III.
Henrietta, roused by the noise all over the house, the voices in thepassages, and the steps on the staircase, and suspecting that someaccident 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 eyesswollen from sleeplessness, and overcome with fatigue, had drawn thecount into a corner, and, pressing his hands, repeated over and overagain,--
"Courage, my dear sir, courage!"
He, overcome, with downcast eye, and cold perspiration on his pallidbrow, 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 theirgenuineness in spite of their actual presence.
How could any one imagine or comprehend that the countess, who but amoment ago was standing there full of life, in perfect health, andthe whole vigor of her years, apparently perfectly happy, smiling, andbeloved by all,--how could one conceive that she had all at once ceasedto exist?
They had laid her on her bed in her ball costume,--a blue satin dresstrimmed with lace. The flowers were still in her hair; and the blowhad come with such suddenness, that, even in death, she retained theappearance of life; she was still warm, her skin transparent, and herlimbs supple. Even her eyes, still wide open, retained their expression,and betrayed the last sensation that had filled her heart,--terror. Itlooked as if she had had at that last moment a revelation of the futurewhich her too great cautiousness had prepared for her daughter.
"My mother is not dead; oh, no! she cannot be dead!" exclaimedHenrietta. 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? Werethey not going to restore her,--they whose business it was to curepeople, and who surely had saved a number of people? They turned awayfrom her, distressed by her terrible grief, expressing their inabilityto 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 herreturn to life. It seemed to her as if she felt that noble heart stillbeat under her hand, and as if those lips, sealed forever by death, mustspeak again to re-assure her.
They attempted to take her away from that heartrending sight; theybegged her to go to her room; but she insisted upon staying. They triedto remove her by force; but she clung to the bed, and vowed that theyshould tear her to pieces sooner than make her leave her mother.
At last, however, the truth broke upon her. She sank down upon her kneesby the side of the bed, hiding her face in the drapery, and repeatingwith 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; andthen a couple of priests; a little later (it was towards the end ofJanuary) one of the count's friends appeared, who undertook all thosesickening preparations which our civilization demands in such cases. Onthe 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 hertheir poor dear child.
Then horses were heard in the court-yard, coachmen quarrelling; orderswere given; and at last the hearse rolled away solemnly--and that wasall.
Henrietta wept and prayed in her chamber.
Late in the day, the count and Henrietta sat down at table alone for thefirst time in their lives; but they did not eat a morsel. How could theydo it, seeing before them the empty seat, once occupied by her who wasthe 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 theirloss. During the day they were seen wandering about the house, withoutany apparent purpose, as if looking or hoping for something to happen.
But there was another true and warm heart, far from that house, whichhad been sorely wounded by the death of the countess. Daniel had lovedher 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 afortnight later that he was admitted. When Henrietta saw him, she feltsorry she had not let him come in before. He had apparently suffered asmuch as she; he looked pale; and his eyes were red.
They remained for some time seated opposite each other, without sayinga word, but deeply moved, and feeling instinctively that their commongrief bound them more firmly than ever to each other.
The count, in the meantime, walked up and down in the large room. He wasso much changed, that one might have failed to recognize him. There wasa strange want of steadiness in his movements; he looked almost like aparalytic, whose crutches had suddenly broken down. Was he consciousof the immense loss which he had suffered? His vanity was too great torender 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 politicianat a time when they had become unusually difficult, and when greatthings were expected of him. Two or three absurd, ridiculous, in factunpardonable blunders, ruined him forever. He lost his reputation as astatesman, and with it his influence.
As yet, however, his reputation remained uninjured. No one suspected thetruth. They attributed the sudden failure of his faculties to the greatsorrow that had befallen him in the death of his wife.
"Who would have thought that he had loved her so deeply?" they asked oneanother.
Henrietta was as much misled as the others, and perhaps even more. Herrespect and her admiration, so far from being diminished, only increasedday by day. She loved him all the more dearly as she watched theapparent effect of his incurable grief.
He was really deeply grieved, but only by his fall. How had it comeabout? He tortured his mind in vain; he could not find a plausibleexplanation, and said over and over again,--
"It is perfectly inexplicable."
He talked of regular plots, of a coalition of his enemies, of the blackingratitude of men, and their fickleness. At first he had thought ofgoing back to the country. But gradually, as day followed day, andweeks grew into months, his wounded vanity began to heal; he forgot hismisfortunes, and adopted new habits of life.
He was a great deal at his club now, rode much on horseback, went to thetheatres, and dined with his friends. Henrietta was delighted; for shehad 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 eccentricfashions of the day, wearing brilliant waistcoats and fancy-coloredtrousers.
Some days later matters grew worse.
