The Clique of Gold Part 22

In the meantime she had discovered a small supply of wood near the fireplace; and, as it was cold, she was busy making a fire, when somebody knocked at her door. She opened; and Mrs. Cheva.s.sat, the wife of the concierge appeared.

"It is I, my pretty young lady," she said as she entered. "Not seeing you come down, I said to myself, 'I must go up to look after her.' And have you slept well?"

"Very well, madam, thank you!"

"Now, that's right. And how is your appet.i.te? For that was what I came up for. Don't you think you might eat a little something?"

Henrietta not only thought of it; but she was very hungry. For there are no events and no adventures, no excitements and no sorrows, which prevent us from getting hungry; the tyranny of our physical wants is stronger than any thing else.

"I would be obliged to you, madam," she said, "if you would bring me up some breakfast."

"If I would! As often as you desire, my pretty young lady. Just give me the time to boil an egg, and to roast a cutlet, and I'll be up again."

Ordinarily sour-tempered, and as bitter as wormwood, Mrs. Cheva.s.sat had displayed all the amiability of which she was capable, hiding under a veil of tender sympathy the annoying eagerness of her eyes. Her hypocrisy was all wasted. The efforts she made were too manifest not to arouse the very worst suspicions.

"I am sure," thought Henrietta, "she is a bad woman."

Her suspicions were only increased when the worthy woman reappeared, bringing her breakfast, and setting it out on a little table before the fire, with all kinds of hideous compliments.

"You'll see how very well every thing is cooked, miss," she said.

Then, while Henrietta was eating, she sat down on a chair near the door, and commenced talking, without ever stopping. To hear her, the new tenant ought to thank her guardian angel who had brought her to this charming house, No. 23 Water Street, where there was such a concierge with such a wife!-he, the best of men; she, a real treasure of kindness, gentleness, and, above all, discretion.

"Quite an exceptional house," she added, "as far as the tenants are concerned. They are all people of notoriously high standing, from the wealthy old ladies in the best story to Papa Ravinet in the fourth story, and not excepting the young ladies who live in the small rooms in the back building."

Then, having pa.s.sed them all in review, she began praising M. de Brevan, whom she always called M. Maxime. She declared that he had won her heart from the beginning, when he had first come to the house, day before yesterday, to engage the room. She had never seen a more perfect gentleman, so kind, so polite, and so liberal! With her great experience, she had at once recognized in him one of those men who seem to be born expressly for the purpose of inspiring the most violent pa.s.sions, and of securing the most lasting attachments.

Besides, she added with a hideous smile, she was sure of his deep interest in her pretty new tenant; and she was so well convinced of this, that she would be happy to devote herself to her service, even without any prospect of payment.

This did not prevent her from saying to Henrietta, as soon as she had finished her breakfast,- "You owe me two francs, miss; and, if you would like it, I can board you for five francs a day."

Thereupon she went into a lively discussion to show that this would be on her part a mere act of kindness, because, considering how dear every thing was, she would most a.s.suredly lose.

But Henrietta stopped her. Drawing from her purse a twenty-franc piece, she said,- "Make yourself paid, madam."

This was evidently not what the estimable woman expected; for she drew back with an air of offended dignity, and protested,- "What do you take me to be, miss? Do you think me capable of asking for payment?"

And, shrugging her shoulders, she added,- "Besides, does not all that regards your expenses concern M. Maxime?"

Thereupon she quickly folded the napkin, took the plates, and disappeared. Henrietta did not know what to think of it. She could not doubt that this Megsera pursued some mysterious aim with all her foolish talk; but she could not possibly guess what that aim could be. And still that was not all that kept her thoughts busy. What frightened her most of all was the feeling that she was evidently altogether at M. de Brevan's mercy. All her possessions amounted to about two hundred francs. She was in want of every thing, of the most indispensable articles: she had not another dress, nor another petticoat. Why had not M. de Brevan thought of that beforehand? Was he waiting for her to tell him of her distress, and to ask him for money? She could not think so, and she attributed his neglect to his excitement, thinking that he would no doubt come soon to ask how she was, and place himself at her service.

But the day pa.s.sed away slowly, and night came; but he did not appear. What did this mean? What unforeseen event could have happened? what misfortune could have befallen him? Torn by a thousand wild apprehensions, Henrietta was more than once on the point of going to his house.

It was not before two o'clock on the next day that he appeared at last, affecting an easy air, but evidently very much embarra.s.sed. If he did not come the night before, he said, it was because he was sure the Countess Sarah had him watched. The flight of the daughter of Count Ville-Handry was known all over Paris, and he was suspected of having aided and abetted her: so they had told him, he said, at his club. He also added that it would be imprudent in him to stay longer; and he left again, without having said a word to Henrietta, and without having apparently noticed her dest.i.tution.

And thus, for three days, he only came, to disappear almost instantly.

He always came painfully embarra.s.sed, as if he had something very important to tell her; then his brow clouded over; and he went away suddenly, without having said any thing.

