“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?