,” he began.

“Oh, don’t swear! I see you know who she is.”

“I know nothing about her.”

“But”--

“It is true I have heard people talk of her once, a _long time ago_.”

“Whom?”

“One of my friends, Maxime de Brevan, a fine, noble fellow.”

“What sort of a woman is she?”

“Ah, me! that I cannot tell you. Maxime happened to mention her just
in passing; and I never thought that one of these days I should--If
I seemed to be so very much surprised just now, it was because I
remembered, all of a sudden, a very ugly story in which Maxime said she
had been involved, and then”--

He was ridiculous in his inability to tell a fib; so, when he found that
he was talking nonsense, he turned his head away to avoid Henrietta’s
eyes. She interrupted him, and said reproachfully,--

“Do you really think I am not strong enough to hear the truth?”

At first he did not reply. Overcome by the strange position in which he
found himself, he looked for a way to escape, and found none. At last he
said,--

“Miss Henrietta, you must give me time before I tell you any more. I
know nothing positive; and I dare say I am unnecessarily alarmed. I will
tell you all as soon as I am better informed.”

“When will that be?”

“To-night, if I can find Maxime de Brevan at home, as I hope I shall do;
if I miss him, you must wait till to-morrow.”

“And if your suspicions turn out to be well founded; if what you fear,
and hide from me now, is really so,--what must I do then?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he rose and said in a solemn voice,--

“I am not going to tell you again how I love you, Henrietta; I am not
going to tell you that to lose you would be death to me, and that in our
family we do not value life very highly; you know that, don’t you? But,
in spite of all that, if my fears should be well founded, as I apprehend
they are, I should not hesitate to say to you, whatever might be the
consequences, Henrietta, and even if we should have to part forever, we
must try our utmost, we must employ all possible means in our power, to
prevent a marriage between Count Ville-Handry and Sarah Brandon.”

In spite of all her sufferings, Henrietta felt her heart bounding with
unspeakable happiness and joy. Ah! he deserved to be loved,--this man
whom her heart had freely chosen among them all,--this man who gave her
such an overwhelming proof of his love. She offered him her hand; and,
with her eyes beaming with enthusiasm and tenderness, she said,--

“And I, I swear by the sacred memory of my mother, that whatever may
happen, and whatever force they may choose to employ, I shall never
belong to any one but to you.”

Daniel had seized her hand, and held it for some time pressed to his
lips. At last, when his rapture gave way to calmer thoughts, he said,--

“I must leave you at once, Henrietta, if I want to catch Maxime.”

As he left, his head was in a whirl, his thoughts in a maze. His life
and his happiness were at stake; and a single word would decide his fate
in spite of all he could do.

A cab was passing; he hailed it, jumped in, and cried to the driver,--

“Go quick, I say! You shall have five francs! No. 61 Rue Laffitte!”

That was the house where Maxime de Brevan lived.

He was a man of thirty or thirty-five years, remarkably well made,
light-haired, wearing a full beard, with a bright eye, and pleasing
face. Mixing on intimate terms with the men who make up what is called
high life, and with whom pleasure is the only occupation, he was very
popular with them all. They said he was a man that could always be
relied upon, at all times ready to render you a service when it was
in his power, a pleasant companion, and an excellent second whenever a
friend had to fight a duel.

In fine, neither slander nor calumny had ever attacked his reputation.
And yet, far from following the advice of the philosopher, who tells us
to keep our life from the eye of the public, Maxime de Brevan seemed to
take pains to let everybody into his secrets. He was so anxious to tell
everybody where he had been, and what he had been doing, that you might
have imagined he was always preparing to prove an alibi.

Thus he told the whole world that the Brevans came originally from the
province of Maine, and that he was the last, the sole representative,
of that old family. Not that he prided himself particularly on his
ancestors; he acknowledged frankly that there was very little left of
their ancient splendor; in fact, nothing but a bare support. But he
never said what this “support” amounted to; his most intimate friends
could not tell whether he had one thousand or ten thousand a year. So
much only was certain, that, to his great honor and glory, he had solved
the great problem of preserving his independence and his dignity while
associating, a comparatively poor man, with the richest young men of
Paris.

His rooms were simple and unpretending; and he kept but a single
servant--his carriage he hired by the month.

How had Maxime Brevan become Daniel’s friend? In the simplest possible
way. They had been introduced to each other at a great ball by a common
friend of theirs, a lieutenant in the navy. About one o’clock in
the morning they had gone home together; and as the moon was shining
brightly, the weather was mild, and the walking excellent, they had
loitered about the Place de la Concorde while smoking their cigars.

Had Maxime really felt such warm sympathy for his friend? Perhaps so. At
all events, Daniel had been irresistibly attracted by the peculiar ways
of Maxime, and especially by the cool stoicism with which he spoke
of his genteel poverty. Then they had met again, and finally became
intimate.

Brevan was just dressing for the opera when Daniel entered his room. He
uttered a cry of delight when he saw him, as he always did.

“What!” he said, “the hermit student from the other side of the river
in this worldly region, and at this hour? What good wind blows you over
here?”

Then, suddenly noticing Daniel’s terrified appearance, he added,--

“But what am I talking about? You look frightened out of your wits.
What’s the matter?”

“A great misfortune, I fear,” replied Daniel.

“How so? What is it?”

“And I want you to help me.”

“Don’t you know that I am at your service?”

Daniel certainly thought so.

“I thank you in advance, my dear Maxime; but I do not wish to give you
too much trouble. I have a long story to tell you, and you are just
going out”--

But Brevan interrupted him, shaking his head kindly, and saying,--

“I was only going out for want of something better to do, upon my word!
So sit down, and tell me all.”

Daniel had been so overcome by terror, and the fear that he might
possibly lose Henrietta, that he had run to his friend without
considering what he was going to tell him. Now, when the moment came to
speak, he was silent. The thought had just occurred to him, that Count
Ville-Handry’s secret was not his own, and that he was in duty bound not
to betray it, if possible, even if he could have absolutely relied upon
his friend’s discretion.

He did not reply, therefore, but walked up and down the room, seeking in
vain some plausible excuse, and suffering perfect agony. This continued
so long, that Maxime, who had of late heard much of diseases of the
brain, asked himself if Daniel could possibly have lost his mind.

No; for suddenly his friend stopped before him, and said in a short,
sharp tone,--

“First of all, Maxime, swear that you will never, under any
circumstances, say to any human being a word of what I am going to tell
you.”

Thoroughly mystified, Brevan raised his hand, and said,--

“I pledge my word of honor!”

This promise seemed to re-assure Daniel; and, when he thought he had
recovered sufficient control over himself, he said,--

“Some months ago, my dear friend, I heard you telling somebody a
horrible story concerning a certain Mrs. Sarah Brandon”--

“Miss, if you please, not Mrs.”

“Well, it does not matter. You know her?”

“Certainly. Everybody knows her.”

Daniel did not notice the extreme self-conceit with which these words
were uttered.

“All right, then. Now, Maxime, I conjure you, by our friendship, tell
me frankly what you think of her. What kind of a woman is this Miss
Brandon?”

His features, as well as his voice, betrayed such extreme excitement,
that Brevan was almost stunned. At last he said,--

“But, my dear fellow, you ask me that in a manner”--

“I must know the truth, I tell you. It is of the utmost importance to
me.”

Brevan, struck by a sudden thought, touched his forehead, and
exclaimed,--

“Oh, I see! You are in love with Sarah!”

Daniel would never have thought of such a subterfuge in order to avoid
mentioning the name of Count Ville-Handry; but, seeing it thus offered
to him, he determined to profit by the opportunity.

“Well, yes, suppose it is so,” he said with a sigh.

Maxime raised his hands to heaven, and said in a tone of painful
conviction,--

“In that case you are right. You ought to inquire; for you may be close
upon a terrible misfortune.”

“Ah, is she really so formidable?”

Maxime shrugged his shoulders, as if he were impatient at being called
upon to prove a well-known fact, and said,--

“I should think so.”

There seemed to be no reason why Daniel should persist in his questions
after that. Those words ought to have been explanation enough.
Nevertheless he said in a subdued voice,--

“Pray explain, Maxime! Don’t you know, that, as I lead a very quiet
life, I know nothing?”

Brevan, looking more serious than he had ever done, rose and replied,
leaning against the mantlepiece,--

“What would you have me tell you? It is only fools who call out to
lovers to beware; and to warn a man who will not be warned, is useless.
Are you really in love with Miss Sarah, or are you not? If you are,
nothing that I could say would change your mind. Suppose I were to tell
you that this Sarah is a wretched creature, an infamous forger, who has
already the death of three poor devils on her conscience, who loved her
as you do? Suppose I told you worse things than these, and could prove
them? Do you know what would happen? You would press my hand with
effusion. You would overwhelm me with thanks, tears in your eye. You
would vow, in the candor of your heart, that you are forever cured, and,
when you leave me”--

“Well?”

“You would rush to your beloved, tell her all I said, and beseech her to
clear herself of all these charges.”

“I beg your pardon; I am not one of those men who”--

But Brevan was getting more and more excited. He interrupted his friend,
and said,--

“Nonsense! You are a man like all other men. Passion does not reason,
does not calculate; and that is the secret of its strength. As long as
we have a spark of commonsense left, we are not really in love. That is
so, I tell you; and no will, no amount of energy, can do any thing with
it. There are people who tell you soberly that they have been in love
without losing their senses, and reproach you for not keeping cool.
Bosh! Those people remind me of still champagne blaming sparkling
champagne for popping off the cork. And now, my dear fellow, have the
kindness to accept this cigar, and let us take a walk.”

Was that really so as Brevan said? Was it true that real love destroys
in us the faculty of reasoning, and of distinguishing truth from
falsehood? Did he really not love Henrietta truly, because he was on the
point of giving her up for the sake of doing his duty?

Oh, no, no! Brevan had been speaking of another kind of love,--a love
neither pure nor chaste. He spoke of those passions which suddenly
strike us down like lightning; which confound our senses, and mislead
our judgment; which destroy every thing, as fire does, and leave nothing
behind but disaster and disgrace and remorse.

But all the more painful became Daniel’s thoughts as he remembered that
Count Ville-Handry was overcome by one of these terrible passions for a
worthless creature. He could not accept Maxime’s offer.

“One word, I pray you,” he said. “Suppose I lose my free will, and
surrender absolutely; what will become of me?”

Brevan looked at him with an air of pity, and said,--

“Not much will happen to you; only”--

And then he added with almost sternness, mixed with bitter sarcasm,--

“You ask me for your horoscope? Be it so. Have you a large fortune?”

“About fifty thousand dollars.”

“Well, in six months they will be gone; in a year you will be
overwhelmed with debts, and at your wits’ end; in less than a year and a
half, you will have become a forger.”

“Maxime!”