One morning Count Ville-Handry, who was quite gray, appeared atbreakfast with jet black beard and hair. Henrietta could not restrainan expression of amazement. But he smiled, and said with considerableembarrassment,--
"My servant is making an experiment; he thinks this goes better with mycomplexion, and makes me look younger."
Evidently something strange had occurred in the count's life. But whatwas it?
Henrietta, although ignorant of the world, and at that time innocencepersonified, was, nevertheless, a woman, and hence had the keen instinctof her sex, which is better than all experience. She reflected, and shethought she could guess what had happened.
After hesitating for three days, the poor girl, saddened rather thanfrightened, confided her troubles to Daniel. But she had only spoken afew words when he interrupted her, and, blushing deeply, said,--
"Do not trouble yourself about that, Miss Henrietta; and, whatever yourfather may do, do not mind it."
That advice was more easily given than followed;
for the count's waysbecame daily more extraordinary. He had gradually drifted away fromhis old friends and his wife's friends, and seemed to prefer to theirhigh-bred society the company of very curious people of all kinds. Anumber of young men came in the forenoon on horseback, and in the mostunceremonious costumes. They came in smoking their cigars, and asked atonce for liquors and absinthe. In the afternoon, another set of men madetheir appearance,--vulgar and arrogant people, with huge whiskers andenormous watch-chains, who gesticulated vehemently, and were on mostexcellent terms with the servants. They were closeted with the count;and their discussions were so loud, they could be heard all over thehouse.
What were the grave discussions that made so much noise? The countundertook to enlighten his daughter. He told her, that, having beenill-treated in politics, he intended to devote himself henceforth togrand enterprises, and hoped confidently to realize an enormous fortune,while, at the same time, rendering great service to certain branches ofindustry.
A fortune? Why should he want money? What with his own estate, and whatwith his wife's fortune, he had already an income of a hundred thousanddollars. Was that not quite enough for a man of sixty-five and for ayoung girl who did not spend a thousand a year on her toilet?
Henrietta asked him timidly, for she was afraid of hurting her father'sfeelings, 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? Haveyou, also, gone over to my enemies?"
"Oh, dear papa!"
"Well, my child, then you ought to know that a man such as I am cannotcondemn himself to inactivity, unless he wants to die. I do not want anymore 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 quitere-assured.
Both had been taught by the countess to look upon her husband as a manof genius; hence they felt sure that he had only to undertake a thing,and he was sure to succeed. Besides, Daniel hoped that such gravematters of business would keep the count from playing the fashionableyoung man.
But it seemed as if nothing could turn him from this folly; he becamedaily 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 neverwent out without a camellia or a rosebud in his buttonhole. He no longercontented himself with dyeing his hair, but actually began to rouge,and used such strong perfumes, that one might have followed his trackthrough the streets by the odors he diffused around him.
At times he would sit for hours in an arm-chair, his eyes fixed on theceiling, his brow knit, and his thoughts apparently bent upon some gravequestion. If he was spoken to, he started like a criminal caught in theact. He who formerly prided himself on his magnificent appetite (hesaw in it a resemblance to Louis XIV.) now hardly ate any thing. On theother hand, he was forever complaining of oppression in the chest, andof 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 hiswhite shirt-front. Then, again, these attacks of melancholy would befollowed by sudden outbursts of joy. He would rub his hands till theypained him; he would sing and almost dance with delight.
Now and then a commissionaire (it was always the same man) came andbrought him a letter. The count tore it from his hands, threw him agold-piece, and went to shut himself up in his study.
"Poor papa!" said Henrietta to Daniel. "There are moments when I tremblefor 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, andsaid in his softest voice,--
"Confess, my dear child, that in your innermost heart you have more thanonce called me a very bad father. I dare say you blame me for leavingyou so constantly alone here in this large house, where you must diefrom sheer weariness."
Such a charge would have been but too well founded. Henrietta wasleft more completely to herself than the daughter of a workman, whosebusiness keeps him from home all day long. The workman, however, takeshis 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 bestto make home pleasant to you. Then I embroider, I sew, I study. In theafternoon my music-teacher comes, and my English master. At night Iread."
The count smiled; but it was a forced smile.
"Never mind!" he broke in; "such a lonely life cannot go on. A girlof your age stands in need of some one to advise her, to pet her,--anaffectionate and devoted friend. That is why I have been thinking ofgiving you another mother."
Henrietta drew back her arm, which she had wound round her father'sneck; 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 ina pained voice,--
"Do you really tell me so, papa? What! you would bring another wifeto this house, which is still alive with the voice of her whom we havelost? 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? Perhapsyou would even want me to call her mamma? Oh, dear papa! surely you donot think of such profanation!"
The count's trouble was pitiful to behold. And yet, if Henrietta hadbeen less excited, she would have read in his eye that his mind was madeup.
