The Clique of Gold

XV.

During the last visits which Daniel had paid to Henrietta, he had not concealed from her the fact that Maxime de Brevan had formerly been quite intimate with Sarah Brandon and her friends. But still, in explaining his reasons for trying to renew these relations, M. de Brevan had acted with his usual diplomacy.

But for this, she might have conceived some vague suspicions when she saw him, soon after he had left her, enter into a long conversation with the countess, then speak with Sir Thorn, and finally chat most confidentially with austere Mrs. Brian. But now, if she noticed it all, she was not surprised. Her mind was, in fact, thousands of miles away. She thought only of that letter which she had in her pocket, and which was burning her fingers, so to say. She could think of nothing else.

What would she not have given for the right to run away and read it at once? But adversity was teaching her gradually circumspection; and she felt it would be unwise to leave the room before the last guests had departed. Thus it was past two o’clock in the morning before she could open the precious letter, after having dismissed her faithful Clarissa.

Alas! she did not find what she had hoped for,—advice, or, better than that, directions how she should conduct herself. The fact is, that in his terrible distress, Daniel no longer was sufficiently master of himself to look calmly at the future, and to weigh the probabilities. In his despair he had filled three pages with assurances of his love, with promises that his last thoughts would be for her, and with prayers that she would not forget him. There were hardly twenty lines left for recommendations, which ought to have contained the most precise and minute details.

All his suggestions, moreover, amounted to this,—arm yourself with patience and resignation till my return. Do not leave your father’s house unless in the last extremity, in case of pressing danger, and under no circumstances without first consulting Maxime.

And to fill up the measure, from excessive delicacy, and fearing to wound his friend’s oversensitive feelings, Daniel had omitted to inform Henrietta of certain most important circumstances. Thus he only told her, that, if flight became her only means of escape from actual danger, she need not hesitate from pecuniary considerations; that he had foreseen every thing, and made the needful preparations.

How could she guess from this, that the unlucky man, carried away and blinded by passion, had intrusted fifty or sixty thousand dollars, his entire fortune, to his friend Maxime? Still the two friends agreed too fully on the same opinion to allow her to hesitate. Thus, when she fell asleep, she had formed a decision. She had vowed to herself that she would meet all the torments they might inflict upon her, with the stoicism of the Indian who is bound to the stake, and to be, among her enemies, like a dead person, whom no insult can galvanize into the semblance of life.

During the following weeks it was not so difficult for her to keep her promises. Whether it were weariness or calculation, they seemed to forget her. Except at meals, they took no more notice of her than if she had not been in existence.

That sudden access of affection which had moved Count Ville-Handry on that evening when he thought his daughter in danger had long since passed away. He only honored her with ironical glances, and never addressed a word to her. The countess observed a kind of affectionate reserve, like a well-disposed person who has seen all her advances repelled, and who is hurt, but quite ready to be friends at the first sign. Mrs. Brian never opened her thin lips but to growl out some unpleasant remark, of which a single word was intelligible: shocking! There remained the Hon. M. Elgin, whose sympathetic pity showed itself daily more clearly. But, since Maxime’s warning, Henrietta avoided him anxiously.

She was thus leading a truly wretched life in this magnificent palace, in which she was kept a prisoner by her father’s orders; for such she was; she could no longer disguise it from herself. She felt at every moment that she was watched, and overlooked most jealously, even when they seemed to forget her most completely. The great gates, formerly almost always open, were now kept carefully closed; and, when they were opened to admit a carriage, the concierge mounted guard before them, as if he were the keeper of a jail. The little garden-gate had been secured by two additional enormous locks; and whenever Henrietta, during her walks in the garden, came near it, she saw one of the gardeners watch her with anxious eyes. They were apparently afraid, not only that she might escape, but that she might keep up secret communications with the outer world. She wanted to be clear about that; and one morning she asked her father’s permission to send to the Duchess of Champdoce, and beg her to come and spend the day with her. But Count Ville-Handry brutally replied that he did not want to see the Duchess of Champdoce; and that, besides, she was not in Paris, as her husband had taken her south to hasten her recovery.

On another occasion, toward the end of February, and when several days of fine spring weather had succeeded each other, the poor child could not help expressing a desire to go out and breathe a little fresh air. Her father said, in reply to her request,—“Every day, your mother and I go out and drive for an hour or two in the Bois de Boulogne. Why don’t you go with us?”

She said nothing. She would sooner have allowed herself to be cut to pieces than to appear in public seated by the side of the young countess and in the same carriage with her.

Months passed thus without her having put a foot outside of the palace, except her daily attendance at mass at eight o’clock on Sunday mornings. Count Ville-Handry had not dared to refuse her that; but he had added the most painful and most humiliating conditions. On these occasions M. Ernest, his valet, accompanied her, with express orders not to let her speak to any one whatsoever, and to “apprehend” her (this was the count’s own expression), and to bring her back forcibly, if needs be, if she should try to escape.

But in vain they multiplied the insults; they did not extort a single complaint. Her unalterable patience would have touched ordinary executioners. And yet she had no other encouragement, no other support, but what she received from M. de Brevan.