“Ah! You asked me to tell you the truth. Then, as to your social
position. Now it is excellent; you have been promoted as rapidly as
merit could claim, everybody says. You will be an admiral one of these
days. But in six months you will be nothing at all; you will have
resigned your commission, or you will have been dismissed.”

“Allow me”--

“No. You are an honest man, the most honorable man I know; after six
months’ acquaintance with Sarah Brandon, you will have lost your self-
respect so completely, that you will have become a drunkard. There is
your picture. ‘It’s not flattered!’ you will say. But you wanted to have
it. And now let us go.”

This time he was determined; and Daniel saw that he would not obtain
another word from him, unless he changed his tactics. He held him back,
therefore, a moment; and, as he opened the door, he said,--

“Maxime, you must pardon me a very innocent deception, which was
suggested by your own words. It is not I who am in love with Miss Sarah
Brandon.”

Brevan was so much surprised, he could not stir.

“Who is it, then?” he asked.

“One of my friends.”

“What name?”

“I wish you would render the service I ask of you doubly valuable by not
asking me that question,--at least, not to-day.”

Daniel spoke with such an accent of truth, that not a shadow of doubt
remained on Maxime’s mind. It was not Daniel who had fallen in love with
Sarah Brandon. Brevan did not doubt that for a moment. But he could not
conceal his trouble, and his disappointment even, as he exclaimed,--

“Well done, Daniel! Tell me that your ingenuous people cannot deceive
anybody!”

However, he said nothing more about it; and, while Daniel was pouring
out his excuses, he quietly went back to the fire, and sat down. After a
moment’s silence, he began again,--

“Let us assume, then, that it is one of your friends who is bewitched?”

“Yes.”

“And the matter is--serious?”

“Alas! He talks of marrying that woman.”

Maxime shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and said,--

“As to that, console yourself. Sarah will never consent.”

“So far from that, she herself has made the suggestion.”

This time, Maxime raised his head suddenly, and looked stupefied.

“Then your friend must be very rich.”

“He is immensely rich.”

“He bears a great name, and holds a high position?”

“His name is one of the oldest and noblest in the province of Anjou.”

“And he is a very old man?”

“He is sixty-five.”

Brevan struck the marble slab of the mantlepiece with his fist so that
it shook, and exclaimed,--

“Ah, she told me she would succeed!”

And then he added in a very low tone of voice, as if speaking to himself
with an indescribable accent of mingled admiration and hatred,--

“What a woman! Oh, what a woman!”

Daniel, who was himself greatly excited, and far too busy with his own
thoughts to observe what was going on, did not notice the excitement of
his friend; he continued quietly,--

“Now you will understand my great curiosity. In order to prevent the
scandal of such a marriage, my friend’s family would do every thing in
the world. But how can you attack a woman of whose antecedents and mode
of life nothing is known?”

“Yes, I understand,” said Brevan,--“I understand.”

His features betrayed that he was making a great mental effort. He
remained for some time absorbed in his thoughts; and at last he said, as
if coming to a decision,--

“No, I do not see any way to prevent this marriage; none at all.”

“Still, from what you told me”--

“What!”

“About the cupidity of this woman.”

“Well?”

“If she were offered a large sum, some eighty or a hundred thousand
dollars?”

Maxime laughed out loud; but there was not the true ring in his
laughter.

“You might offer her two hundred thousand, and she would laugh at you.
Do you think she would be fool enough to content herself with a fraction
of a fortune, if she can have the whole, with a great name and a high
position into the bargain?”

Daniel opened his lips to present another suggestion; but Maxime, laying
aside his usual half-dreamy, mocking manner, said, as if roused by a
matter of great personal interest,--

“You do not understand me, my dear friend. Miss Brandon is not one of
those vulgar hawks, who, in broad daylight, seize upon a poor pigeon,
pluck it alive, and cast it aside, still living, and bleeding all over.”

“Then, Maxime, she must be”--

“Well, I tell you you misapprehend her. Miss Brandon”--

He stopped suddenly, and looking at Daniel with a glance with which
a judge examines the features of a criminal, he added in an almost
threatening voice,--

“By telling you what little I know about her, Daniel, I give you the
highest proof of confidence which one man can give to another. I love
you too dearly to exact your promise to be discreet. If you ever mention
my name in connection with this affair, if you ever let any one suspect
that you learned what I am going to tell you from me, you will dishonor
yourself.”

Daniel, deeply moved, seized his friend’s hand, and, pressing it most
affectionately, said,--

“Ah, you know Daniel Champcey is to be relied upon.”

Maxime knew it; for he continued,--

“Miss Sarah Brandon is one of those female cosmopolitan adventurers,
whom steam brings nowadays to us from all the four quarters of the
world. Like so many others, she, also, has come to Paris to spread her
net, and catch her birds, But she is made of finer stuff than most of
them, and more clever. Her ambition soars higher; and she possesses a
real genius for intrigues. She means to have a fortune, and is willing
to pay any price for it; but she is also desirous to be respected in the
world.

“I should not be surprised if anybody told me Miss Sarah was born within
ten miles of Paris; but she calls herself an American. The fact is,
she speaks English like an Englishwoman, and knows a great deal more of
America than you know of Paris. I have heard her tell the story of
her family to a large and attentive audience; but I do not say that I
believed it.

“According to her own account, M. Brandon, her father, a thoroughbred
Yankee, was a man of great enterprise and energy, who was ten times
rich, and as often wretchedly poor again in his life, but died leaving
several millions. This Brandon, she says, was a banker and broker in New
York when the civil war broke out. He entered the army, and in less than
six months, thanks to his marvellous energy, he rose to be a general.
When peace came, he was without occupation, and did not know what on
earth to do with himself. Fortunately, his good star led him into a
region where large tracts of land happened to be for sale. He bought
them for a few thousand dollars, and soon after discovered on his
purchase the most productive oil-wells in all America. He was just about
to be another Peabody when a fearful accident suddenly ended his
life; he was burnt in an enormous fire that destroyed one of his
establishments.

“As to her mother, Miss Sarah says she lost her when she was quite
young, in a most romantic, though horrible manner”--

“What!” broke in Daniel, “has nobody taken the trouble to ascertain if
all these statements are true?”

“I am sure I do not know. This much is certain, that sometimes curious
facts leak out. For instance, I have fallen in with Americans who have
known a broker Brandon, a Gen. Brandon, a Petroleum Brandon.”

“He may have borrowed the name.”

“Certainly, especially when the original man is said to have died in
America. However, Miss Brandon has been living now for five years in
Paris. She came here accompanied by a Mrs. Brian, a relative of hers,
who is the dryest, boniest person you can imagine, but at the same time
the slyest woman I have ever seen. She also brought with her a kind
of protector, a Mr. Thomas Elgin, also a relation of hers, a most
extraordinary man, stiff like a poker, but evidently a dangerous man,
who never opens his mouth except when he eats. He is a famous hand at
small-swords, however, and snuffs his candle, nine times out of ten, at
a distance of thirty yards. This Mr. Thomas Elgin, whom the world calls
familiarly Sir Thorn, and Mrs. Brian, always stay with Miss Sarah.

“When she first arrived, Miss Sarah established herself in a house near
the Champs Elysees, which she furnished most sumptuously. Sir Thorn, who
is a jockey of the first water, had discovered a pair of gray horses for
her which made a sensation at the Bois de Boulogne, and drew everybody’s
attention to their fair owner. Heaven knows how she had managed to get
a number of letters of introduction. But certainly two or three of the
most influential members of the American colony here received her at
their houses. After that, all was made easy. Gradually she crept into
society; and now she is welcome almost everywhere, and visits, not only
at the best houses, but even in certain families which have a reputation
of being quite exclusive.

“In fine, if she has enemies, she has also fanatic partisans. If some
people say she is a wretch, others--and they are by no means the least
clever--tell you that she is an angel, only wanting wings to fly away
from this wicked world. They talk of her as of a poor little orphan-
girl, whom people slander atrociously because they envy her youth, her
beauty, her splendor.”

“Ah, is she so rich?”

“Miss Brandon spends at least twenty thousand dollars a year.”

“And no one inquires where they come from?”

“From her sainted father’s petroleum-wells, my dear fellow. Petroleum
explains everything.”

Brevan seemed to feel a kind of savage delight in seeing Daniel’s
despair, and in explaining to him most minutely how solidly, and
how skilfully Miss Sarah Brandon’s position in the world had been
established. Had he any expectation to prevent a struggle with her by
exaggerating her strength? Or rather, knowing Daniel as he did,--far
better, unfortunately, than he was known by him,--was he trying to
irritate him more and more against this formidable adversary?

At all events, he continued in that icy tone which gives to sarcasm its
greatest bitterness,--

“Besides, my dear Daniel, if you are ever introduced at Miss
Brandon’s,--and I pray you will believe me, people are not so easily
introduced there,--you will be dumfounded at first by the tone that
prevails in that house. The air is filled with a perfume of hypocrisy
which would rejoice the stiffest of Quakers. Cant rules supreme there,
putting a lock to the mouth, and a check to the eyes.”

Daniel began evidently to be utterly bewildered.

“But how, how can you reconcile that,” he said, “with the thoroughly
worldly life of Miss Brandon?”

“Oh, very easily, my dear fellow! and there you see the sublime policy
of the three rogues. To the outer world, Miss Brandon is all levity,
indiscretion, coquettishness, and even worse. She drives herself,
shortens her petticoats, and cuts down her dress-bodies atrociously. She
says she has a right to do as she pleases, according to the code of laws
which govern American young ladies. But at home she bows to the taste
and the wishes of her relative, Mrs. Brian, who displays all the extreme
prudishness of the austerest Puritan. Then she has that stiff, tall Sir
Thorn ever at her side, who never jokes. Oh! they understand each other
perfectly; the parts are carefully distributed, and”--

Daniel showed that he was utterly discouraged.

“There is no way, then, of getting hold of this woman?” he asked.

“I think not.”

“But that adventure of which you spoke some time ago?”

“Which? That with poor Kergrist?”

“How do I know which? It was a fearful story; that is all I remember.
What did I, at that time, care for Miss Brandon? Now, to be sure”--

Brevan shook his head, and said,--

“Now, you think that story might become a weapon in your hands? No,
Daniel. Still it is not a very long one; and I can now tell it to you
more in detail than I could before.

“About fifteen months ago, there arrived in Paris a nice young man
called Charles de Kergrist. He had lost as yet none of his illusions,
being barely twenty-five years old, and having something like a hundred
thousand dollars of his own. He saw Miss Brandon, and instantly ‘took
fire.’ He fell desperately in love with her. What his relations were
with her, no one can tell positively,--I mean with sufficient evidence
to carry conviction to others,--for the young man was a model of
discretion. But what became only too well known was the fact, that,
about eight months later, the people living near Miss Brandon’s house
saw one morning, when the shutters were opened, a corpse dangling at a
distance of a few feet above the ground from the iron fastenings of the
lady’s window. Upon inspection, the dead man proved to be that unlucky
Kergrist. In the pocket of his overcoat a letter was found, in which he
declared that he committed suicide because an unreturned affection had
made life unbearable to him. Now, this letter--mark the fact--was open;
that is to say, it had been sealed, and the seal was broken.”

