Chapter 14
"Well, I am sure the count can boast that he has had a curious wedding-day."
This was the way the servants spoke at the moment when Henrietta left the reception- room. She heard it; and without knowing whether they approved her conduct, or laughed at it, she felt gratified, so eager is passion for encouragement from anywhere.
But she had not yet gone half-way up the stairs which led to her own rooms, when she was held at the place by the sound of all the bells of the house, which had been set in motion by a furious hand. She bent over the balusters to listen. The servants were rushing about; the vestibule resounded with hurried steps; and she distinguished the imperious voice of M. Ernest, the count's valet, who called out,--
"Salts, quick! Fresh water. The countess has a nervous attack." A bitter smile curled Henrietta's lips.
"At least," she said to herself, "I shall have poisoned this woman's joy." And, fearing to be caught thus listening, she went up stairs.
But, when she was alone once more, the poor girl failed not to recognize the utter futility of her fancied triumph. Whom had she wounded, after all? Her father.
However unwell the countess might be to-night,--and perhaps she was not really unwell,– -she would certainly be well again in the morning; and then what would be the advantage of the scandal she had attempted in order to ruin her? Now Henrietta saw it very clearly,-- now, when it was too late.
Worse than that! She fancied that what she had done to-day pledged her for the future. The road upon which she had started evidently led nowhere. Never mind, it seemed to her miserable cowardice to shrink from going on.
Rising with the sun, she was deliberating on what weak point she might make her next attack, when there came a knock at the door, and Clarissa, her own maid, entered.
"Here is a letter for you, miss," she said. "I have received it this moment, in an envelope addressed to me."
Henrietta examined the letter for a long time before opening it, studying the handwriting, which she did not know. Who could write to her, and in this way, unless it was Maxime de Brevan, to whom Daniel had begged her to intrust herself, and who, so far, had given no sign of life of himself?
It was M. de Brevan who wrote thus,--
"Madam,--Like all Paris, I also have heard of your proud and noble protest on the day of your father's unfortunate marriage. Egotists and fools will perhaps blame you. But you may despise them; for all the best men are on your side. And my dear Daniel, if he were here, would approve and admire your courage, as I do myself."
She drew a full breath, as if her heart had been relieved of a heavy burden.
Daniel's friend approved her conduct. This was enough to stifle henceforth the voice of reason, and to make her disregard every idea of prudence. The whole letter of M. de Brevan was, moreover, nothing but a long and respectful admonition to resist desperately.
Farther on he wrote,--
"At the moment of taking the train, Daniel handed me a letter, in which he expresses his innermost thoughts. With a sagacity worthy of such a heart, he foresees and solves in advance all the difficulties by which your step-mother will no doubt embarrass you hereafter. This letter is too precious to be intrusted to the mail, I shall, therefore, get myself introduced at your father's house before the end of the week, and I shall have the honor to put that letter into your own hands."
And again,--
"I shall have an opportunity, tomorrow, to send Daniel news from here. If you wish to write to him, send me your letter to-day, Rue Laffitte, No. 62, and I will enclose it in mine."
Finally, there came a postscript in these words,-- "Mistrust, above all, M. Thomas Elgin."
This last recommendation caused Henrietta particular trouble, and made her feel all kinds of vague and terrible apprehensions.
"Why should I mistrust him," she said to herself, "more than the others?"
But a more pleasing anxiety soon came to her assistance. What? Here was an opportunity to send Daniel news promptly and safely, and she was running the risk, by her delays, of losing the chance? She hastened to dress; and, sitting down before her little writing-table, she went to work communicating to her only friend on earth all her sufferings since he had so suddenly left her, her griefs, her resentments, her hopes.
It was eleven o'clock when she had finished, having filled eight large pages with all she felt in her heart. As she was about to rise, she suddenly felt ill. Her knees gave way under her, and she felt as if every thing was trembling around her. What could this mean? she thought. And now only she remembered that she had eaten nothing since the day before.
"I must not starve myself," she said almost merrily to herself. Her long chat with Daniel had evidently rekindled her hopes.
She rang the bell; and, when her maid appeared, she said,-- "Bring me some breakfast!"
Miss Ville-Handry occupied three rooms. The first, her sitting-room, opened upon the hall; on the right was her bed-chamber; and on the left a boudoir with her piano, her music, and her books. When Henrietta took her meals up stairs, which of late had happened quite often, she ate in the sitting-room.
She had gone in there, and was clearing the table of the albums and little trifles which were lying about, so as to hasten matters, when the maid reappeared with empty hands.
"Ah, miss!"
"Well?"
"The count has given orders not to take any thing up stairs."
"That cannot be."
But a mocking voice from without interrupted her, saying,-- "It is so!"
And immediately Count Ville-Handry appeared, already dressed, curled, and painted, bearing the appearance of a man who is about to enjoy his revenge.
"Leave us!" he said to the maid-servant.
And, as soon as Clarissa had left the room, he turned to Henrietta with these words,-- "Yes, indeed, my dear Henrietta, I have given strict orders not to bring you up any thing to eat. Why should you indulge such fancies? I ask you. Are you unwell? If you are, we will send for the doctor. If not, you will do me the favor to come down and take your meals in the dining-room with the family,--with the countess and myself, M. Elgin and Mrs. Brian."
"But, father!"
"There is no father who could stand this. The time of weakness is past, and so is the time of passion; therefore, you will come down. Oh! whenever you feel disposed. You will, perhaps, pout a day, maybe two days; but hunger drives the wolf into the village; and on the third day we shall see you come down as soon as the bell rings. I have in vain appealed to your heart; you see I am forced to appeal to your stomach."
Whatever efforts Henrietta might make to remain impassive, the tears would come into her eyes,--tears of shame and humiliation. Could this idea of starving her into obedience have originated with her father? No, he would never have thought of it! It was evidently a woman's thought, and the result of bitter, savage hate.
Still the poor girl felt that she was caught; and her heart revolted at the ignominy of the means, and the certainty that she would be forced to yield. Her cruel imagination painted to her at once the exultation of the new countess, when she, the daughter of Count Ville- Handry, would appear in the dining-room, brought there by want, by hunger.
"Father," she begged, "send me nothing but bread and water, but spare me that exposure." But, if the count was repeating a lesson, he had learned it well. His features retained their sardonic expression; and he said in an icy tone,--
"I have told you what I desire. You have heard it, and that is enough." He was turning to leave the room, when his daughter held him back. "Father," she said, "listen to me."
"Well, what is it, now?"
"Yesterday you threatened to shut me up."
"Well?"
"To-day it is I who beseech you to do so. Send me to a convent. However harsh and strict the rules may be, however sad life may be there, I will find there some relief for my sorrow, and I will bless you with all my heart."
He only shrugged his shoulders over and over again; then he said,--
"A good idea! And from your convent you would at once write to everybody and everywhere, that my wife had turned you out of the house; that you had been obliged to escape from threats and bad treatment; you would repeat all the well-known elegies of the innocent young girl who is persecuted by a wicked stepmother. Not so, my dear, not so!"
The breakfast-bell, which was ringing below, interrupted him.
"You hear, Henrietta," he said. "Consult your stomach; and, according to what it tells you, come down, or stay here."
He went out, manifestly quite proud at having performed what he called an act of paternal authority, without vouchsafing a glance at his daughter, who had sunk back upon a chair; for she felt overcome, the poor child! by all the agony of her pride. It was all over: she could struggle no longer. People who would not shrink from such extreme