Henrietta, tortured by terrible doubts, felt unable to endure this atrocious uncertainty any longer. She determined to force an explanation when, on the fourth day, M. de Brevan came in, evidently under the influence of some terrible determination. As soon as he had entered, he locked the door, and said in a hoa.r.s.e voice,- "I must speak to you, madam, yes, I must!"

He was deadly pale; his white lips trembled; and his eyes shone with a fearful light, like those of a man who might have sought courage in strong drink.

"I am ready to listen," replied the poor girl, all trembling.

He hesitated again for a moment; then overcoming his reluctance, apparently by a great effort, he said,- "Well, I wish to ask you if you have ever suspected what my real reasons were for a.s.sisting you to escape?"

"I think, sir, you have acted from kind pity for me, and also from friendship for M. Daniel Champcey."

"No! You are entirely mistaken."

She drew back instinctively, uttering only a low, "Ah!"

Pale as he had been, M. de Brevan had become crimson.

"Have you really noticed nothing? Are you really not aware that I love you?"

She could understand any thing but this, the unfortunate girl; any thing but such infamy, such an incredible insult! M. de Brevan must be either drunk or mad.

"Leave me, sir!" she said peremptorily, but with a voice trembling with indignation.

But he advanced towards her with open arms, and went on,- "Yes, I love you madly, and for a long time,-ever since the first day I saw you."

Henrietta, however, had swiftly moved aside, and opened the window.

"If you advance another step, I shall cry for help."

He stopped, and, changing his tone, said to her,- "Ah! You refuse? Well, what are you hoping for? For Daniel's return? Don't you know that he loves Sarah?"

"Ah! you abuse my forlorn condition infamously!" broke in the young girl. And, as he still insisted, she added,- "Why don't you go, coward? Why don't you go, wretched man? Must I call?"

He was frightened, backed to the door, and half opened it; then he said,- "You refuse me to-day; but, before the month is over, you will beg me to come to you. You are ruined; and I alone can rescue you."

XVIII.

At last, then, the truth had come out!

Overcome with horror, her hair standing at an end, and shaken by nervous spasms, poor Henrietta was trying to measure the depth of the abyss into which she had thrown herself.

Voluntarily, and with the simplicity of a child, she had walked into the pit which had been dug for her. But who, in her place, would not have trusted? Who could have conceived such an idea? Who could have suspected such monstrous rascality?

Ah! Now she understood but too well all the mysterious movements that had so puzzled her in M. de Brevan. She saw how profound had been his calculations when he recommended her so urgently not to take her jewels with her while escaping from her father's house, nor any object of value; for, if she had had her jewelry, she would have been in possession of a small fortune; she would have been independent, and above want, at least for a couple of years.

But M. de Brevan wanted her to have nothing. He knew, the coward! with what crushing contempt she would reject his first proposals; but he flattered himself with the hope that isolation, fear, dest.i.tution would at last reduce her to submission, and enable him- "It is too horrible," repeated the poor girl,-"too horrible!"

And this man had been Daniel's friend! And it was he to whom Daniel, at the moment of sailing, had intrusted his betrothed! What atrocious deception! M. Thomas Elgin was no doubt a formidable bandit, faithless and unscrupulous; but he was known as such: he was known to be capable of any thing, and thus people were on their guard. But this man!-ah, a thousand times meaner and viler!-he had watched for a whole year, with smiling face, for the hour of treachery; he had prepared a hideous crime under the veil of the n.o.blest friendship!

Henrietta thought she could divine what was the traitor's final aim. In obtaining possession of her, he no doubt thought he would secure to himself a large portion of Count Ville-Handry's immense fortune.

And hence, she continued in her meditations, hence the hatred between Sir Thorn and M. de Brevan. They both coveted the same thing; and each one trembled lest the other should first get hold of the treasure which he wanted to secure. The idea that the new countess was in complicity with M. de Brevan did not enter Henrietta's mind. On the contrary, she thought they were enemies, and divided from each other by separate and opposite interests.

"Ah!" she said to herself, "they have one feeling, at all events, in common; and that is hatred against me."

A few months ago, so fearful and so sudden a catastrophe would have crushed Henrietta, in all probability. But she had endured so many blows during the past year, that she bore this also; for it is a fact that the human heart learns to bear grief as the body learns to endure fatigue. Moreover, she called in to her a.s.sistance a light shining high above all this terrible darkness,-the remembrance of Daniel.

She had doubted him for an instant; but her faith had, after all, remained intact and perfect. Her reason told her, that, if he had really loved Sarah Brandon, her enemies, M. Elgin and M. de Brevan, would not have taken such pains to make her believe it. She thought, therefore, she was quite certain that he would return to her with his heart devoted to her as when he left her.

But, great G.o.d! to think of the grief and the rage of this man, when he should hear how wickedly and cowardly he had been betrayed by the man whom he called his friend! He would know how to restore the count's daughter to her proper position, and how to avenge her.

"And I shall wait for him," she said, her teeth firmly set,-"I shall wait for him!"

How? She did not ask herself that question; for she was yet in that first stage of enthusiasm, when we are full of heroic resolves which do not allow us to see the obstacles that are to be overcome. But she soon learned to know the first difficulties in her way, thanks to Dame Cheva.s.sat, who brought her her dinner as the clock struck six, according to the agreement they had made.