“By whom?”

“Let me finish. The accident, as you may imagine, made a tremendous
noise. The family took it up. An inquest was held; and it was found that
the hundred thousand dollars which Kergrist had brought with him had
utterly disappeared.”

“And Miss Brandon’s reputation was not ruined?”

Maxime replied with a bitter, ironical smile,--

“You know very well that she was not. On the contrary, the hanging was
turned by her partisans into an occasion for praising her marvellous
virtuousness. ‘If she had been weak,’ they said, ‘Kergrist would not
have hanged himself. Besides,’ they added, ‘how can a girl, be she ever
so pure and innocent, prevent her lovers from hanging themselves at
her windows? As to the money,’ they said, ‘it had been lost at the
gaming-table.’ Kergrist was reported to have been seen at Baden-Baden
and at Homburg; no doubt he played.”

“And the world was content with such an explanation?”

“Yes; why not? To be sure, some sceptical persons told the whole story
very differently. According, to their account, Miss Sarah had been the
mistress of M. de Kergrist, and, seeing him utterly ruined, had sent
him off one fine morning. They stated, that, the evening before the
accident, he had come to the house at the usual hour, and, finding
it closed, had begged, and even wept, and finally threatened to kill
himself; that, thereupon, he had really killed himself; (poor fool that
he was!) that Miss Brandon, concealed behind the blinds, had watched all
his preparations for the fearful act; that she had seen him fasten the
rope to the outside hinges of her window, put the noose around his
neck, and then swing off into eternity; that she had watched him closely
during his agony, and stood there till the last convulsions had passed
away.”

“Horrible!” whispered Daniel,--“too horrible!”

But Maxime seized him by the arm, and pressing it so as almost to hurt
him, said in a low, hoarse voice,--

“That is not the worst yet. As soon as she saw that Kergrist was
surely dead, she slipped down stairs like a cat, opened the house-door
noiselessly, and, gliding stealthily along the wall till she reached the
body, she actually searched the still quivering corpse to assure herself
that there was nothing in the pockets that could possibly compromise
her. Finding the last letter of Kergrist, she took it away with her,
broke the seal, and read it; and, having found that her name was not
mentioned in it, she had the amazing audacity to return to the body, and
to put the letter back where she had found it. Then only she breathed
freely. She had gotten rid of a man whom she feared. She went to bed,
and slept soundly.”

Daniel had become livid.

“That woman is a monster!” he exclaimed.

Brevan said nothing. His eyes shone with intense hatred; his lips were
quivering with indignation. He no longer thought of discretion, of
caution. He forgot himself, and gave himself up to his feelings.

“But I have not done yet, Daniel,” he said, after a pause. “There is
another crime on record, of older date. The first appearance of Miss
Brandon in Paris society. You ought to know that also.

“One evening, about four years ago, the president of the Mutual Discount
Society came into the cashier’s room to tell him, that, on the following
day, the board of directors would examine his books. The cashier, an
unfortunate man by the name of Malgat, replied that every thing was
ready; but, the moment the president had turned his back, he took a
sheet of paper, and wrote something like this:--

“‘Forgive me, I have been an honest man forty years long; now a fatal
passion has made me mad. I have drawn money from the bank which was
intrusted to my care; and, in order to screen my defalcations, I have
forged several notes. I cannot conceal my crime any longer. The first
defalcation is only six months old. The whole amount is about four
hundred thousand francs. I cannot bear the disgrace which I have
incurred; in an hour I shall have ceased to live.’


“Malgat put this letter in a prominent place on his desk, and then
rushed out, without a cent in his pocket, to throw himself into the
canal. But when he reached the bank, and saw the foul, black water, he
was frightened. For hours and hours he walked up and down, asking God in
his madness for courage. He never found that courage.

“But what was he to do? He could not flee, having no money; and where
should he hide? He could not return to his bank; for there, by this
time, his crime must have become known. In his despair he ran as far as
the Champs Elysees, and late in the night he knocked at the door of Miss
Brandon’s house.

“They did not know yet what had happened, and he was admitted. Then, in
his wild despair, he told them all, begging them to give him a couple of
hundreds only of the four hundred thousand which he had stolen in order
to give them to Miss Brandon,--a hundred only, to enable him to escape
to Belgium.

“They refused. And when he begged and prayed, falling on his knees
before Miss Sarah, Sir Thorn seized him by the shoulders, and turned him
out of the house.”

Maxime, overcome by his intense excitement, fell into an easy-chair,
and remained there for a considerable time, his eyes fixed, his brow
darkened, repenting himself, no doubt, of his candor, his wrath, and his
forgetfulness of all he owed to himself and to others.

But, when he rose again, his rare strength of will enabled him to assume
his usual phlegmatic manner; and he continued in a mocking tone,--

“I see in your face, Daniel, that you think the story is monstrous,
improbable, almost impossible. Nevertheless, four years ago, it was
believed all over Paris, and set off by a number of hideous details
which I will spare you. If you care to look at the papers of that year,
you will find it everywhere. But four years are four centuries in Paris.
To say nothing of the many similar stories that have happened since.”

Daniel said nothing, he only bowed his head sadly. He felt a kind of
painful emotion, such as he had never before experienced in his life.

“It is not so much the story itself,” he said at last, “that overcomes
me so completely. What I cannot comprehend is, how this woman could
refuse the man whose accomplice she had been the small pittance he
required in order to evade justice, and to escape to Belgium.”

“Nevertheless, that was so,” repeated M. de Brevan; and then he added
emphatically, “at least, they say so.”

Daniel did not notice this attempt to become more cautious again. He
continued pensively,--

“Is it not very improbable that Miss Brandon should not have been
afraid to exasperate the unfortunate man, and to drive him to desperate
measures? In his furious rage, he might have left the house, rushed to a
police-officer, and confessed to him every thing, laying the evidence he
had in his hands before a magistrate, and”--

“You say,” replied Brevan, interrupting him with a dry, sardonic laugh,
“precisely what all the advocates of the fair American said at that
time. But I tell you, that her peculiarity is exactly the daring with
which she ventures upon the most dangerous steps. She does not pretend
to avoid difficulties; she crushes them. Her prudence consists in
carrying imprudence to the farthest limits.”

“But”--

“You ought to credit her, besides, with sufficient astuteness and
experience to know that she had taken the most careful precautions,
having destroyed every evidence of her own complicity, and feeling quite
safe in that direction. Moreover, she had studied Malgat’s character,
as she studied afterwards Kergrist’s. She was quite sure that neither of
them would accuse her, even at the moment of death. And yet, in the
case of this Mutual Discount Society, her calculations did not prove
absolutely correct.”

“How so?”

“It became known that she had received Malgat two or three times
secretly, for he did not openly enter her house; and the penny papers
had it, that ‘the fair stranger was no stranger to small peculations.’
Public opinion was veering around, when it was reported that she
had been summoned to appear before a magistrate. That, however, was
fortunate for her; she came out from the trial whiter and purer than
Alpine snow.”

“Oh!”

“And so perfectly cleared, that, when the whole matter was brought up in
court, she was not even summoned as a witness.”

Daniel started up, and exclaimed,--

“What! Malgat had the sublime self-abnegation to undergo the agonies of
a trial, and the infamy of a condemnation, without allowing a word to
escape?”

“No. For the simple reason that Malgat was sentenced _in contumaciam_ to
ten years in the penitentiary.”

“And what has become of the poor wretch?”

“Who knows? They say he killed himself. Two months later, a half
decomposed body was found in the forest of Saint Germain, which people
declared to be Malgat. However”--

He had become livid, in his turn; but he continued in an almost
inaudible voice, as if to meet Daniel’s objections before they were
expressed,--

“However, somebody who used to be intimate with Malgat has assured me
that he met him one day in Dronot Street, before the great auction-
mart. The man said he recognized him, although he seemed to be most
artistically disguised. This is what has set me thinking more than once,
that, if people were not mistaken, a day might, after all, yet come,
when Miss Sarah would have a terrible bill to settle with her implacable
creditor.”

He passed his hand across his brow as if to drive away such
uncomfortable thoughts, and then said with a forced laugh,--

“Now, my dear fellow, I have come to the end of my budget. The details
were all given me by Miss Sarah’s friends as well as by her enemies.
Some you may read of in the papers; but most I know from my own long and
patient observation. And, if you ask me what interest I could have in
knowing such a woman, I will tell you frankly, that you see before you
one of her victims; for my dear Daniel, I have to confess it, I also
have been in love with her; and how! But I was too small a personage,
and too poor a devil, to be worth a serious thought of Miss Brandon.
As soon as she felt sure that her abominable tricks had set my head on
fire, and that I had become an idiot, a madman, a stupid fool--on that
very day she laughed in my face. Ah! I tell you, she played with me
as if I had been a child, and then she sent me off as if I had been a
lackey. And now I hate her mortally, as I loved her almost criminally.
Therefore, if I can help you, in secret, without becoming known, you may
count upon me.”

Why should Daniel have doubted the truthfulness of his friend’s
statements? Had he not himself, and quite voluntarily, confessed his
own folly, his own love, anticipating all questions, and making a clean
breast of the whole matter?

Not a doubt, therefore, arose in Daniel’s mind. On the contrary, he
thanked God for having sent him such an ally, such a friend, who had
lived long enough amid all these intrigues of Parisian high life to know
all its secret springs, and to guide him safely. He took Maxime’s hand
in his own, and said with deep feeling,--

“Now, my friend, we are bound to each other for life.”

Brevan seemed deeply touched; he raised his hand as if to wipe a tear
from his eyes. But he was not a man to give way to tender feelings. He
said,--

“But how about your friend? How can we prevent his marrying Miss Sarah?
Does any way occur to you? No? Ah! you see, it will be hard work.”

He seemed to meditate deeply for a few moments; then uttering his words
slowly and emphatically, as if to lend them their full weight, and
impress them forcibly on Daniel’s mind, he resumed,--

“We must attack Miss Brandon herself, if we want to master the
situation. If we could once know who she really is, all would be safe.
Fortunately there is no difficulty in Paris in finding spies, if you
have money enough.”

As the clock on the mantlepiece struck half-past ten, he started and
stopped. He jumped up as if suddenly inspired by a bright idea, and said
hurriedly,--

“But now I think of it, Daniel, you do not know Miss Brandon; you have
never even seen her!”

“No, indeed!”

“Well, that’s a pity. We must know our enemies; how else can we even
smile at them? I want you to see Miss Sarah.”

