II.
Generally it is in novels only that unknown people suddenly take it intotheir heads to tell their whole private history, and to confide to theirneighbors even their most important and most jealously-guarded secrets.In real life things do not go quite so fast.
Long after the old merchant had left Henrietta, she lay pondering, andundecided as to what she should do on the next day. In the first place,she asked herself who this odd man could be, who had spoken of himselfas a dangerous and suspicious person. Was he really what he appeared tobe? The girl almost doubted it. Although wholly inexperienced, she stillhad been struck by certain astounding changes in Papa Ravinet. Thus,whenever he became animated, his carriage, his gestures, and hismanners, contrasted with his country-fashioned costume, as if he had forthe moment forgotten his lesson. At the same time his language, usuallycareless and incorrect, and full of slang terms belonging to his trade,became pure and almost elegant.
What was his business? Had he been a dealer in second-hand articlesbefore he became a tenant in No. 23 Grange Street, three years ago? Onemight very easily have imagined that Papa Ravinet (was that his realname?) had before that been in a very different position. And why not?Is not Paris the haven in which all shipwrecked sailors of society seeka refuge? Does not Paris alone offer to all wretched and guilty peoplea hiding-place, where they can begin a new life, lost and unknown in thevast multitude? What discoveries might be made there? How many persons,once brilliant lights in the great world, and then, of a sudden, soughtfor in vain by friend and foe, might be found there again, disguisedin strange costumes, and earning a livelihood in most curious ways! Whyshould not the old merchant be one of this class?
But, even if this were so, it would not have satisfactorily explainedto Henrietta the eagerness of Papa Ravinet to serve her, nor hisperseverance in offering her his advice. Was it merely from charity thathe did all this? Alas! Christian charity is not often so pressing.
Did he know who Henrietta was? Had he at any period of her life come incontact with her? or had his interests ever been mixed up with hers? Washe anxious to make a return for some kindness shown to him? or did hecount upon some reward in the future? Who could tell?
"Would it not be the height of imprudence to put myself in the power ofthis man?" thought the poor girl.
If, on the other hand, she rejected his offers, she fell back into thatstate of forlorn wretchedness, from which she had only been able to saveherself by suicide.
This view was all the more urgent, as the poor child, like all personswho have been rescued from death only after having exhausted theirsufferings, now began to cling to life with an almost desperateaffection. It seemed as if the contact with death had wiped out at onceall the memory of the past, and all the threats of the future.
"O Daniel!" she said to herself, trembling all over,--"O Daniel! my onlyfriend upon earth, what would you suffer if you knew that you lost meforever by the very means you chose to secure my safety!"
To refuse the assistance offered her by Papa Ravinet would have requiredan amount of energy which she did not possess. The voice of reflectioncontinually said to her,--
"The old man is your only hope."
It never occurred to her to conceal the truth from Papa Ravinet, or todeceive him by a fictitious story. She only thought how she could tellhim the truth without telling him all; how she could confess enough toenable him to serve her, and yet not to betray a secret which she heldmore dear than her happiness, her reputation, and life itself.
Unfortunately, she was the victim of one of those intrigues which areformed and carried out within the narrow circle of a family,--intriguesof the most abominable character, which people suspect, and often evenknow perfectly well, and which yet remain unpunished, because theycannot be reached by the law.
Henrietta's father, Count Ville-Handry, was in 1845 one of thewealthiest land-owners of the province of Anjou. The good people nearRosiers and Saint Mathurin were fond of pointing out to strangers themassive towers of Ville-Handry, a magnificent castle half hid amongnoble old woods on the beautiful slopes of the bluffs which line theLoire.
"There," they said, "lives a true gentleman, a little too proud,perhaps, but, nevertheless, a true gentleman."
For contrary to the usual state of things in the country, where envyis apt to engender hatred, the count was quite popular, in spite of histitle and his large fortune. He was at that time about forty years old,quite tall and good-looking, solemn and courteous, obliging, althoughreserved, and very good-natured as long as no one spoke in his presenceof the church or the reigning family, the nobility or the clergy, of hishounds or the wines of his vineyards, or of various other subjects onwhich he had what he chose to consider his "own opinions."
As he spoke but rarely, and said little at the time, he said fewerfoolish things than most people, and thus obtained the reputation ofbeing clever and well-informed, of which he was very proud and verycareful. He lived freely, almost profusely, and thus put aside everyyear but little more than about half his income. He had all his clothesmade in Paris, was proud of his foot, and always wore gloves.
