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.”