“But who will point her out to me? where? when?”

“I will do it to-night, at the opera. I bet she will be there!”

Daniel was in evening costume, having called upon Henrietta, and then he
was all ready.

“Very well,” he said, “I am willing.”

Without losing a moment, they went out, and reached the theatre just
as the curtain rose on the fourth act of Don Giovanni. They were,
fortunately, able to secure two orchestra-chairs. The stage was
gorgeous; but what did they care for the singer on the boards, or the
divine music of Mozart? Brevan took his opera-glasses out, and rapidly
surveying the house, he had soon found what he was looking for. He
touched Daniel with his elbow, and, handing him the glasses, whispered
in his ear,--

“Look there, in the third box from the stage; look, there she is!”




V.

Daniel looked up. In the box which Maxime had pointed out to him he saw
a girl of such rare and dazzling beauty, that he could hardly retain
a cry of admiration. She was leaning forward, resting on the velvet
cushion of her box, in order to hear better.

Her hair, perfectly overwhelming in its richness, was so carelessly
arranged, that no one could doubt it was all her own; it was almost
golden, but with such a bright sheen, that at every motion sparks seemed
to start from its dark masses. Her large, soft eyes were overshadowed by
long lashes; and as she now opened them wide, and now half closed them
again, they changed from the darkest to the lightest blue.

Her lips smiled in all the freshness and innocence of merry youth,
displaying now and then two rows of teeth, matchless in their beauty and
regularity.

“Can that be,” said Daniel to himself, “the wretched creature whose
portrait Maxime has just given me?”

A little behind her, and half-hid in the shade of the box, appeared
a large bony head, adorned with an absurd bunch of feathers. Her eyes
flashed indignation; and her narrow lips seemed to say perpetually,
“Shocking!” That was Mrs. Brian.

Still farther back, barely discernible after long examination, arose a
tall, stiff figure, a bald, shining head, two dark, deep-sunk eyes, a
hooked nose, and a pair of immense streaming whiskers. That was the Hon.
Thomas Elgin, commonly known as Sir Thorn.

As Daniel was persistently examining the box, with the smiling girl,
the stern old woman, and the placid old man in the background, he felt
doubts of all kinds creeping into his mind.

Might not Maxime be mistaken? Did he not merely repeat the atrocious
slanders of the envious world?

These thoughts troubled Daniel; and he would have mentioned his doubts
to Maxime; but his neighbors were enthusiasts about music, and, as soon
as he bent over to whisper into his friend’s ear, they growled, and, if
he ventured to utter a word, they forced him to be silent. At last the
curtain fell. Many left the house; others simply rose to look around;
but Maxime and Daniel remained in their seats. Their whole attention was
concentrated upon Miss Brandon’s box, when they saw the door open, and
a gentleman enter, who, at the distance at which they sat, looked like
a very young man. His complexion was brilliantly fair, his beard jet
black, and his curly hair most carefully arranged. He had his opera-hat
under his arm, a camellia in his button-hole; and his light-yellow kid
gloves were so tight, that it looked as if they must inevitably burst
the instant he used his hands.

“Count Ville-Handry!” said Daniel to himself.

Somebody touched his shoulder slightly; and, as he turned round, he
found it was Maxime, who said with friendly irony,--

“Your old friend, is it not? The happy lover of Miss Brandon?”

“Yes, it is so. I have to confess it.”

He was just in the act of explaining the reasons for his silence, when
M. de Brevan interrupted him, saying,--

“Just look, Daniel; just look!”

The count had taken a seat in the front part of the box, by Miss
Brandon’s side, and was talking to her with studied affectation, bending
over her, gesticulating violently, and laughing till he showed every
one of the long yellow teeth which were left him. He was evidently on
exhibition, and desired to be seen by everybody. Suddenly, however,
after Miss Brandon had said a few words to him, he rose, and went out.

The bell behind the scenes was ringing, and the curtain was about to
rise again.

“Let us _go_,” said Daniel to M. de Brevan: “I am suffering.”

He was really suffering, mortified by the ridiculous scene which
Henrietta’s father was playing. But he entertained no longer any doubts;
he had clearly seen how the adventuress was spurring on the old man, and
fanning his feeble flame.

“Ah! it will be hard work to rescue the count from the wiles of this
witch,” said Maxime.

Having left the house, they were just turning into the narrow street
which leads to the boulevards, when they saw a tall man, wrapped up in
a huge cloak, coming towards them, and behind him a servant with a whole
armful of magnificent roses. It was Count Ville-Handry. Coming suddenly
face to face upon Daniel, he seemed at first very much embarrassed;
then, recovering himself, he said,--

“Why, is this you? Where on earth do you come from?”

“From the theatre.”

“And you run away before the fifth act? That is a crime against the
majesty of Mozart. Come, go back with me, and I promise you a pleasant
surprise.”

Brevan came up close to Daniel, and whispered to him,--

“Go; here is the opportunity I was wishing for.”

Then he lifted his hat and went his way. Daniel, taken rather by
surprise, accompanied the count till he saw him stop near a huge landau,
open in spite of the cold weather, but guarded by three servants in
gorgeous livery. When they saw the count, they all three uncovered
respectfully; but he, without taking any notice of them, turned to the
porter who had the flowers, and said,--

“Scatter all these roses in this carriage.”

The man hesitated. He was the servant of a famous florist, and had often
seen people pay forty or fifty dollars for such bouquets. He thought the
joke was carried too far. However, the count insisted. The roses were
piled up in the bottom of the carriage; and, when he had done, he
received a handsome fee for his trouble.

Then the count returned to the opera-house, Daniel following him, filled
with amazement. Evidently love had made the count young again, and now
gave wings to his steps. He ran up the steps of the great porch of the
opera-house, and in a few moments he was once more in Miss Brandon’s
box. At once he took Daniel by the hand; and, drawing him into the box
close to the lady, he said to the young girl,--

“Permit me to present to you M. Daniel Champcey, one of our most
distinguished naval officers.”

Daniel bowed, first to her, and then solemnly to Mrs. Brian, and long,
stiff Sir Thorn.

“I need not tell you, my dear count,” said Miss Sarah, “that your
friends are always welcome here.”

Then, turning to Daniel, she added,--

“Besides, I have long since known you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, sir. And I even know that you are one of the most frequent
visitors at Count Ville-Handry’s house.”

She looked at Daniel with a kind of malicious simplicity, and then
added,

“_I_ do not mean to say that the count would not be wrong if he
attributed your frequent visits exclusively to his own merits. I have
heard something of a certain young lady”--

“Sarah,” here broke in Mrs. Brian, “what you say there is highly
improper.” This reproof, so far from checking Miss Sarah’s merriment,
only seemed to increase it. Without losing sight of Daniel, she turned
to her aunt, and said,--

“Since the count is not opposed to this gentleman’s paying his
attentions to his daughter, I think I may safely speak of them. It would
be such an extraordinary thing, if any thing should happen to interfere
with his hopes!”

Daniel, who had blushed all over, suddenly became deadly pale. After all
that he had been told, these words sounded to him, in spite of the loud
laugh that accompanied them, like a warning and a threat. But he was
not allowed the time to reflect. The piece was coming to an end; Miss
Brandon was drawing a fur cloak over her shoulders, and left on the
count’s arm; while he had to escort Mrs. Brian, being closely followed
by tall, stiff Sir Thorn. The landau was at the door. The servants had
let down the steps; and Miss Sarah was just getting in. Suddenly, as her
foot touched the bottom of the carriage, she drew back, and cried out,--

“What is that? What is in there?”

The count came forward, looking visibly embarrassed.

“You are fond of roses,” he said, “and I have ordered a few.”

With these words he took up some of the leaves, and showed them to her.
But immediately Miss Brandon’s terror was changed into wrath.

“You certainly are bent upon making me angry,” she said. “You want
people to say everywhere that I make you commit all kinds of follies.
What a glorious thing to waste fifty dollars on flowers, when one has I
know not how many millions!”

Then, seeing by the light of the street-lamp that the count’s face
showed deep disappointment, she said in a tone to make him lose the
little reason that was left him,--

“You would have been more welcome if you had brought me a cent’s worth
of violets.”

In the mean time Mrs. Brian had taken her seat by Miss Brandon’s side;
Sir Thorn had gotten in; and it was now the count’s turn. At the moment
when the servant was closing the door, Miss Sarah bent forward toward
Daniel, and said,--

“I hope I shall have the pleasure of soon seeing you again. Our dear
count will give you my address, and tell you my reception-days. I must
tell you that we American girls dote upon naval officers, and that I”--

The remainder was lost in the noise of the wheels. The carriage which
took Miss Brandon and Count Ville-Handry away was already at some
distance, before Daniel could recover from his amazement, his utter
consternation.

All these strange events, coming upon him one by one, in the course of
a few hours, and breaking suddenly in upon so calm and quiet a life,
overwhelmed him to such a degree, that he was not quite sure whether he
was dreaming or awake.

Alas! he was not dreaming. This Miss Sarah Brandon, who had just passed
away from him like a glorious vision from on high, was only too real;
and there, on the muddy pavement, a handful of rose-leaves bore witness
of the power of her charms, and the folly of her aged lover.

“Ah, we are lost!” exclaimed Daniel, in so loud a voice, that some of
the passers-by stopped, expecting one of those street-dramas which
read so strikingly in the local columns of our papers. They were
disappointed, however. Noticing that he attracted attention, Daniel
shrugged his shoulders, and quickly walked off towards the boulevards.

He had promised Henrietta to be sure to tell her that very evening, if
possible, what he had found out; but it was too late now; midnight was
striking.

“I’ll go to-morrow,” he said to himself.

Whilst lounging leisurely down the boulevards, still brilliantly lighted
up, and crowded with people, he strained all his faculties for the
purpose of examining his situation coolly and calmly. At first he
had imagined he should only have to do with one of those common
_intriguantes_ who want to secure themselves a quiet old age, and
clumsily spread their nets to catch an old or a young man; and who
can always easily be gotten rid of by paying them a more or less
considerable sum of money, provided the police does not get hold of
them. In such a case he would have had some hope.

But here he saw himself suddenly confronted by one of those formidable
adventuresses in high life, who either save appearances altogether, or,
at worst, are only compromised far enough to give additional zest and
an air of mystery to their relations. How could he hope to compete with
such a woman? and with what weapons could he attack her? How should he
reach her? and how attack her?

Was it not pure folly to think even of making her give up the
magnificent fortune which she seemed already to have in her hands,
Heaven knows by what means? She evidently looked upon it as her own
already, and enjoyed its charms in anticipation.

“Great God!” said Daniel, “send me some inspiration.”

But no inspiration came; and in vain did he torture his mind; he was
unable to think.