His house was kept handsomely; and his gardens cost him a good deal ofmoney. He kept a pack of hounds, and six hunters. Finally, he kept halfa dozen lazy servants in the house, whose gorgeous liveries, withthe family coat-of-arms, were a source of perpetual wonder at SaintMathurin.
He would have been perfect, but for his passion for hunting.
As soon as the season opened, he was sure to be found, on foot oron horseback, crossing the stubblefields, jumping over hedges, orfloundering in the swamps. This he carried so far, that the ladies ofthe neighborhood, who had daughters, blamed him to his face forhis imprudence, and scolded him for risking his precious health sorecklessly.
This nobleman, forty years old, and enjoying all that heart coulddesire, was unmarried. And yet he had not lacked opportunities to remedythe evil. There was not a good mother for twenty miles around who didnot covet this prize for her daughter,--thirty thousand dollars a year,and a great man.
He had only to appear at a ball in the provincial towns, and he was thehero. Mothers and daughters kept their sweetest smiles for him; and kindwelcomes were offered on all sides. But all these manoeuvres had beenfruitless; he had escaped from all snares, and resisted the most cunningdevices.
Why was he so much opposed to marriage? His friends found theexplanation in a certain person, half housekeeper, half companion, wholived in the castle, and was very pretty and very designing. But thereare malicious tongues everywhere.
The next year, however, an event occurred which was calculated to givesome ground to these idle, gossiping tales. One fine morning in themonth of July, 1847, the lady died suddenly of apoplexy. Six weekslater, a report began to spread that Count Ville-Handry was going to bemarried.
The report was well founded. The count did marry. The fact could notbe doubted any longer, when the banns were read, and the announcementappeared in the official journal. And whom do you think he married?The daughter of a poor widow, the Baroness Rupert, who lived in greatpoverty at a place called Rosiers, having nothing but a small pensionderived from her husband, who had been a colonel of artillery.
If she had, at least, been of good and ancient family; if she had been,at least, a native of the province!
But no. No one knew exactly who she was, or where she came from. Somepeople said the colonel had married her in Austria; others, in Sweden.Her husband, they added, had been made a baron after the fashion ofothers, who dubbed themselves such during the first empire, and had noright to call himself noble.
On the other hand, Pauline de Rupert, then twenty-three years old, wasin the full bloom of youth, and marvellously beautiful. Moreover, shehad, up to this time, been looked upon as a sensible, modest girl, verybright and very sweet withal; in fact, possessed of every quality andvirtue that can make life happy, and add to the fame of a great house.
But now, not a cent, no dower, not even a trousseau!
> Everybody was amazed; and a perfect storm of indignation arose in theneighborhood. Was it possible, was it natural, that a great noblemanlike the count should end thus miserably, ridiculously? that he shouldmarry a penniless girl, an adventuress,--he who had had the pick andchoice of the richest and greatest ladies of the land?
Was Count Ville-Handry a fool? or was he only insane about Miss Rupert?Was she not perhaps, after all, a designing hypocrite, who had veryquietly, in her retired home, woven the net in which the lion of Anjouwas now held captive?
People would have been less astonished, if they had known, that, foryears, a great intimacy had existed between the mother of the bride andthe housekeeper at the castle. But, on the other hand, this fact mighthave led to very different surmises still.
However that might be, the count was not suffered long to remain indoubt as to the entire change of opinion in the neighborhood. He saw itas soon as he paid the usual visits in the town of Angers, and at thehouses of the nobility near him. No more affectionate smiles, no tenderwelcomes, no little white hands stealthily seeking his. The doors thatformerly seemed to fly open at his mere approach now turned but slowlyon their hinges; some remained even closed, the owners being reportednot at home, although the count knew perfectly well that they were in.
One very noble and very pious old lady, who gave the keynote to society,had said in the most decided manner,--
"For my part, I shall never receive at my house a damsel who used togive music-lessons to my nieces, even if she had caught and entrapped aBourbon!"
