“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?”