“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?”