The charge was true. Pauline, in order to provide her mother with someof the comforts which are almost indispensable to old people, had givenlessons on the piano in the neighborhood. Her terms had been low enough;now they blamed her for the sacrifice. They would have blamed her forthe noblest of virtues; for all the blame was laid upon her. When peoplemet her, they looked away, so as not to have to bow to her. Even whenshe was leaning on the count's arm, there were persons who spoke verykindly to him, and did not say a word to his wife, as if they had notseen her, or she had not existed at all. This impertinence went so far,that at last Count Ville-Handry, one day, almost beside himself withanger, seized one of his neighbors by the collar of his coat, shook himviolently, and shouted out to him,--
"Do you see the countess, my wife, sir? How shall I chastise you to cureyou of your near-sightedness?"
Foreseeing a duel, the impertinent man made his excuses; and hisexperience put the rest of them on their guard. But their opinionsremained unchanged; open war only changed into secret opposition, thatwas all.
Fate, however, always more kind than man, held a reward in store forCount Ville-Handry, which amply repaid him for his heroism in marryinga poor girl. An uncle of his wife's, a banker at Dresden, died, andleft his "beloved niece Pauline" half a million dollars. This immenselywealthy man, who had never assisted his sister in her troubles, and whowould have disinherited the daughter of a soldier of fortune, had beenflattered by the idea of writing in his last will the name of his niece,the "high and mighty Countess Ville-Handry."
This unexpected piece of good-fortune ought to have delighted theyoung wife. She might now have had her vengeance on all her miserableslanderers, and enjoyed a boundless popularity. But far from it. She hadnever appeared more sad than on the day when the great news reached her.
For on that very day she for the first time cursed her marriage. Avoice within her warned her that she ought never to have yielded to theentreaties and the orders of her mother. An excellent daughter, as shewas to become the best of mothers, and the most faithful of wives, shehad sacrificed herself. And now an accident made all her sacrificesuseless, and punished her for having done her duty.
Ah, why had she not resisted, at least for the purpose of gaining time?
For when she was a girl she had dreamed of a very different future. Longbefore giving herself to the count, she had, of her own free will, givenher heart to another. She had bestowed her first and warmest affectionsupon a young man who was only two or three years older than she,--PeterChampcey, the son of one of those marvellously rich farmers who live inthe valley of the Loire.
He worshipped her. Unfortunately one obstacle had risen between themfrom the beginning,--Pauline's poverty. It could not be expected thatthose keen, thrifty peasants, Champcey's father and mother, would everpermit one of their sons--they had two--to commit the folly of making alove-match.
They had worked hard for their children. The oldest, Peter, was to be alawyer; the other, Daniel, who wanted to become a sailor, was studyingday and night to prepare for his examination. And the old couple werenot a little proud of these "gentlemen," their sons. They told everybodywho would listen, that, in return for the costly education they weregiving them, they expected them to marry large fortunes.
Peter knew his parents so well, that he never mentioned Pauline to them.
"When I am of age," he said to himself, "it will be a different matter."
Alas! Why had not Pauline's mother waited at least till then?
Poor young girl! On the day on which she entered the castle of Ville-Handry, she had sworn she would bury this love of hers so deep inthe innermost recesses of her heart, that it should never come up andtrouble her thoughts. And she had kept her word.
But now it suddenly broke forth, more ardent, more powerful, than ever,till it well-nigh overcame her, and crushed her--sweetly and sadly, likethe memory of lost days, and at the same time cruel and heart-rending,like bitter remorse.
What had become of him? When he had heard that she was going to marrythe count, he had written to her a letter full of despair, in which heoverwhelmed her with irony and contempt. Later, whether he had forgottenher or not, he also had married; and the two lovers who had once hopedto pursue their way through life leaning one upon the other now wenteach their own way.
For long hours the poor young wife struggled in the solitude of herchamber against these ghosts of the past which crowded around her. But,if ever a guilty thought called up a blush on her brow, she quicklytriumphed over it. Like a brave, loyal woman, she renewed her oath, andswore to devote herself entirely to her husband. He had rescued her fromabject poverty, and bestowed upon her his fortune and his name; and sheowed it to him in return to make him happy.
She needed all her courage, all her energy, to fulfil her vows; forthe count's character lay fully open before her now, after two years ofmarried life. She knew precisely how narrow his mind was, how empty histhoughts, and how cold his heart. She had long since found out that thebrilliant man of the world, whom everybody considered so clever, wasin reality an absolute nullity, incapable of any thought that was notsuggested to him by others, and at the same time full of overweeningself-esteem, and absurdly obstinate.
The worst, however, was, that the count was very near hating his wife.He had heard so many people say that she was not his equal, that hefinally believed it himself. Besides, he blamed her for the prestigewhich he had lost.
