“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?”

She looked upon him in utter despair, and then said in a low voice,—­

“Nothing! only you have ruined me, father.”

“How, how?” said the count.  “What do you mean?”

And very much embarrassed, perhaps angry against himself, and trying to find an excuse for what he had done, he added, simpering,—­

“Is it not your own fault?  Why do you treat Sarah so badly, and do all you can to exasperate me?”

“Yes, you are right.  It is my fault,” murmured Henrietta.

She said it in a tone of bitter irony now; but afterwards, when she was alone, and more quiet, reflecting in the silence of the night, she had to acknowledge, and confess to herself, that it was so.  The scandal by which she had intended to crush her step-mother had fallen back upon herself, and crushed her.

Still, the next morning she was a little better; and, in spite of all that Clarissa could say, she would get up, and go down stairs, for all her hopes henceforth depended on that letter written by Daniel.  She had been waiting day after day for M. de Brevan, who was to bring it to her; and for nothing in the world would she have been absent when he came at last.

But she waited for him in vain that day, and four days after.

Attributing his tardiness to some new misfortune, she thought of writing to him, when at last, on Tuesday,—­the day which the countess had chosen for her reception-day,—­but not until the room was already quite full of company, the servant announced,—­“M.  Palmer, M. de Brevan!”

Seized with most violent emotions, Henrietta turned round suddenly, casting upon the door one of those glances in which a whole soul is read at once.  At last she was to know him whom her Daniel had called his second self.  Two men entered:  one, quite old, had gray hair, and looked as grave and solemn as a member of parliament; the other, who might be thirty or thirty-five years old, looked cold and haughty, having thin lips and a sardonic smile.