When he reached home, he went to bed as usual; but the consciousness of
his misfortunes kept him awake. At nine o’clock in the morning, having
never closed his eyes, and feeling utterly overcome by sleeplessness and
fatigue, he was just about to get up, when some one knocked at his door.
He rose hastily, put on his clothes, and went to open the door. It was
M. de Brevan, who came to hear all about his new acquaintance of last
night, and whose first word was,--

“Well?”

“Alas!” replied Daniel, “I think the wisest plan would be to give it
up.”

“Upon my word, you are in great haste to surrender.”

“And what would you do in my place, eh? That woman has beauty enough to
drive any one mad; and the count is a lost man.”

And, before Maxime had time to reply, Daniel told him simply and
frankly all about his love for Miss Ville-Handry, the hopes he had been
encouraged to cherish, and the dangers that threatened his happiness in
life.

“For I can no longer deceive myself, Maxime,” he concluded with a tone
of utter despair. “I foresee, I know, what is going to happen. Henrietta
will obstinately, and at any risk, do every thing in the world to
prevent her father’s marriage with Miss Brandon; she will struggle to
the bitter end. Ought I, or ought I not, to help her? Certainly. Can we
succeed? No! But we shall have a mortal enemy in Miss Brandon; and, on
the morning after her wedding, her first thought will be how to avenge
herself, and how to separate Henrietta and myself forever.”

Little as Brevan was generally given to show his feelings, he was
evidently deeply touched by his friend’s despair.

“In short, my dear fellow, you have reached the point at which we no
longer know what to do. All the more reason, then, that you should
listen to the calm advice of a friend. You must have yourself presented
at Miss Brandon’s house.”

“She has invited me.”

“Well, then, do not hesitate, but go there.”

“What for?”

“Not for much. You will pay some compliments to Miss Sarah; you will
be all attention to Mrs. Brian; and you will try to win over the Hon.
Thomas Elgin. Finally, and above all, you will be all ears and all
eyes.”

“I am sorry to say I do not understand you yet.”

“What? Don’t you see that the position of these daring adventurers,
however secure it may appear, may, after all, hang on a single
thread? and that nothing is wanting in order to cut that thread but an
opportunity? And when you may expect, at any moment, any thing and every
thing, what is to be done but to wait and watch?”

Daniel did not seem to be convinced. He added,--

“Miss Sarah will talk to me about her marriage.”

“Certainly she will.”

“What can I say?”

“Nothing,--neither yes nor no,--but smile, or run away; at all events,
you gain time.”

He was interrupted by Daniel’s servant, who came in, holding a card in
his hand, and said,--

“Sir, there is a gentleman down stairs in a carriage, who wants to know
if he would interrupt you if he came up to see you.”

“What is the gentleman’s name?”

“Count Ville-Handry. Here is his card.”

“Be quick!” said Daniel, “run down and ask him, would he please come
up.”

M. de Brevan had started up, and was standing, with his hat on, near the
door. As the servant left, he said,--

“I am running away.”

“Why?”

“Because the count must not find me here. You would be compelled to
introduce me to him; he might remember my name; and, if he were to tell
Miss Sarah that I am your friend, all would be lost.”

Thereupon he turned to go; but at the same moment the outer door was
opened, and he said,--

“There is the count! I am caught.”

But Daniel opened promptly the door to his bedroom, pushed him in, and
shut the door. It was high time; the same moment the count entered.




VI.

The count must have risen early that day. Although it was not yet ten
o’clock, he was already brilliant, rouged, dyed, and frizzed. Of course
all these results had not been the work of an hour. As he entered, he
drew a long breath, and said,--

“Ah! You live pretty high up, my dear Daniel.”

Poor fellow! He forgot that he was playing the young man. But he
recalled himself at once, and added, full of vivacity,--

“Not that I complain of it; oh, no! A few stories to climb--what is that
to me?”

At the same time he stretched out his leg, and caressed his calf, as if
to exhibit its vigor and its suppleness. In the meantime, Daniel, full
of respect for his future father-in-law, had drawn forward his easiest
arm-chair. The count took it, and in an airy manner, which contrasted
ill with his evident embarrassment, he said,--

“I am sure, my dear Daniel, you must be very much surprised and puzzled
to see me here; are you not?”

“I confess, sir, I am. If you wished to speak to me, you had only to
drop me a line, and I should have waited upon you at once.”

“I am sure you would! But that is not necessary. In fact, I have nothing
to say to you. I should not have come to see you, if I had not missed an
appointment. I was to meet one of my fellow members of the assembly, and
he did not come to the place where we were to meet. On my return home,
I happened to pass your house; and I said to myself, ‘Why not go up and
see my sailor friend? I might ask him what he thinks of a certain young
lady to whom he had, last night, the honor of being presented.’”

Now or never was the favorable moment for following Maxime’s advice;
hence Daniel, instead of replying, simply smiled as pleasantly as he
could.

But that did not satisfy the count; so he repeated the question more
directly, and said,--

“Come, tell us frankly, what do you think of Miss Brandon?”

“She is one of the greatest beauties I have ever seen in my life.”

Count Ville-Handry’s eyes beamed with delight and with pride as he heard
these words. He exclaimed,--

“Say she is the greatest beauty, the most marvellous and transcendent
beauty, you ever saw. And that, M. Daniel Champcey, is her smallest
attraction. When she opens her lips, the charms of her mind, beauty and
her mind, and remember her admirable ingenuousness, her naive freshness,
and all the treasures of her chaste and pure soul.”

This excessive, almost idiotic admiration, this implicit, absurd faith
in his beloved, gave the painted face of the count a strange, almost
ecstatic expression. He said to himself, but loud enough to be heard,--

“And to think that chance alone has led me to meet this angel!”

A sudden start, involuntary on the part of Daniel, seemed to disturb
him; for he resumed his speech, laying great stress upon his words,--

“Yes, chance alone; and I can prove it to you.”

He settled down in his chair like a man who is going to speak for some
length of time; and, in that emphatic manner which so well expressed the
high opinion he had of himself, he continued,--

“You know, my friend, how deeply I was affected by the death of the
Countess Ville-Handry. It is true she was not exactly the companion a
statesman of my rank would have chosen. Her whole capacity rarely rose
beyond the effort to distinguish a ball-dress from a dinner-dress.
But she was a good woman, attentive, discreet, and devoted to me; an
excellent manager, economical, and yet always sure to do honor to the
high reputation of my house.”

Thus, in all sincerity, the count spoke of her who had literally made
him, and who, for sixteen long years, had galvanized his empty head.

“In short,” he continued, “the loss of my wife so completely upset me,
that I lost all taste for the occupations which had so far been dear
to me; and I set about to find distractions elsewhere. Soon after I had
gotten into the habit of going frequently to my club, I fell in with
M. Thomas Elgin, and, although we never became intimate, we always
exchanged a friendly greeting, and occasionally a cigar.

“Sir Thorn, as they call him, is an excellent horseman, you know, and
used to ride out every morning at an early hour; and as the physicians
had recommended to me horseback exercise, and as I like it, because I
excel in riding, as in every thing else, we often met in the Bois de
Boulogne. We wished each other good-day; and sometimes we galloped a
little while side by side. I am rather reserved; but Sir Thorn is even
more so, and thus it did not seem that our acquaintance was ever to
ripen into any thing better, till an accident brought us together.

“One morning we were returning slowly from a long ride, when Sir Thorn’s
mare, a foolish brute, suddenly shied, and jumped so high, that he was
thrown. I jumped down instantly to help him up again; but he could not
rise. You know nothing ordinarily hurts these Americans. But it
seems, as we found out afterwards, that he had sprained an ankle, and
dislocated a knee. There was no one near the place; and I began to be
seriously embarrassed, when fortunately two soldiers appeared. I called
to them, and sent one on my horse to the nearest hack-stand to bring a
carriage. As soon as it came, we raised the invalid, and put him in
as well as we could; I got on the box to show the man the way to Sir
Thorn’s house. When we arrived there, I rang the bell, and told
the servants to come down to their master. They got him, with some
difficulty, out of the hack; and there they were, carrying him painfully
up the stairs, and he groaning feebly, for he suffered terribly.

“I was going up before them; and, as I reached the second story, a door
suddenly opened, and a young girl was standing right before me.

“She was evidently dressing, when the noise which we made startled
her; and she came running out. She had only taken time to throw a loose
wrapper around her shoulders; and her dishevelled hair streamed out from
under a kind of coquettish morning-cap.

“When she saw her kinsman in the arms of the servants, she imagined he
was dangerously wounded, perhaps even--She turned as pale as death, and,
uttering a loud cry, she tottered.

“She would have fallen down the steps, head foremost, if I had not
caught her in my arms. She had fainted. And there I held her, leaning
on my shoulder, so close that I became aware of the warmth of her lovely
body, and actually felt her heart beat against mine. Her cap had become
unfastened; and her hair fell in golden floods all over me, and down to
the floor. But all this lasted only a few seconds.

“When she recovered, and found herself in the arms of a man, she rose
with an air of extreme distress, and, slipping away, disappeared in her
room.”

At the mere description of this scene, the count turned pale under
his rouge; and his voice forsook him. Nor did he in any way attempt to
conceal his emotion.

“I am a poor old fellow,” he said; “and between you and me, my dear
Daniel, I will tell you that the women--well--the women have not
been--exactly cruel to me. In fact, I thought I had outlived all the
emotions which they can possibly give us.

“Well, I was mistaken. Never in my life, I assure you, have I felt such
a deep sensation as when Miss Brandon was lying in my arms.”

While saying this, he had pulled out his handkerchief, saturated with
a strong perfume, and was wiping his forehead, though very gently, and
with infinite precautions, so as not to spoil the artistic work of his
valet.

“You will know Miss Brandon,” he went on, “I hope soon. Once having seen
her, one wants to see her again. I was lucky enough to have a pretext
for coming again; and the very next day I was at her door, inquiring
after M. Thomas Elgin. They showed me into the room of that excellent
gentleman, where I found him stretched out on an invalid’s chair, with
his legs all bandaged up. By his side sat a venerable lady, to whom he
presented me, and who was no other than Mrs. Brian.

“They received me very kindly, although with some little reserve under
all their politeness; but I staid and staid in vain beyond the proper
time; Miss Sarah did not appear.

“Nor did I see her upon subsequent occasions, when I repeated my visits,
until at last I came to the conclusion that she avoided me purposely.

“Upon my word, I believed it. But one day Sir Thorn, who was improving
very rapidly, expressed a desire to walk out a few steps in the Champs
Elysees. I offered him my arm; he accepted it; and, when we came back,
he asked me if I would be kind enough to take pot-luck with him.”

However important these communications were for Daniel, he was for some
time already listening but very inattentively to the count’s recital,
for he had heard a strange, faint noise, which he could not by any
means explain to himself. At last, looking all around, he discovered the
cause.