An ordinary woman would have shrunk from the difficult task whichPauline had assumed, and would have thought that nothing more could beexpected of her than to keep sacred her marriage-vows. But the countesswas not an ordinary woman. Full of resignation, she meant to do morethan her duty.
Fortunately, a cradle standing by her bedside made the task somewhateasier. She had a daughter, her Henrietta; and upon that darling curlyhead she built a thousand castles in the air. From that moment sheroused herself from the languor to which she had given way for nearlytwo years, and set to work to study the count with that amazing sagacitywhich a high stake is apt to give.
A remark accidentally made by her husband cast a new light upon herfate. One morning, when they had finished breakfast, he said,--
"Ah! Nancy was very fond of you. The day before she died, when she knewshe was going, she made me promise her to marry you."
This Nancy was the count's former housekeeper.
After this awkward speech, the poor countess saw clearly enough wha
tposition that woman had really held at the castle. She understood how,modestly keeping in the background, and sheltering herself under thevery humility of her position, she had been in truth the intellect, theenergy, and the strong will, of her master. Her influence over him had,besides, been so powerful, that it had survived her, and that she hadbeen obeyed even in the grave.
Although cruelly humiliated by this confession of her husband's, thecountess had sufficient self-control not to blame him for his weakness.She said to herself,--
"Well, be it so. For his happiness and for our peace, I will stoop toplay the part Nancy played."
This was more easily said than done; for the count was not the man to beled openly, nor was he willing to listen to good advice, simply becauseit was good. Irritable, jealous, and despotic, like all weak men, hedreaded nothing so much as what he called an insult to his authority.He meant to be master everywhere, in every thing, and forever. He was sosensitive on this point, that his wife had only to show the shadow of apurpose of her own, and he went instantly to work to oppose and prohibitit.
"I am not a weather-cock!" was one of his favorite sayings.
Poor fellow! He did not know that those who turn to the opposite side ofthe wind, nevertheless turn, as well as those who go with the wind. Thecountess knew it; and this knowledge made her strong. After working formany months patiently and cautiously, she thought she had learnt thesecret of managing him, and that henceforth she would be able to controlhis will whenever she was in earnest.
The opportunity to make the experiment came very soon. Although thegreat people of the neighborhood had generally come round and treatedher quite fairly now, especially since she had become an heiress, thecountess found her position unpleasant, and was anxious to leave thecountry. It recalled to her, besides, too many painful memories. Therewere certain roads and lanes which she could never pass without a pangat her heart. On the other hand, it was well known that the count hadsworn he would end his life in the province. He hated large cities; andthe mere idea of leaving his castle, where every thing was arranged tosuit his habits, made him seriously angry.
People would not believe it, therefore, when report first arose thathe was going to leave Ville-Handry, that he had bought a town-housein Paris and that he would shortly go there to establish himselfpermanently in the capital.
"It was much against the will of the countess," he said, full of delightat her disappointment. "She would not agree to it at all; but I am not aweather-cock. I insisted on having my way, and she yielded at last."
So that in the latter part of October, in 1851, the Count and theCountess Ville-Handry moved into the magnificent house in VarennesStreet, a princely mansion, which, however, did not cost them more thana third of its actual value, as they happened to buy at a time when realestate was very low.
But it had been comparatively child's play to bring the count to Paris;the real difficulty was to keep him there. Nothing was more likely thanthat, deprived of the active exercise and the fresh air he enjoyed inthe country, he should miss his many occupations and duties, and eithersuccumb to weariness, or seek refuge in dissipation. His wife foresawthis difficulty, and looked for an object that might give the countabundant employment and amusement.
Already before leaving home she had dropped in his mind the seed ofthat passion, which, in a man of fifty, can take the place of allothers,--ambition. Thus he came to Paris with the secret desire and thehope of becoming a leader in politics, and making his mark in some greataffair of state.
The countess however, aware of the dangers which beset a man whoventures upon such slippery ground, determined first to examine thecondition of things so as to be able to warn him in time. Fortunatelyher fortune and her name were of great service to her in thisenterprise. She managed to assemble at her house all the celebrities ofthe day. Her relations helped her; and soon her Wednesdays and Saturdaysbecame famous in Paris. People exerted themselves to the utmost toobtain an invitation to her state dinners, or her smaller parties onSundays. Her house in Varennes Street was looked upon as neutral ground,where political intrigues and party strife were alike tabooed. Thecountess spent a whole winter in making her observations.