The estimable lady had a.s.sumed a deeply grieved expression; you might have sworn she had tears in her eyes. In her sweetest voice, she asked:- "Well, well, my beautiful young lady; so you have quarrelled with our dear M. Maxime?"

Henrietta was so sure of the uselessness of replying, and so fearful of new dangers, that she simply replied,- "Yes, madam."

"I was afraid of it," replied the woman, "just from seeing him come down the stairs with a face as long as that. You see, he is in love with you, that kind young man; and you may believe me when I tell you so, for I know what men are."

She expected an answer; for generally her eloquence was very effective with her tenants. But, as no reply came, she went on,- "We must hope that the trouble will blow over."

"No!"

Looking at Mrs. Cheva.s.sat, one would have thought she was stunned.

"How savage you are!" she exclaimed at last. "Well, it is your lookout. Only I should like to know what you mean to do?"

"About what?"

"Why, about your board."

"I shall find the means, madam, you may be sure."

The old woman, however, who knew from experience what that cruel word, "living," sometimes means with poor forsaken girls, shook her head seriously, and answered,- "So much the better; so much the better! Only I know you owe a good deal of money."

"Owe?"

"Why, yes! The furniture here has never been paid for."

"What? The furniture"- "Of course, M. Maxime was going to pay for it; he has told me so. But if you fall out in this way-you understand, don't you?"

She hardly did understand such fearful infamy. Still Henrietta did not show her indignation and surprise. She asked,- "What did the furniture of this room cost? do you know?"

"I don't know. Something like five or six hundred francs, things are so dear now!" The whole was probably not worth a hundred and fifty or two hundred francs.

"Very well. I'll pay," said Henrietta. "The man will give me forty- eight hours' time, I presume?"

"Oh, certainly!"

As the poor girl was now quite sure that this honeyed Megsera was employed by M. de Brevan to watch her, she affected a perfectly calm air. When she had finished her dinner, she even insisted upon paying on the spot fifty francs, which she owed for the last few days, and for some small purchases. But, when the old woman was gone, she sank into a chair, and said,- "I am lost!"

There was, in fact, no refuge for her, no help to be expected.

Should she return to her father, and implore the pity of his wife? Ah! death itself would be more tolerable than such a humiliation. And besides, in escaping from M. de Brevan, would she not fall into the hands of M. Elgin?

Should she seek a.s.sistance at the hands of some of the old family friends? But which?

In greater distress than the shipwrecked man who in vain examines the blank horizon, she looked around for some one to help her. She forced her mind to recall all the people she had ever known. Alas! she knew, so to say, n.o.body. Since her mother had died, and she had been living alone, no one seemed to have remembered her, unless for the purpose of calumniating her.

Her only friends, the only ones who had made her cause their own, the Duke and the d.u.c.h.ess of Champdoce, were in Italy, as she had been a.s.sured.

"I can count upon n.o.body but myself," she repeated,-"myself, myself!"

Then rousing herself, she said, her heart swelling with emotion,- "But never mind! I shall be saved!"

Her safety depended upon one single point: if she could manage to live till she came of age, or till Daniel returned, all was right.

"Is it really so hard to live?" she thought. "The daughters of poor people, who are as completely forsaken as I am, nevertheless live. Why should not I live also?"

Why?

Because the children of poor people have served, so to say, from the cradle, an apprenticeship of poverty,-because they are not afraid of a day without work, or a day without bread,-because cruel experience has armed them for the struggle,-because, in fine, they know life, and they know Paris,-because their industry is adapted to their wants, and they have an innate capacity to obtain some advantage from every thing, thanks to their smartness, their enterprise, and their energy.

But Count Ville-Handry's only daughter-the heiress of many millions, brought up, so to say, in a hothouse, according to the stupid custom of modern society-knew nothing at all of life, of its bitter realities, its struggles, and its sufferings. She had nothing but courage.

"That is enough," she said to herself. "What we will do, we can do."

Thus resolved to seek aid from no one, she set to work examining her condition and her resources.

As to objects of any value, she owned the cashmere which she had wrapped around her when she fled, the dressing-case in her mother's travelling-bag, a brooch, a watch, a pair of pretty ear-rings, and, lastly, two rings, which by some lucky accident she had forgotten to take off, one of which was of considerable value. All this, she thought, must have cost, at least, eight or nine thousand francs; but for how much would it sell? since she was resolved to sell it. This was the question on which her whole future depended.

But how could she dispose of these things? She wanted to have it all settled, so as to get rid of this sense of uncertainty; she wanted, especially, to pay for the scanty, wretched furniture in her chamber. Whom could she ask to help her? For nothing in the world would she have confided in Mrs. Cheva.s.sat; for her instincts told her, that, if she once let that terrible woman see what were her necessities, she would be bound hand and foot to her. She was thinking it out, when the idea of the p.a.w.nbroker occurred to her. She had heard such men spoken of; but she only knew that they kept places where poor people could get money upon depositing a pledge.

"That is the place I must go to," Henrietta said to herself.

But how was she to find one?