“Am I to be a fool forever? Is it not quite clear that this wicked woman
only tries to put my suspicions to sleep? She is evidently preparing for
her defence, in case the rascal who attempted my life should be caught,
and compromise her by his confessions.”
Every letter; moreover, brought from the Countess Sarah some news about
his betrothed, her “stepdaughter.” But she always spoke of her with
extreme reserve and reticence, and in ambiguous terms, as if counting
upon Daniel’s sagacity to guess what she could not or would not write.
According to her account, Henrietta had become reconciled to her
father’s marriage. The poor child’s melancholy had entirely disappeared.
Miss Henrietta was very friendly with Sir Thorn. The coquettish ways of
the young girl became quite alarming; and her indiscretion provoked the
gossip of visitors. Daniel might as well accustom himself to the idea,
that, on his return, he might find Henrietta a married woman.
“She lies, the wretch!” said Daniel; “yes, she lies!”
But he tried in vain to resist; every letter from Sarah brought him the
germ of some new suspicion, which fermented in his mind as the miasma
fermented in the veins of his men.
The information furnished by Maxime de Brevan was different, and
often contradictory even, but by no means more reassuring. His letters
portrayed the perplexity and the hesitation of a man who is all anxiety
to soften hard truths. According to him, the Countess Sarah and Miss
Ville-Handry did not get on well with each other; but he declared he was
bound to say that the wrong was all on the young lady’s side, who seemed
to make it the study of her life to mortify her step-mother, while the
latter bore the most irritating provocations with unchanging sweetness.
He alluded to the calumnies which endangered Miss Henrietta’s
reputation, admitting that she had given some ground for them by
thoughtless acts. He finally added that he foresaw the moment when
she would leave her father’s house in spite of all his advice to the
contrary.
“And not one line from her,” exclaimed Daniel,--“not one line!”
And he wrote her letter after letter, beseeching her to answer him,
whatever might be the matter, and to fear nothing, as the certainty
even of a misfortune would be a blessing to him in comparison with this
torturing uncertainty.
He wrote without imagining for a moment that Henrietta suffered all the
torments he endured, that their letters were intercepted, and that she
had no more news of him than he had of her.
Time passed, however, carrying with it the evil as well as the good
days. Daniel returned to Saigon, bringing back with him one of the
finest hydrographic works that exist on Cochin China. It was well known
that this work had cost an immense outlay of labor, of privations, and
of life; hence he was rewarded as if he had won a battle, and he was
rewarded instantly, thanks to special powers conferred upon his chief,
reserving only the confirmation in France, which was never refused.
All the survivors of the expedition were mentioned in public orders and
in the official report; two were decorated; and Daniel was promoted
to officer of the Legion of Honor. Under other circumstances, this
distinction, doubly valuable to so young a man, would have made him
supremely happy; now it left him cold.
The fact was, that these long trials had worn out the elasticity of his
heart; and the sources of joy, as well as the sources of sorrow, had
dried up. He no longer struggled against despair, and came to believe
that Henrietta had forgotten him, and would never be his wife. Now, as
he knew he never could love another, or rather as no other existed
for him; as, without Henrietta, the world seemed to him empty, absurd,
intolerable,--he asked himself why he should continue to live. There
were moments in which he looked lovingly at his pistols, and said to
himself,--
“Why should I not spare Sarah Brandon the trouble?”
What kept his hand back was the leaven of hatred which still rose in him
at times. He ought to have the courage, at least, to live long enough to
avenge himself. Harassed by these anxieties, he withdrew more and
more from society; never went on shore; and his comrades on board “The
Conquest” felt anxious as they looked at him walking restlessly up and
down the quarter-deck, pale, and with eyes on fire.
For they loved Daniel. His superiority was so evident, that none
disputed it; they might envy him; but they could never be jealous of
him. Some of them thought he had brought back with him from Kamboja the
germ of one of those implacable diseases which demoralize the strongest,
and which break out suddenly, carrying a man off in a few hours.
“You ought not to become a misanthrope, my dear Champcey,” they would
say. “Come, for Heaven’s sake shake off that sadness, which might make
an end of you before you are aware of it!”