The world, seeing her sit modestly by her fireside, thought she waswholly occupied with her pretty daughter, Henrietta, who was alwaysplaying or reading by her side. But she was all the time listening, andtrying, with all her mental powers, to understand the great questionsof the day. She studied characters; watched the passions of some, anddiscovered the cunning tricks of others, ever anxious to find out whatenemies she would have to fear, and what allies to conciliate. Like oneof those ill-taught professors who study in the morning what they meanto teach in the afternoon, she prepared herself for the lessons whichshe soon meant to give. Fortunately her apprenticeship was short, thanksto her superior intellect, her womanly cleverness, and rare talentswhich no one suspected.
She soon reaped the fruit of her labors.
The next winter the count, who had so far kept aloof from politics,came out with his opinions. He soon made his mark, aided by his fineappearance, his elegant manners, and imperturbable self-possession. Hespoke in public, and made an impression by his good common-sense.He advised others, and they were struck by his sagacity. He had soonenthusiastic partisans, and, of course, as violent adversaries. Hisfriends encouraged him to become the leader of his party; and he workedday and night to achieve that end.
"Unfortunately I have to pay for it at home," he said to his intimatefriends; "for my wife is one of those timid women who cannot understandthat men are made for the excitement of public life. I should be stillin the province, if I had listened to her."
She enjoyed her work in quiet delight. The greater the success of herhusband in the world, the prouder she became of her own usefulness tohim. Her feelings were very much those of a dramatic poet who hears theapplause given to the characters which he has created.
But there was this wonderful feature in her work,--that nobody suspectedher; no one, not even her own child. She wanted Henrietta, as little asthe world, to know what she was to her husband; and she taught her notonly to love him as her father, but to respect and admire him as a manof eminence. Of course, the count was the very last man to suspect anything. He might have been told all, and he would have believed nothing.
He fancied he had discovered himself the whole line of proceeding whichhis wife had so carefully traced out for him. In the full sincerityof his heart, he believed he had composed and written out the speecheswhich she drew up for him; and the articles for the newspapers, and theletters, which she dictated, appeared to him all to have sprung from hisown fertile brains. He was even sometimes surprised at the want of goodsense in his wife, and pointed out to her, quite ironically, thatthe steps from which she tried hardest to dissuade him were the mostsuccessful he took. But no irony could turn the countess from the pathwhich she had traced out for herself; nor did she ever allow a word oreven a smile to escape her, that might have betrayed her secret. Whenher husband became sarcastic, she bowed her head, and said nothing. But,the more he gloried in his utter nullity, the more she delighted inher work, and found ample compensation in the approval of her ownconscience.
The count had been so exceedingly good as to take her when she waspenniless; she owed him the historic name she bore and a large fortune;but, in return, she had given him, and without his being aware of it,a position of some eminence. She had made him happy in the only way inwhich a small and ordinary man could be made happy,--by gratifying hisvanity.
Now she was no longer under obligations to him.
"Yes," she said to herself, "we are quits, fairly quits!"
Now also, she reproached herself no longer for the long hours duringwhich her thoughts, escaping from the control of her will, had turned tothe man of her early choice.
Poor fellow! She had been his evil star.
His life had been imbittered from the day on which he found himselfforsaken by her whom he loved better than life itself.
He had given upevery thing.
His parents had "hunted up" an heiress, as they called it, and he hadmarried her dutifully. But the good old people had been unlucky. Thebride, chosen among a thousand, had brought their son a fortune of ahundred thousand dollars; but she was a bad woman. And after eight yearsof wretched, intolerable married life, Peter Champcey had shot himself,unable to bear any longer his domestic misfortunes, and the infidelityof his wife.
He had, however, avoided committing this crime at Angers, where he helda high official position. He had gone to Rosiers, the house formerlyoccupied by Pauline's mother; and there, in a narrow lane, his bodywas found by some peasants coming home from market. The ball had sofearfully disfigured his face, that at first no one recognized him; andthe accident made a terrible sensation.
The countess heard of it first through her husband. He could notunderstand, he said, how a man in good position, with a bright futurebefore him, and a large income to support him, could thus kill himself.
"And to choose such a strange place for his suicide!" he added. "It isevident the man was insane."
But the countess did not hear this. She had fainted. She understood buttoo well why Peter had wished to die in that lane overshadowed by oldelm-trees.
"I killed him," she thought, "I killed him!"
