“Come, quick, dress me!”
And in less than five minutes she had arranged her beautiful hair, and
put on one of her most becoming dresses. While changing her dress, she
noticed the rustling of paper.
“Ah!” she said to herself, “my letter to Daniel. I had forgotten it.”
Was it already too late to send it to M. de Brevan? Probably it was. But
why might she not try, at least? So she gave it to Clarissa, saying,--
“You will take a cab, and take this letter immediately to M. de Brevan,
Rue Laffitte, No. 62. If he is out, you will leave it, telling the
people to be sure to give it to him as soon as he comes in. You can find
some excuse, if they should ask you why you are going out. Be discreet.”
She herself went down stairs, so determined to conceal her emotion, that
she actually had a smile on her lips as she entered the dining-room.
The fever that devoured her gave to her features unwonted animation,
and to her eyes a strange brilliancy. Her beauty, ordinarily a little
impaired, shone forth once more in amazing splendor, so as to eclipse
almost that of the countess.
Even Count Ville-Handry was struck by it, and exclaimed, glancing at his
young wife,--
“Oh, oh!”
Otherwise, this was the only notice which was taken of Henrietta. After
that, no one seemed to mind her presence, except M. Elgin, whose eye
softened whenever he looked at her. But what was that to her? Affecting
a composure which she was far from possessing, she made an effort to
eat, when a servant entered, and very respectfully whispered a few words
in the ear of the countess.
“Very well,” she said; “I’ll be there directly.”
And, without vouchsafing an explanation, she left the table, and
remained perhaps ten minutes away.
“What was it?” asked Count Ville-Handry, with an accent of tenderest
interest, when his young wife reappeared.
“Nothing, my dear,” she replied, as she took her seat again,--“nothing,
some orders to give.”
Still Henrietta thought she noticed under this apparent indifference of
her step-mother an expression of cruel satisfaction. More than that, she
fancied she saw the countess and Mrs. Brian rapidly exchange looks, one
saying, “Well,” and the other answering, “All right.”
The poor girl, prejudiced as she was, felt as if she had been stabbed
once more to the heart.
“These wretches,” she thought, “have prepared another insult for me.”
This suspicion took so powerfully hold of her, that when dinner was
over, instead of returning to her rooms, she followed her father and his
new “friends” into the sitting-room. Count Ville-Handry spoke of Mrs.
Brian and M. Elgin always as “the family.”
They did not long remain alone. The count and his young wife had
probably let it be known that they would be at home that evening; and
soon a number of visitors came in, some of them old friends of the
family, but the great majority intimates from Circus Street. Henrietta
was too busy watching her stepmother to notice how eagerly she herself
was examined, what glances they cast at her, and how careful the married
ladies, as well as the young girls, were to leave her alone. It required
a brutal scene to open her mind to the truth, and to bring her thoughts
back to the horrible reality of her situation. That scene came but too
soon.
As the visitors increased, the conversation had ceased to be general,
and groups had formed; so that two ladies came to sit down close by
Henrietta. They were apparently friends of the young countess, for she
did not know them, and one of them had a strong foreign accent. They
were talking. Instinctively Henrietta listened.
“Why did you not bring your daughter?” asked one of them.
“How could I?” replied the other. “I would not bring her here for the
world. Don’t you know what kind of a woman the count’s daughter is? It
is incredible, and almost too scandalous. On the day of her father’s
marriage she ran away with somebody, by the aid of a servant, who has
since been dismissed; and they had to get the police to help them bring
her back. If it had not been for our dear Sarah, who is goodness itself,
they would have sent her to a house of correction.”
A stifled cry interrupted them. They looked round. Henrietta had
suddenly been taken ill, and had fallen to the ground. Instantly, and
with one impulse, everybody was up. But the honorable M. Elgin had been
ahead of them all, and had rushed up with such surprising promptness at
the very moment when the accident happened, that it almost looked as if
he had had a presentiment, and was watching for the precise time when
his assistance would be needed.
Raising Henrietta with a powerful arm, he laid her on a sofa, not
forgetting to slip a cushion under her head. Immediately the countess
and the other ladies crowded around the fainting girl, rubbing the palms
of her hands, moistening her temples with aromatic vinegar and cologne,
and holding bottles of salts persistently to her nostrils.
Still all efforts to bring her to remained sterile; and this was so
extraordinary, that even Count Ville-Handry began to be moved, although
at first he had been heard to exclaim,--
“Pshaw! Leave her alone. It is nothing.”
The mad passion of senile love had not yet entirely extinguished in him
the instincts of a father; and anxiety rekindled the affection he had
formerly felt for his child. He rushed, therefore, to the vestibule,
calling out to the servants who were there on duty,--
“Quick! Let some one run for the doctor; never mind which,--the
nearest!”
This acted as a signal for the guests to scatter at once. Finding
that this fainting-fit lasted too long, and fearing perhaps a fatal
termination, a painful scene, and tears, they slyly slipped out, one by
one, and escaped.
In this way the countess, Mrs. Brian, M. Elgin, and the unhappy father
found themselves soon once more alone with poor Henrietta, who was still
unconscious.
“We ought not to leave her here,” said Countess Sarah; “she will be
better in her bed.”
“Yes, that is true, you are right!” replied the count. “I shall have her
carried to her room.”
And he was stretching out his hand to pull the bell, when Sir Thorn
stopped him, saying in a voice of deep emotion,--
“Never mind, count. I’ll carry her myself.”
And, without waiting for an answer, he took her up like a feather, and
carried her to her room, followed by Count Ville-Handry, and his young
wife. He could, of course, not remain in Henrietta’s room; but it looked
as if he could not tear himself away. For some time the servants, quite
amazed, saw him walk up and down the passage with feverish steps,
and, in spite of his usual impassiveness, giving all the signs of
extraordinary excitement. Every ten minutes he paused in his walk to ask
at the door, with a voice full of anxiety,--
“Well?”
“She is still in the same condition,” was the answer.
In the meantime two physicians had arrived, but without obtaining any
better results than the countess and her friends. They had exhausted
all the usual remedies for such cases, and began, evidently, to be not
a little surprised at the persistency of the symptoms. Nor could Count
Ville-Handry suppress his growing anxiety as he saw them consulting in
the recess of one of the windows, discussing more energetic means to
be employed. At last, toward midnight, Sir Thorn saw the young countess
come out of Henrietta’s room.
“How is she?” he cried out.
Then the countess said, speaking very loud, so as to be heard by the
servants,--
“She is coming to; and that is why I am leaving her. She dislikes me so
terribly, that poor unhappy child, that I fear my presence might do her
harm.”
Henrietta had indeed recovered her consciousness. First had come a
shiver running over her whole body; then she had tried painfully and
repeatedly to raise herself on her pillows, looking around,--
Evidently she did not remember what had happened, and mechanically
passed her hand to and fro over her brow, as if to brush away the dark
veil that was hanging over her mind, looking with haggard eyes at the
doctors, at her father, and at her confidante, Clarissa, who knelt by
her bedside, weeping.
At last, when, all of a sudden, the horrid reality broke upon her mind,
she threw herself back, and cried out,--
“O God!”
But she was saved; and the doctors soon withdrew, declaring that
there was nothing to apprehend now, provided their prescriptions were
carefully observed. The count then came up to his daughter, and, taking
her hands, asked her,--
“Come, child. What has happened? What was the matter?”