The door to his bedroom, which he was sure he had closed himself,
was now standing partly open. No doubt M. de Brevan, weary of his
confinement and excited by curiosity, had chosen this way to see and
to listen. Of all this, however, Count Ville-Handry saw nothing, and
suspected nothing.

“Thus,” he continued, “I was at last to see Miss Sarah again. Upon my
word, I was less excited, I think, the day I made my first speech. But
you know I have some power over myself; and I had recovered my calmness,
when Sir Thorn confessed to me that he would have invited me long since,
but for the fear of offending his young relative, who had declared she
would never meet me again. I was grieved, and asked how I had offended
her. And then Sir Thorn, with that marvellous composure which never
leaves him, said, ‘It is not you she blames, but herself, on account of
that ridiculous scene the other day.’

“Do you hear, Daniel, he called that adorable scene which I have just
described to you, ridiculous! It is only Americans who can commit such
absurdities.

“I have since found out that they had almost to force Miss Brandon to
receive me; but she had tact enough not to let me see it, when I was
formally presented to her, just before going to dinner. It is true, she
blushed deeply; but she took my hand with the utmost cordiality, and cut
me short when I was trying to pay her some compliment, saying,--

“‘You are Thorn’s friend; I am sure we shall be friends also.’

“Ah, Daniel! you admired Miss Brandon at the theatre; but you ought
to see her at her house. Abroad she sacrifices herself in order to pay
proper regard to the world; but at home she can venture to be herself.

“We soon became friends, as she had foretold, so soon, in fact, that
I was quite surprised when I found her addressing me like an old
acquaintance. I soon discovered how that came about.

“Our young girls here in France, my dear Daniel, are charming, no doubt,
but generally ill taught, frivolous, and caring for nothing but balls,
novels, or dress. The Americans are very different. Their serious
minds are occupied with the same subjects which fill their parents’
minds,--with politics, industry, discussions in the assembly,
discoveries in science, &c. A man like myself, known abroad and at
home during a long political career of some distinction, could not be a
stranger to Miss Brandon. My earnestness in defending those causes which
I considered just had often filled her with enthusiasm. Deeply moved
by my speeches, which she was in the habit of reading, she had often
thought of the speaker. I think I can hear her now say with that
beautiful voice of hers, which has the clear ring of pure crystal,--

“‘Oh, yes! I knew you, count; I knew you long ago. And there was many a
day when I wished I were a friend of yours, so that I might say to you,
“Well done, sir! what you are doing is grand, is noble!”’

“And that was true; for she remembered a number of passages from my
speeches, even from such as I had forgotten myself; and she always
quoted them literally. At times, I was amazed at some peculiarly bold
thoughts which she uttered; and, when I complimented her upon them, she
broke out in loud laughter, and said,--

“‘Why, count, these are your own ideas; I got them from you. You said so
on such and such an occasion.’

“And when I looked at night, after my return, into my papers, to
ascertain the fact, I found almost always that Miss Brandon had been
right. Need I tell you after that, that I soon became an almost daily
visitor at the house in Circus Street? Surely you take it for granted.

“But what I must tell you is, that I found there the most perfect
happiness, and the purest that I have ever known upon earth. I was
filled with respect and with admiration, when I looked at their rigid
morality, united with the heartiest cheerfulness. There I enjoyed my
happiest hours, between Mrs. Brian, the Puritan lady, so strict for
herself, so indulgent for others; and Thomas Elgin, the noblest and best
of men, who conceals under an appearance of icy coldness the warmest and
kindest of hearts.”

What was Count Ville-Handry aiming at? or had he no aim at all?

Had he come merely to confide to Daniel the amazing romance of his love?
Or did he simply yield to the natural desire of all lovers, to pour out
the exuberance of their feelings, and to talk of their love, even when
they know that their indiscretion may be fatal to their success?

Daniel put these questions to himself; but the count did not leave him
time to reflect, and to answer them.

After a short pause, he seemed to rouse himself, and said, suddenly
changing his tone,--

“I guess what you think, my dear Daniel. You say to yourself, ‘Count
Ville-Handry was in love.’ Well, I assure you you are mistaken.”

Daniel started from his chair; and, overcome by amazement, he
exclaimed,--

“Can it be possible?”

“Exactly so; I give you my word of honor. The feelings which attracted
me toward Miss Brandon were the same that bound me to my daughter. But
as I am a shrewd observer, and have some knowledge of the human heart,
I could not help being struck by a change in Miss Brandon’s face, and
especially in her manner. After having treated me with the greatest
freedom and familiarity, she had suddenly become reserved, and almost
cold. It was evident to me that she was embarrassed in my presence. Our
constant intercourse, so far from reassuring her, seemed to frighten
her. You may guess how I interpreted this change, my dear Daniel.

“But, as I have never been a conceited man, I thought I might be
mistaken. I devoted myself, therefore, to more careful observation;
and I soon became aware, that, if I loved Miss Brandon only with the
affection of a father, I had succeeded in inspiring her with a more
tender sentiment.”

In any other person, this senile self-conceit would have appeared
intensely absurd to Daniel; in his Henrietta’s father, it pained
him deeply. The count actually noticed his downcast look, and,
misinterpreting it, asked him,--

“Could you doubt what I say?”

“Oh, no, sir!”

“Very well, then. I can assure you, at all events, that this discovery
troubled me not a little. I was so surprised by it, that for three days
I could neither think of it coolly, nor decide on what I ought to do.
Still it was necessary I should make up my mind. I did not for a moment
think of abusing the confidence of this innocent child; and yet I knew,
I felt it, she was absolutely in my power. But no! It would have been
infamous in me to repay the hospitality of excellent Mrs. Brian, and the
kindness of noble M. Elgin, with such ingratitude. On the other hand,
must I necessarily deny myself my pleasant visits at the house in Circus
Street, and break with friends who were so dear to me? I thought of
that, also; but I had not the courage to do so.”

He hesitated for a moment, trying to read in Daniel’s eyes his real
opinion. After a while, he said very gravely,--

“It was then only, that the idea of marrying her occurred to me.”

Daniel had been expecting the fatal word; thus, however heavy the blow
was, it found him prepared. He remained immovable.

This indifference seemed to surprise the count; for he uttered an
expression of discontent, and curtly repeated,--

“Yes, I thought of marrying her. You will say, ‘That was a serious
matter.’ I know that only too well; and therefore I did not decide
the question in a hurry, but weighed the reasons for and against very
carefully. I am not one of those weak men, you know, I am sure, who can
easily be hoodwinked, and who fancy they alone possess the secret of
perennial youth. No, no, I know myself, and am fully aware, better than
anybody else, that I am approaching maturer years.

“This was, in fact, the first objection that arose in my mind. But then
I answered it triumphantly by the fact that age is not a matter to be
decided by the certificate of baptism, but that we are just as old as we
appear to be. Now, thanks to an exceptionally sober and peaceful life,
of which forty years were spent in the country, to an iron constitution,
and to the extreme care I have always taken of my health, I possess
a--what shall I say?--a vigor which many young men might envy, who can
hardly drag one foot after the other.”

He rose as he said this, threw out his chest, straightened his back,
and stretched out his well-shaped leg. Then, when he thought Daniel had
sufficiently admired him, he continued,--

“Now, what of Miss Brandon? You think, perhaps, she is still in her
teens? Far from that! She is at least twenty-five, my dear friend; and,
for a woman, twenty-five years are--ah, ah!”

He smiled ironically, as if to say that to him a woman of twenty-five
appeared an old, a very old woman. Then he went on,--

“Besides, I know how serious her disposition is, and her eminent good
sense. You may rely upon me, when I tell you I have studied her. A
thousand trifles, of no weight in appearance, and unnoticed by herself
in all probability, have told me that she abhors very young men. She has
learnt to appreciate the value of young husbands of thirty, who are all
fire and flame in the honeymoon, and who, six months later, wearied with
pure and tranquil happiness, seek their delights elsewhere. It is not
only of late that I have found out how truly she values what is, after
all, most desirable in this world,--a great name worthily borne by a
true man, and a reputation that would shed new radiance upon her. How
often have I heard her say to Mrs. Brian, ‘Above all, aunt, I want to
be proud of my husband; I want to see everybody’s eye sparkle with
admiration and envy as soon as I mention his name, which will have
become mine also; I want people to whisper around me, “Ah, how happy she
is to be loved by such a man!”’”

He shook his head gravely, and said in a solemn tone,--

“I examined myself, Daniel, and found that I answered all of Miss
Brandon’s expectations; and the result of my meditations was, that I
would be a madman to allow such happiness to escape me, and that I was
bound to risk every thing. I made up my mind, therefore, firmly, and
went to M. Elgin in order to make him aware of my intentions. I cannot
describe to you the amazement of that worthy gentleman.

“‘You are joking,’ he said at first, ‘and that pains me deeply.’

“But, when he saw that I had never in my life spoken more seriously, he,
who is usually so phlegmatic, became perfectly furious. As if I would
have come to him, if, by some impossible accident, I should have
been unhappy in my choice! But I fell from the clouds when he told me
outright that he meant to do all he could do to prevent such a match.
Nor would he give up his purpose, say what I could; and I had to use
all my skill to make him change his mind. At last, after more than two
hours’ discussion, all that I could obtain from him was the promise
that he would remain neutral, and that he would leave to Mrs. Brian the
responsibility of refusing or accepting my offer.”

He laughed, this good Count Ville-Handry, he laughed heartily, no doubt
recalling his discussion with Sir Thorn, and his triumphant skill.

“So,” he resumed, “I went to Mrs. Brian. Ah! she did not mince matters.
At the first word, she called me--God forgive her!--an old fool, and
plainly told me that I must never show myself again in Circus Street.

“I insisted; but in vain. She would not even listen to me, the old
Puritan; and, when I became pressing, she dropped me a solemn curtsey,
and left me alone in the room, looking foolish enough, I am sure.

“For the time, I had nothing to do but to go away. I did so, hoping that
her interview with her niece might induce her to change her mind. Not at
all. The next morning, when I called at the house, the servants said
Sir Thorn was out, and Mrs. Brian and Miss Brandon had just left for
Fontainebleau. The day after, the same result; and for a whole week the
doors remained closed.

“I was becoming restless, when a commissionaire, one morning, brought
me a letter. It was Miss Brandon who wrote. She asked me to be that very
day, at four o’clock, in the Bois de Boulogne, near the waterfalls;
that she would ride out in the afternoon with Sir Thorn; that she would
escape from him, and meet me.

“As a matter of course, I was punctual; and it was well I was so, for,
a few minutes after I got there, I saw her--or rather I felt her--coming
towards me, riding at full speed. When she reached me, she stopped
suddenly, and, jumping from her horse, said to me,--

“‘They watch me so jealously, that I could not write to you till to-day.
I am deeply wounded by this want of confidence, and I do not think I can
endure it any longer. Here I am, carry me off, let us go!’

