By this one word Henrietta sealed her destiny; and she knew it. She was
fully aware of the terrible rashness of her plan. A voice had called
to her, from her innermost heart, that her honor, her life, and all her
earthly hopes, had thus been staked upon one card. She foresaw clearly
what the world would say the day after her flight. She would be lost,
and could hope for rehabilitation only when Daniel returned.
If she could only have been as sure of the heart of her chosen one as
she had formerly been! But the cunning innuendoes of the countess, and
the impudent asseverations of Sir Thorn, had done their work, and shaken
her faith. Daniel had been absent for nearly a year now, and during all
that time she had written to him every month; but she had received
from him only two letters through M. de Brevan,--and what letters! Very
polite, very cold, and almost without a word of hope.
If Daniel upon his return should abandon her!
And still, the more she reflected with all that lucidity with which the
approach of a great crisis inspired her, the more she became impressed
with the absolute necessity of flight. Yes, she must face unknown
dangers, but only in order to escape from dangers which she knew but too
well. She was relying upon a man who was almost a stranger to her; but
was not this the only way to escape from the insults of a wretch who had
become the boon companion, the friend, and the counsellor of her father?
Finally, she sacrificed her reputation, that is, the appearance of
honor; but she saved the reality, honor itself.
Ah, it was hard! As long as the day lasted on Wednesday, she was
wandering about, pale as a ghost, all over the vast palace. She bade
farewell to this beloved house, full of souvenirs of eighteen years in
which she had played as a child, where Daniel’s voice had caused her
heart to beat loud and fast, and where her sainted mother had died. And
in the evening, at table, big tears were rolling down her cheeks as she
watched the stupidly-triumphant serenity of her father.
The next day, however, Thursday, Henrietta complained, as was agreed
upon, of a violent headache; and the doctor was sent for. He found her
in a violent fever, and ordered her to keep her bed. He little knew that
he was thus restoring the poor girl to liberty. As soon as he had left,
she rose; and, like a dying person who makes all her last dispositions,
she hastened to put every thing in order in her drawers, putting
together what she meant to keep, and burning what she wished to keep
from the curiosity of the countess and her accomplices.
M. de Brevan had recommended her not to take her jewels. She left them,
therefore, with the exception of such as she wore every day, openly
displayed on a _chiffonnier_. The manner of her escape forbade her
taking much baggage; and still some linen was indispensable. Upon
reflection it did not seem to her inexpedient to take a small carpet-
bag, which her mother had given her, and which contained a dressing-
case, all the articles in which were of solid gold and of marvellously
fine workmanship. When her preparations were complete, she wrote to her
father a long letter, in which she explained fully the motives of her
desperate resolution.
Then she waited. Night had fallen long since; and the last preparations
for a princely entertainment filled the palace with noise and movement.
She could hear the hasty steps of busy servants, the loud orders of
butlers and stewards, the hammer of upholsterers who gave here and there
a final touch.
Soon there came the rolling of wheels on the fine gravel in the court-
yard, and the arrival of the first guests.
Henceforth it was for Henrietta only a question of minutes; and she
counted them by her watch with a terrible beating of her heart. At last
the hands marked a quarter before ten. Acting almost automatically, she
rose, threw an immense cashmere shawl over her shoulders; and, taking
her little bag in her hand, she escaped from her room, and slipped along
the passages to the servants’ stairs.
She went on tiptoe, holding her breath, eye and ear on the watch, ready
at the smallest noise to run back, or to rush into the first open room.
Thus she got down without difficulty, reached the dark hall at the foot
of the staircase; and there in the shade, seated on her little bag,
she waited, out of breath, her hair moist with a cold perspiration, her
teeth clattering in her mouth from fear. At last it struck ten o’clock;
and the vibration of the bell could still be heard, when M. de Brevan’s
_coupe_ stopped at the door.
His coachman was certainly a skilful driver. Pretending to have lost
the control of his horse, he made it turn round, and forced it back with
such admirable awkwardness, that the carriage came close up to the wall,
and the right hand door was precisely in the face of the dark little
hall in which Henrietta was standing. As quick as lightning M. de Brevan
jumped out. Henrietta rushed forward. Nobody saw any thing.
A moment later the carriage slowly drove out of the court-yard of the
palace of Count Ville-Handry, and stopped at some little distance.
It was done. In leaving her father’s house, Miss Ville-Handry had broken
with all the established laws of society. She was at the mercy now of
what might follow; and, according as events might turn out favorable or
unfavorable, she was saved or lost. But she did not think of that. As
the danger of being surprised passed away, the feverish excitement that
had kept her up so far, also subsided, and she was lying, undone, on the
cushions, when the door suddenly opened, and a man appeared. It was M.
de Brevan.
“Well, madam,” he cried with a strangely embarrassed voice, “we have
conquered. I have just presented my respects to the Countess Sarah and
her worthy companions; I have shaken hands with Count Ville-Handry; and
no one has the shadow of a suspicion.” And, as Henrietta said nothing,
he added,--
“Now I think we ought to lose no time; for I must show myself again at
the ball as soon as possible. Your lodgings are ready for you, madam;
and I am going, with your leave, to drive you there.”