“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.