“Never, O Daniel! never have I seen her look more marvellously beautiful
than she looked at that moment. She was flushed with excitement and the
rapid ride; her eyes shone with courage and passion; her lips trembled;
and then she said again,--

“‘I know I am ruining myself; and you yourself--you will probably
despise me. But never mind! Let us be gone!’”

He paused, overcome with excitement; but, soon recovering, he
continued,--

“To hear a beautiful woman tell you that! Ah, Daniel! that is an
experience which alone is worth a man’s whole life. And yet I had the
courage, mad as I felt I was becoming, to speak to her words of calm
reason. Yes, I had the sublime courage, and the almost fortuitous
control over myself, to conjure her to retreat into her house.

“She began to weep, and accused me of indifference.

“But I had discovered a way out of the difficulty, and said to her,--

“‘Sarah, go home. Write to me what you have just told me, and I am sure
I shall compel your friends to grant me your hand.’

“This she did.

“And what I had foreseen came to pass. In the face of such evidence of
what they called our madness, Sir Thorn and Mrs. Brian dared not oppose
our plans any longer. After some little hesitations, and imposing
certain honorable conditions, they said to Sarah and myself,--

“‘You will have it so. Go, then, and get married.’”

This is what Count Ville-Handry called chance, a “blessed chance,” as
he said, utterly unmindful of the whole chain of circumstances which he
himself related. From the accident that had befallen M. Elgin, and the
fainting-fit of Miss Brandon, to the meeting in the Bois de Boulogne
and the proposed runaway-match, all seemed to him perfectly natural and
simple,--even the sudden enthusiasm of a young, frivolous woman for his
political opinions, and the learning by heart of his speeches.

Daniel was amazed. That a man like the count should be so perfectly
blind to the intrigue that was going on around him, seemed to him
incomprehensible. The count, however, was not so blind, that he should
not have at least suspected the nature of Daniel’s feelings.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked. “Come, let us hear your opinion.
Tell us frankly that you suspect Miss Brandon, and accuse her of trying
to catch me in her snares, or, at least, of having selfish views.”

“I do not say so,” stammered Daniel.

“No, but you think so; and that is worse. Well, come; I think I can
convince you of your mistake. What do you think Miss Brandon would gain
by marrying me? A fortune, you say. I have only one word in reply; but
that is sufficient; Miss Brandon is richer than I am.”

How, and at what price, Miss Brandon had managed to possess herself of
such a fortune, Daniel knew but too well from Maxime’s account; hence he
could not suppress a nervous shudder, which the count noticed, and which
irritated him.

“Yes, richer than I am,” he repeated. “The oil-wells which she has
inherited from her father bring her in, bad years and good years, from
thirty to forty thousand dollars a year, and that in spite of their
being sadly mismanaged. If they were well managed, they would produce,
three, four, or five times as much, or even more. Sir Thorn has proved
to me that they are an almost inexhaustible mine of wealth. If petroleum
was not fabulously profitable, how would you account for the oil-fever
with which these cool, calculating Americans have suddenly been seized,
and which has made more millionaires than the gold-fever in California
and the Territories? Ah! there is something to be made there yet, and
something grand, if one could dispose of a large capital.”

He became excited, and forgot himself; but he soon checked himself. He
had evidently been on the point of letting a secret leak out. After a
few moments, he continued more calmly,--

“But enough of that. I trust your suspicions are removed. Next you
may tell me that Miss Brandon takes me because she can do no better.
Mistaken again, my friend. At this very moment she is called upon to
choose between me and a much younger man than I am, whose fortune,
moreover, is larger than mine,--Mr. Wilkie Gordon.”

How did it come about that Count Ville-Handry seemed to appeal to
Daniel, and to plead his cause before him? Daniel did not even think
of asking himself that question; his mind was in a state of utter
confusion. Still, as the count insisted on having his opinion, as he
urged him, and repeatedly asked, “Well, do you see any other objection?”
 he forgot at last his friend’s prudent warning, and said in a troubled
voice,--

“No doubt, count, you know Miss Brandon’s family?”

“Certainly! Do you think I would buy a cat in a bag? Her excellent
father was a model of honesty.”

“And--her previous life?”

The count started from his chair, and, casting a savage glance at
Daniel, said,--

“Oh, oh! I see one of those rascally slanderers, who have tried to
tarnish the honor of the noblest and chastest of all women, has already
been at work here, anticipating my communication to you, and repeating
those infamous calumnies. You must give me the name of the scoundrel.”

Unconsciously, almost, Daniel turned towards the door, behind which
M. de Brevan was listening. Perhaps he expected him to come forth; but
Maxime did not stir.

“Sarah’s previous life!” continued the count. “I know every hour of it;
and I can answer for it as for my own. The darling! Before consenting
to be mine, she insisted upon my knowing every thing, yes, every thing,
without reserve or boastfulness; and I know what she has suffered. Did
they not actually say she had been the accomplice of a wretched thief, a
cashier of some bank, who had become a defaulter? Did they not say that
she had driven a foolish young man, a gambler, to commit suicide; and
that she had watched, unmoved, the tortures of his agony? Ah! you
have only to look at Miss Brandon to know that these vile stories are
wretched inventions of malicious enemies and rivals. And look here,
Daniel; you may believe me; whenever you see people calumniate a man
or a woman, you may rest assured that that man or woman has, somehow
or other, wounded or humiliated some vulgar person, some mean, envious
fool, who cannot endure his or her superiority in point of fortune,
rank, or beauty and talent.”

He had actually recovered his youthful energy in thus defending his
beloved. His eye brightened up; his voice became strong, and his
gestures animated.

“But no more of that painful topic,” he said: “let us talk seriously.”

He rose, and leaning on the mantelpiece, so as to face Daniel, he
said,--

“I told you, my dear Daniel, that Sir Thorn and Mrs. Brian insisted upon
certain conditions before they consented to our marriage. One is, that
Miss Brandon is to be received by my relations as she deserves to
be, not only respectfully, but affectionately, even tenderly. As to
relations, there is not any. I have some remote cousins, who, having
nothing to expect from me when I die, do not trouble themselves any more
about me than I trouble myself about them. But I have a daughter; and
there is the danger. I know she is distressed at the idea of my marrying
again. She cannot bear the mere idea that another woman is to take the
place of her mother, to bear her name, and to rule in my house.”

Daniel began at last to know what he had to understand by that
unsuccessful appointment which had procured him the pleasure of a visit
from Count Ville-Handry.

“Now,” continued the latter, “I know my daughter. She is her mother over
again, weak, but obstinate beyond endurance. If she has taken it into
her head to receive Miss Brandon uncivilly, she will do so, in spite of
all she has promised me, and she will make a terrible scene of it.
And if Miss Brandon consents, in spite of all, to go on, my house will
become a hell to me, and my wife will suffer terribly. Now the question
is, whether I have sufficient influence over Henrietta to bring her to
reason. I think not. But this influence which I have not--a very nice
young man may have it; and that man is you.”

Daniel had turned red. It was for the first time that the count spoke so
clearly. He went on,--

“I have never disapproved of my poor wife’s plans; and the proof is,
that I have allowed you to pay your attentions to my daughter. But now I
make this condition: if my daughter is to Miss Brandon what she ought
to be to her, a tender and devoted sister, then, six months after my
wedding, there shall be another wedding at my house.”

Daniel was about to speak; but he stopped him, saying,--

“No, not a word! I have shown you the wisdom of my decision, and you may
act accordingly.”

He had already put on his hat and opened the door, when he added,--

“Ah! one word more. Miss Brandon has asked me to present you to her
to-night. She wants to speak to you. Come and dine with me; and after
dinner we will go to Circus Street. Now, pray think of what I have told
you, and good-by!”




VII.

Count Ville-Handry had hardly closed the door, when M. de Brevan rushed
out of the bedroom in which he had been concealed.

“Was I right?” he exclaimed.

But Daniel did not hear him. He had forgotten his very presence.
Overcome by the great effort he had made to conceal his emotions, he had
sunk into a chair, hiding his face in his hands, and said to himself
in a mournful voice, and as if trying to convince himself of an
overwhelming fact,--

“The count has lost his mind altogether, and we are lost.”

The grief of this excellent young man was so great and so bitter, that
M. de Brevan seemed to be deeply moved. He looked at him for some
time with an air of pity, and then suddenly, as if yielding to a good
impulse, he touched his shoulder, and said,--

“Daniel!”

The unhappy man started like one who has suddenly been roused from deep
slumber; and, as he recalled what had just happened, he said,--

“You have heard all, Maxime?”

“All! I have not lost a word nor a gesture. But do not blame me for my
indiscretion. It enables me to give you some friendly advice. You know I
have paid dear for my experience.”

He hesitated, being at a loss how to express his ideas; then he
continued in a short, sharp tone,--

“You love Miss Ville-Handry?”

“More than my life, don’t you know?”

“Well, if that is so, abandon all thoughts of useless resistance; induce
Miss Henrietta to do as her father wishes; and persuade Miss Brandon to
let your wedding take place a month after her own. But ask for special
pledges. Miss Ville-Handry may suffer somewhat during that month; but
the day after your wedding you will carry her off to your own home, and
leave the poor old man to his amorous folly.”

Daniel showed in his face that this suggestion opened a new prospect
before him.

“I had not thought of that,” he said.

“It is all you can do.”

“Yes, it is what prudence would advise me to do. But can I do so in
honor?”

“Oh, honor, honor!”

“Would it not be wrong in me to abandon the poor old man to the mercy of
Miss Brandon and her accomplices?”

“You will never be able to rescue him, my dear fellow.”

“I ought at least to try. You thought so yesterday, and even this
morning, not two hours ago.”

Maxime could scarcely hide his impatience.

“I did not know then what I know now,” he said.

Daniel had risen, and was walking up and down the small room, replying
to his own objections, rather than to those raised by Brevan.

“If I were alone master,” he said, “I might, perhaps, agree to a
capitulation. But could Henrietta accept it? Never, never! Her father
knows her well. She is as weak as a child; but at the proper moment she
can develop a masculine energy and an iron will.”

“Why should you tell her at all who Miss Brandon is?”

“I have pledged my word of honor to tell her every thing.”

Brevan again shrugged his shoulders, and there was no mistaking what he
meant by that gesture. He might just as well have said aloud, “Can one
conceive such stupidity?”

“Then you had better give up your Henrietta, my poor fellow,” he said.

But Daniel’s despair had been overcome. He ground his teeth with anger,
and said,--

“Not yet, my friend, not yet! An honest man who defends his honor and
his life is pretty strong. I have no experience, that is true; but I
have you, Maxime; and I know I can always count upon you.”

Daniel did not seem to have noticed that M. de Brevan, at first all fire
and energy, had rapidly cooled off, like a man, who, having ventured too
far, thinks he has made a mistake, and tries to retrace his steps.