The blow was so sudden and so severe, that she came near dying.Fortunately her mother died nearly at the same time; and this misfortunehelped to explain her utter prostration and deep grief.
Her mother had been gradually fading away, after having had allshe desired, and living in real luxury during her last years. Herselfishness was so intense, that she never became aware of the crueltywith which she had sacrificed her daughter.
Sacrificed, however, she really had been; for never did woman sufferwhat the countess endured from the day on which her lover's suicideadded bitter remorse to all her former grief. What would have become ofher, if her child had not bound her to life! But she resolved to live;she felt that she was bound to live for Henrietta's sake.
Thus she struggled on quite alone, for she had not a soul in whom shecould confide, when one afternoon, as she was going down stairs, aservant came to tell her that there was a young man in naval uniformbelow, who desired to have the honor of waiting upon her.
The servant handed her his card; she took it, and read,--
"Daniel Champcey."
It was Daniel, Peter's brother. Pale as death, the countess turned as ifto escape.
"What must I say?" asked the servant, rather surprised at the emotionshown by his mistress.
The poor woman felt as if she was going to faint.
"Show him up," she replied in a scarcely audible voice,--"show him up."
When she looked up again, there stood before her a young man, twenty-three or twenty-four years old, with a frank and open face, and clear,bright eyes, beaming with intelligence and energy.
The countess pointed at a chair near her; for she could not have uttereda word to save her daughter's life.
He could not help noticing her embarrassment; but he did not guess thecause. Peter had never mentioned Pauline's name in his father's house.
So he sat down, and explained why he came, showing neither embarrassmentnor forwardness.
As soon as he had graduated at the Naval Academy, he had been made amidshipman on board "The Formidable," and there he was still. A youngerman had recently been wrongly promoted over him; and he had asked forleave of absence to appeal to the secretary of the navy. He feltquite sure of the justice of his claims; but he also knew that strongrecommendations never spoil a good cause. In fact, he hoped that CountVille-Handry, of whose kindness and great influence he had heard much,would consent to indorse his claims.
Gradually, and while listening to him, the countess recovered hercalmness.
"My husband will be happy to serve a countryman of his," she replied;"and he will tell you so himself, if you will be kind enough to wait forhim, and stay to dinner."
Daniel did stay. At table he was placed by the side of Henrietta, whowas then fifteen years old; and the countess, seeing these two youngand handsome people side by side, was suddenly struck with an idea whichseemed to her nothing less than inspiration from on high. Why might shenot intrust the future happiness of her daughter to the brother of thepoor man who had loved her so dearly? Thus she might make some amendsfor her own conduct, and show some respect to his memory.
"Yes," she said to herself that night, before falling asleep, "it mustbe so. Daniel shall be Henrietta's husband."
Thus it came about, that, only a fortnight later, Count Ville-Handrysaid to one of his intimate friends, pointing out Daniel,--
"That young Champcey is a very remarkable young man; he has a greatfuture before him. And one of these days, when he is a lieutenant, anda few years older, if it should so happen that he liked Henrietta, andasked me for my consent, I should not say no. The countess might thinkand say of it what she chooses, I am master."
After that time Daniel became, unfortunately, a constant visitor at thehouse in Varennes Street.
He had not only obtained ample satisfaction at headquarters, but, by thepowerful influence of certain high personages, he had been temporarilyassigned to duty in the bureau of the navy department, with the promiseof a better position in active service hereafter.
Thus Daniel and Henrietta saw a great deal of each other, and, to allappearances, began to love each other.
"O God!" thought the countess, "why are they not a few years older?"
The poor lady had for some months been troubled by dismal presentiments.She felt as if she would not live long; and she trembled at the idea ofleaving her child without any other protector but the count.
If Henrietta had at least known the truth, and, instead of admiring herfather as a man of superior ability, learned to mistrust his judgment!A hundred times the countess was on the point of revealing her secret.Alas! her great delicacy always kept her from doing so.
One night, as she returned from a great ball, she suddenly was seizedwith vertigo. She did not think much of it, but sent for a cup of tea.
When it came, she was standing before the fireplace, undoing her hair;but, instead of taking it, she suddenly raised her hand to her throat,uttered a hoarse sound, and fell back.
They raised her up. In an instant the whole house was alive. They sentfor the doctors. All was in vain.
The Countess Ville-Handry had died from disease of the heart.
La clique dorée. English Page 2