"What I mean to do is done in your behalf, my dear child," he stammeredout at last. "I am old; I may die; we have no near relations; what wouldbecome 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 intothe 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 hadallowed 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 oddnotions, 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 hisminister may part him for years from his wife."
Henrietta remained silent. She began to understand the nature of thebargain which her father proposed to her, and it made her indignant.He thought he had said enough for this time, and left her with thesewords,--
"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 herlife 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 onceto 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, threerooms, the windows of which looked out upon the gardens of an adjoiningmansion, where the flowers bloomed brilliantly, and the birds sangjoyously. There he spent almost all the time which was not requiredby his official duties. A walk in company with his friend, Maxime deBrevan; a visit to the theatre, when a particularly fine piece was tobe given; and two or three calls a week at Count Ville-Handry'shouse,--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 himfrom contact with what Parisians call "pleasure," his ardent love forHenrietta would have prevented his falling into bad company. A pure,noble love, such as his, based upon perfect confidence in her to whomit is given, is quite sufficient to fill up a life; for it makes thepresent delightful, and paints the distant horizon of the future in allthe bright colors of the rainbow.
But, the more he loved Henrietta, the more he felt bound to be worthy ofher, and to deserve her affections. He was not ambitious. He had chosena 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, securedagainst want. What more could he desire? Nothing for himself.
But Henrietta belonged to a great house; she was the daughter of a manwho had filled a high position; she was immensely rich; and, even if hehad married her only with her own fortune, she would have brought himten times as much as he had. Daniel did not want Henrietta, on theblessed day when she should become his own, to have any thing to wishfor or to regret. Hence he worked incessantly, indefatigably, waking upevery morning anew with the determination to make himself one of thosenames which weigh more than the oldest parchments, and to win oneof those positions which make a wife as proud as she is fond of herhusband. Fortunately, the times were favorable to his ambition. TheFrench navy was in a state of transformation; but the marine was as yetunreformed, waiting, apparently, for the hand of a man of genius.
And why might not he be that man? Supported by his love, he saw nothingimpossible 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'llcheckmate you all."
Daniel was busy in his study, finishing a paper for the minister, whenthe count's servant came and brought him Henrietta's letter. He knewthat something extraordinary must have happened to induce Henrietta,with her usual reserve, to take such a step, and, above all, to write tohim 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 bethere before you."
As soon as the servant had left, Daniel dressed, and a moment later hewas out of the house. As he walked rapidly up the street in which thecount lived, he thought,--
"I have no doubt taken the alarm too soon; perhaps she has only somecommission for me."
But he was beset with dark presentiments, and had to tell himself thatthat was not likely to be the case. He felt worse than ever, when, uponbeing 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 tobe 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 gradualtransformation of the count, he said,--
"Oh, oh, oh! That explains every thing."
But Henrietta interrupted him; and, making a great effort, she repeatedto him in a half-stifled voice almost literally her conversation withher father. When she had ended, Daniel said,--
"You have guessed right, Miss Henrietta. Your father evidently doespropose to you a bargain."
"Ah! but that is horrible."
"He wanted you to understand, that, if you would consent to hismarriage, he would consent"--
Shocked at what he was going to add, he stopped; but Henrietta saidboldly,--
"To ours, you mean,--to ours? Yes, so I understood it; and that was myreason 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 hopesdashed in an instant, his life's happiness destroyed forever, Henriettalost to him. But the very imminence of the danger restored to him hisenergy. 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 hisconsent; but he can marry without asking you for yours. There is no lawwhich authorizes children to oppose the follies of their parents. Whatyour father wants is your silent approval, the certainty that hisnew 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 hisplans, you may be sure he had made up his mind. Your resistancewill lead only to our separation. He might possibly forgive you; butshe--Don't you think she should avail herself to the utmost of herinfluence over him? Who can foresee to what extremities she might be ledby 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 hethought; and at last he said slowly, as if weighing his words,--
"Because, because this marriage cannot be any thing else but a barefacedspeculation. Your father is immensely rich; she wants his fortune."
Daniel's reasoning was so sensible, and he pleaded his cause with sucheagerness, 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 thisprofanation. 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 willtell you, the name of the woman whom father is going to marry; for Ishall ask him who she is."
She was spared that trouble. Next morning, the first words of the countwere,--
"Well, have you thought it over?"
She looked at him till he felt compelled to turn his head away; and thenshe replied in a tone of resignation,--
"Father, you are master here. I should not tell you the truth, if I saidI was not going to suffer cruelly at the idea of a stranger coming hereto--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 anangel."
"What is her age?"
"Twenty-five."
The count read in his daughter's face that she thought his new wife muchtoo 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 mepresent you to her. She _is_ a foreigner, of excellent family, veryrich, marvellously clever and beautiful; and her name is Sarah Brandon."
That evening, when Henrietta told Daniel the name of her futuremother-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 anything we could possibly anticipate."