“You will have it so? Well, be it so. Know, then, since you insist upon
it, that M. Daniel Champcey has been deceiving you most wickedly; that
he does not love you, and probably never did love you.”
“That is what you say,” replied Henrietta.
Her haughty carriage, the disdain, rather than disgust, with which
she spoke, could not fail to exasperate M. Elgin. He checked himself,
however, and said, in a short and cutting tone,--
“I say so because it is so; and any one but you, possessing a less noble
ignorance of evil, would long since have discovered the truth. To
what do you attribute Sarah’s implacable enmity? To the memory of your
offences on the occasion of her wedding? Poor child! If that had been
all, her indifference would have given you back your place months ago.
Jealousy alone is capable of that fierce and insatiable hatred which
cannot be disarmed by tears or submission,--that hatred which time
increases, instead of diminishing. Between Sarah and you, Miss
Henrietta, there stands a man.”
“A man?”
“Yes,--M. Daniel Champcey.”
Henrietta felt as if a sharp knife had been plunged into her bosom.
“I do not understand you, sir,” she said.
He, shrugging his shoulders, and assuming an air of commiseration, went
on,--
“What? You will not understand that Sarah is your rival; that she has
loved M. Champcey; that she is still madly in love with him? Ah! they
have deceived Mrs. Brian and myself cruelly.”
“How so?”