The Clique of Gold, Emile Gaboriau [if you liked this book .txt] 📗

take from her even the rooms she had occupied, she, the daughter of their dupe, the only heiress of Count Ville-Handry! This impudence seemed to her so monstrous, that unable to believe it, and yielding to a sudden impulse, she went back to the dining-room, and, addressing her father, said to him,—

“Is it really true, father, that you have ordered my furniture to be removed?”

“Yes, I have done so, my daughter. My architect will transform your three rooms into a large reception-room for Mrs. Brian, who had not space enough for”—

The young countess made a gesture of displeasure.

“I cannot understand,” she said, “how Aunt Brian can accept that.”

“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed the admirable lady, “this is done entirely without my consent.”

But the count interposed, saying,—

“Sarah, my darling, permit me to be sole judge in all the arrangements that concern my daughter.”

Count Ville-Handry’s accent was so firm as he said this, that one would have sworn the idea of dislodging Henrietta had sprung from his own brains. He went on,—

“I never act thoughtlessly, and always take time to mature my decisions. In this case I act from motives of the most ordinary propriety. Mrs. Brian is no longer young; my daughter is a mere child. If one of the two has to submit to some slight inconvenience, it is certainly my daughter.”

All of a sudden M. Elgin rose.

“I should leave,” he began.

Unfortunately the rest of the phrase was lost in an indistinct murmur.

He was no doubt at that moment recalling a promise he had made. And resolved not to interfere in the count’s family affairs, and, on the other hand, indignant at what he considered an odious abuse of power, he left the room abruptly. His looks, his physiognomy, his gestures, all betrayed these sentiments so clearly, that Henrietta was quite touched.

But Count Ville-Handry continued, after a moment’s surprise, saying,—

“Therefore, my daughter will hereafter live in the rooms formerly occupied by the companion of my—I mean of her mother. They are small, but more than sufficient for her. Besides, they have this advantage, that they can be easily overlooked from one of our own rooms, my dear Sarah; and that is important when we have to deal with an imprudent girl, who has so sadly abused the liberty which she enjoyed, thanks to my blind confidence.”

What should she say? What could she reply?

If she had been alone with her father, she would certainly have defended herself; she would have tried to make him reconsider his decision; she would have besought him; she might have gone on her knees to him.

But here, in the presence of these two women, with the mocking eye of Countess Sarah upon her, it was impossible! Ah! she would have died a thousand times over rather than to give these miserable adventurers the joy and the satisfaction of a new humiliation.

“Let them crush me,” she said to herself; “they shall never hear me complain, or cry for mercy.”

And when her father, who had been quietly watching her, asked,—

“Well?”

“You shall be obeyed this very night,” she replied.

And by a kind of miracle of energy, she went out of the room calmly, her head on high; without having shed a tear.

But God knew what she suffered.

To give up those little rooms in which she had spent so many happy hours, where every thing recalled to her sweet memories, certainly that was no small grief: it was nothing however, in comparison with that frightful perspective of having to live under the wary eye of Countess Sarah, under lock and key.

They would not even leave her at liberty to weep. Her intolerable sufferings would not extort a sigh from her that the countess did not hear on the other side of the partition, and delight in.

She was thus harassing herself, when she suddenly remembered the letter which she had written to Daniel. If M. de Brevan was to have it that same day, there was not a moment to lose. Already it was too late for the mail; and she would have to send it by a commissionaire.

She rang the bell, therefore, for Clarissa, her confidante, for the purpose of sending it to the Rue Laffitte. But, instead of Clarissa, one of the housemaids appeared, and said,—

“Your own maid is not in the house. Mrs. Brian has sent her to Circus Street. If I can do any thing for you”—

“No, I thank you!” replied Henrietta.

It seemed, then, that she counted for nothing any more in the house. She was not allowed to eat in her rooms; she was turned out of her own rooms; and the maid, long attached to her service, was taken from her. And here she was forced to submit to such humiliations without a chance of rebelling.

But time was passing; and every minute made it more difficult to let M. de Brevan have her letter in time for the mail.

“Well,” said Henrietta to herself, “I will carry it myself.”

And although she had, perhaps, in all her life not been more than twice alone in the street, she put on her bonnet, wrapped herself up in a cloak, and went down swiftly.

The concierge, a large man, very proud of his richly laced livery, was sitting before the little pavilion in which he lived, smoking, and reading his paper.

“Open the gates!” said Henrietta.

But the man, without taking his pipe out of his mouth, without even getting up from his seat, answered in a surly tone,—

“The count has sent me orders never to let you go out without a verbal or written permission; so that”—

“Impudence!” exclaimed Henrietta.

And resolutely she went up to the ponderous gates of the court-yard, stretching out her hand to pull the bolt. But the man, divining her intention, and quicker than she, had rushed up to the gate, and, crying out as loud as he could, he exclaimed,—

“Miss, miss! Stop! I have my orders, and I shall lose my place.”

At his cries a dozen servants who were standing idly about in the stables, the vestibule, and the inner court, came running up. Then Sir Thorn appeared, ready to go out on horseback, and finally the count himself.

“What do you want? What are you doing there?” he asked his daughter.

“You see, I want to go out.”

“Alone?” laughed the count. Then he continued harshly, pointing at the concierge,—