“Certainly you may count upon me,” he replied; “but what can be done?”

“Well, what you said yourself. I shall call upon Miss Brandon, and watch
her. I shall dissemble, and gain time. If necessary, I shall employ
detectives, and find out her antecedents. I shall try to interest some
high personage in my behalf,--my minister, for instance, who is very
kind to me. Besides, I have an idea.”

“Ah!”

“That unlucky cashier, whose story you told me, and who, you think, is
not dead--if we could find him. How did you call him? Oh, Malgat! An
advertisement inserted in all the leading newspapers of Europe would, no
doubt, reach him; and the hope of seeing himself avenged”--

M. de Brevan’s cheeks began to redden perceptibly. He broke out with
strange vehemence,--

“What nonsense!”

Then he added, more collectedly,--

“You forget that Malgat has been sentenced to I know not how many years’
penal servitude, and that he will see in your advertisement a trick of
the police; so that he will only conceal himself more carefully than
ever.”

But Daniel was not so easily shaken. He said,--

“I will think it over. I will see. Perhaps something might be done with
that young man whom the count mentioned, that M. Wilkie Gordon. If I
thought he was really anxious for Miss Brandon’s hand”--

“I have heard it said, and I am sure it is so, the young man is one of
those idiots whom vanity renders insane, and who do not know what to do
in order to make themselves notorious. Miss Brandon being very famous,
he would marry her, just as he would pay a hundred thousand dollars for
a famous racer.”

“And how do you account for Miss Brandon’s refusal?”

“By the character of the man, whom I know very well, and whom she knows
as well. She is quite aware that, three months after the wedding, he
would decamp, and in less than a year she would be divorced. Then there
is another thing: Wilkie is only twenty-five years old; and you know a
fellow at that age is likely to live a good deal longer than a lover who
is beyond the sixties.”

The way in which he said this lent to his words a terrible significance;
and Daniel, turning pale, stammered out,--

“Great God! Do you think Miss Brandon could”--

“Could do anything, most assuredly,--except, perhaps, get into trouble
with the police. I have heard her say that only fools employ poison or
the dagger.”

A strange smile passed over his lips; and he added in a tone of horrible
irony,--

“It is true there are other means, less prompt, perhaps, but much safer,
by which people may be removed when they become inconvenient.

“What means? The same, no doubt, which she had employed to get rid
of poor Kergrist, and that unlucky Malgat, the cashier of the Mutual
Discount Society. Purely moral means, based upon her thorough knowledge
of the character of her victims, and her own infernal power over them.”

But Daniel tried in vain to obtain more light from his friend. Brevan
answered evasively; perhaps because he did not dare to speak out freely,
and reveal his real thoughts; or because it lay in his plans to
be content with having added this horrible fear to all the other
apprehensions of his friend.

His embarrassment, just now unmistakable, had entirely disappeared, as
if he had come to a final decision after long hesitation. He who had
first advised all kinds of concessions now suggested the most energetic
resistance, and seemed to be confident of success.

When he at last left Daniel, he had made him promise to keep him hour
by hour informed of all that might happen, and, above all, to try every
means in his power to unmask Miss Brandon.

“How he hates her!” said Daniel to himself when he was alone,--“how he
hates her!”

But this very hatred, which had already troubled him the night before,
now disturbed him more and more, and kept him from coming to any
decision. The more he reflected, the more it seemed to him that Maxime
had allowed himself to be carried away beyond what was probable, or
even possible. The last accusation, especially, seemed to him perfectly
monstrous.

A young and beautiful woman, consumed by ambition and covetousness,
might possibly play a comedy of pure love while she was disgusted in her
heart. She might catch by vile tricks a foolish old man, and make him
marry her, openly and avowedly selling her beauty and her youth. Such
things happen, and are excused by the morality of our day. The same
wicked, heartless woman might speculate upon becoming speedily a widow,
and thus regaining her liberty, together with a large fortune. This also
happens, however horrible it may appear. But that she should marry a
poor old fool, with the preconceived purpose of hastening his end by a
deliberate crime, there was a depth in that wickedness which terrified
Daniel’s imagination.

Deeply ensconced in his chair, he was losing himself in conjectures,
forgetting how time passed, and how his work was waiting for him, even
the invitation to dinner which the count had given to him, and the
prospect of being introduced that very evening to Miss Brandon. Night
came; and then only his concierge, who came in to see what had become of
him all day long, aroused him from his torpor.

“Ah, I am losing my senses!” he exclaimed, rising suddenly. “And
Henrietta, who has been waiting for me--what must she think of me?”

Miss Ville-Handry, at that very moment, had reached that degree of
anxiety which becomes well-nigh intolerable. After having waited for
Daniel all the evening of the day before, and after having spent a
sleepless night, she had surely expected him to-day, counting the
seconds by the beating of her heart, and starting at the noise of every
carriage in the street. In her despair, knowing hardly what she was
doing, she was thinking of running herself to University Street, to
Daniel’s house, when the door opened.

In the same indifferent tone in which he announced friends and enemies,
the servant said,--

“M. Daniel Champcey.”

Henrietta was up in a moment. She was about to exclaim,--

“What has kept you? What has happened?” But the words died away on her
lips.

It had been sufficient for her to look at Daniel’s sad face to feel that
a great misfortune had befallen her.

“Ah! you had been right in your fears,” she said, sinking into a chair.

“Alas!”

“Speak: let me know all.”

“Your father has come to me, and offered me your hand, Henrietta,
provided I can obtain your consent to his marriage with Miss Brandon.
Now, listen to me; and then you can decide.”

Faithful to his promise, he thereupon told her every thing he had
learned from Maxime and the count, suppressing only those details which
would have made the poor girl blush, and also that terrible charge which
he was unwilling to believe.

When he had ended, Henrietta said warmly,--

“What! I should allow my father to marry such a creature? I should sit
still and smile when such dishonor and such ruin are coming to a house
over which my mother has presided! No; far be it from me ever to be so
selfish! I shall oppose Miss Brandon’s plans with all my strength and
all my energy.”

“She may triumph, after all.”

“She shall not triumph over my resistance and my contempt. Never--do you
hear me, Daniel?--never will I bow down before her. Never shall my hand
touch hers. And, if my father persists, I shall ask him, the day before
his wedding, to allow me to bury myself in a convent.”

“He will not let you go.”

“Then I shall shut myself up in my room, and never leave it again. I do
not think they will drag me out by force.”

There was no mistaking it; she spoke with an earnestness and a
determination which nothing could shake or break. And yet the very
saddest presentiments oppressed Daniel’s heart. He said,--

“But Miss Brandon will certainly not come alone to this house.”

“Whom will she bring with her?”

“Her relatives, M. Thomas Elgin and Mrs. Brian. Oh Henrietta, dearest
Henrietta! to think that you should be exposed to the spite and the
persecution of these wretches!”

She raised her head proudly, and replied,--

“I am not afraid of them.” Then she added in a gentler tone,--

“Besides, won’t you always be near me, to advise me, and to protect me
in case of danger?”

“I? Don’t you think they will try to part us soon enough?”

“No, Daniel, I know very well that the house will no longer be open to
you.”

“Well?”

The poor girl blushed up to the roots of her hair, and, turning her.
eyes away from him to avoid his looks, she said,--

“Since they force us to do so, I must needs do a thing a girl, properly
speaking, ought not to do. We will meet secretly. I shall have to stoop
to win over one of my waiting-women, who may be discreet and obliging
enough to aid me, and, through her, I will write to you, and receive
your letters.”

But this arrangement did not relieve Daniel from his terrible
apprehensions. There was a question which constantly rose to his lips,
and which still he did not dare to utter. At last, making a great
effort, he asked,--

“And then?”

Henrietta understood perfectly what he meant. She answered,--

“I thought you would be able to wait until the day should come when the
law would authorize me to make my own choice.”

“Henrietta!”

She offered him her hand, and said solemnly,--

“And on that day, Daniel, I promise you, if my father still withholds
his consent, I will ask you openly for your arm; and then, in broad
daylight, before all the world, I shall leave this house never to
re-enter it again.”

As quick as thought, Daniel had seized her hand, and, carrying it to his
lips, he said,--“Thanks! A thousand thanks! You restore me to hope.”

Still, before abandoning the effort, he thought he would try one more
measure; and for that purpose it was necessary that Henrietta should be
induced to conceal her intentions as long as possible. It was only with
great difficulty that he succeeded in obtaining her consent.

“I will do what you desire; but believe me, all your efforts will be in
vain.”

She was interrupted by the arrival of Count Ville-Handry. He kissed
his daughter, said a few words about rain and fine weather; and then,
drawing Daniel into one of the windows, he asked--

“Have you spoken to her?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Miss Henrietta wants a few days to consider.”

The count looked displeased, and said,--

“That is absurd. Nothing can be more ridiculous. But, after all, it is
your business, my dear Daniel. And, if you want any additional motive,
I will tell you that my daughter is very rich. She has a quarter of a
million of her own.”

“Sir!” exclaimed Daniel indignantly.

But Count Ville-Handry had already turned upon his heels; and the butler
came to announce that dinner was on the table.

The meal, though excellent in itself, was necessarily very dull and
sad. It was promptly despatched; for the count seemed to be sitting on
needles, and every minute looked at his watch.

They had but just handed the coffee around, when he turned to Daniel,
saying,--

“Let us make haste. Miss Brandon expects us.”

Daniel was instantly ready. But the count did not even give him time to
take leave of Henrietta; he carried him off to his carriage, pushed him
in, jumped in after him, and called out to the servant,--“Circus Street!
Miss Brandon! Drive fast!”




VIII.

The servants knew very well what the count meant when he said, “Drive
fast!” The coachman, on such occasions, made his horses literally go as
fast as they could; and, but for his great skill, the foot-passengers
would have been in considerable danger. Nevertheless, on this evening
Count Ville-Handry twice lowered the window to call out,--

“Don’t drive at a walk!”

The fact is, that, in spite of his efforts to assume the air of a grave
statesman, he was as impatient, and as vain of his love, as a young
collegian hurrying to his first rendezvous with his beloved. During
dinner he had been sullen and silent; now he became talkative, and
chatted away, without troubling himself about the silence of his
companion.

To be sure, Daniel did not even listen. Half-buried in the corner of the
well-padded carriage, he tried his best to control his emotions; for he
was excited, more excited than ever in his life, by the thought that he
was to see, face to face, this formidable adventuress, Miss Brandon. And
like the wrestler, who, before making a decisive assault, gathers up all
his strength, he summoned to his aid his composure and his energy.
It took them not more than ten minutes to drive the whole distance to
Circus Street.

“Here we are!” cried the count.

And, without waiting for the steps to be let down, he jumped on the
sidewalk, and, running ahead of his servants, knocked at the door of
Miss Brandon’s house. It was by no means one of those 

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