Faithful to the plan which he had mentioned to her, he had managed so well as gradually to secure the right to come frequently to the house. He was on the best terms with Mrs. Brian; and the count invited him to dinner. At this time Henrietta had entirely overcome her prejudice against him. She had discovered in M. de Brevan such a respectful interest in her welfare, such almost womanly delicacy, and so much prudence and discretion, that she blessed Daniel for having left her this friend, and counted upon his devotion as upon that of a brother.

Was it not he, who, on certain evenings, when she was well-nigh overcome by despair, whispered to her,—

“Courage; here is another day gone! Daniel will soon be back!”

But the more Henrietta was left to the inspirations of solitude, and compelled to live within herself only, the more she observed all that was going on around her. And she thought she noticed some very strange changes. Never would Count Ville-Handry’s first wife have been able to recognize her reception-rooms. Where was that select society which had been attracted by her, and which she had fashioned into something like a court, in which her husband was king? The palace had become, so to say, the headquarters of that motley society which forms the “Foreign Legion” of pleasure and of scandal.

Sarah Brandon, now Countess Ville-Handry, was surrounded by that strange aristocracy which has risen upon the ruins of old Paris,—a contraband aristocracy, a dangerous kind of high life, which, by its unheard-of extravagance and mysterious splendor, dazzles the multitude, and puzzles the police.

The young countess did not exactly receive people notoriously tainted. She was too clever to commit such a blunder; but she bestowed her sweetest smiles upon all those equivocal Bohemians who represent all races, and whose revenues come much less from good acres in the broad sunlight than from the credulity and stupidity of mankind.

At first Count Ville-Handry had been rather shocked by this new world, whose manners and customs were unknown to him, and whose language even he hardly understood. But it had not taken long to acclimatize him.

He was the firm, the receiver of the fortune, the flag that covers the merchandise, the master, in fine, although he exercised no authority. All these titles secured to him the appearance of profound respect; and all vied with each other in flattering him to the utmost, and paying him court in the most abject manner. This led him to imagine that he had recovered the prestige he had enjoyed in former days, thanks to the skilful management of his first wife; and he assumed a new kind of grotesque importance commensurate with his revived vanity.

He had, besides, gone to work once more most industriously. All the business men who had called upon him before his marriage already reappeared now, accompanied by that legion of famished speculators, whom the mere report of a great enterprise attracts, like the flies settling upon a lump of sugar. The count shut himself up with these men in his study, and often spent the whole afternoon with them there.

“Most probably something is going on there,” thought Henrietta.

She was quite sure of it when she saw her father unhesitatingly give up the splendid suite of apartments in the lower story of the palace, which were cut up into an infinite number of small rooms. On the doors there appeared, one by one, signs not usually found in such houses; as, “Office,” “Board Room,” “Secretary,” “Cashier’s Room.”

Then office-furniture appeared in loads,—tables, desks, chairs; then mountains of huge volumes; and at last two immense safes, as large as a bachelor’s-lodging.

Henrietta was seriously alarmed, and knowing beforehand that no one in the house would answer her questions, she turned to M. de Brevan. In the most off-hand manner he assured her that he knew nothing about it, but promised to inquire, and to let her know soon.

There was no necessity; for one morning, when Henrietta was wandering about listlessly around the offices, which began to be filled with clerks, she noticed an immense advertisement on one of the doors.

She went up to it, and read:—

FRANCO-AMERICAN SOCIETY,

For the development of Pennsylvania petroleum wells.

Capital, Ten Million of Francs. Twenty Thousand Shares of 500 Francs each.

The Charter may be seen at the Office of M. Lilois, N. P.

President, Count Ville-Handry.

The books for subscription will be opened on the 25th of March.

principal office, Palace of Count Ville-Handry, Rue de Varennes. branch office, Rue Lepelletier, No. 1p.

At the foot, in small print, was a full explanation of the enormous profits which might be expected, the imperative necessity which had led to the establishment of the Pennsylvania Petroleum Society, the nature of its proposed operations, the immense services which it would render to the world at large, and, above all, the immense profits which would promptly accrue to the stockholders.

Then there came an account of petroleum or oil wells, in which it was clearly demonstrated that this admirable product represented, in comparison with other oils, a saving of more than sixty per cent; that it gave a light of matchless purity and brilliancy; that it burnt without odor; and, above all, that, in spite of what might have been said by interested persons, there was no possible danger of explosion connected with its use.

“In less than twenty years,” concluded the report in a strain of lyric prophecy, “petroleum will have taken the place of all the primitive and useless illuminating mediums now employed. It will replace, in like manner, all the coarse and troublesome varieties of fuel of our day. In less than twenty years the whole world will be lighted and heated by petroleum; and the oil-wells of Pennsylvania are inexhaustible.”

A eulogy on the president, Count Ville-Handry, crowned the whole work,—a very clever eulogy, which called him a man sent by Providence; and, alluding to his colossal fortune, suggested that, with such a manager at the head of the enterprise, the shareholders could not possibly run any risk.

Henrietta was overwhelmed with surprise. “Ah!” she said to herself, “this is what Sarah Brandon and her accomplices were aiming at. My father is ruined!”

That Count Ville-Handry should risk all he possessed in this terrible game of speculation was not so surprising to Henrietta. But what she could not comprehend was this, that he should assume the whole responsibility of such a hazardous enterprise, and run the terrible risk of a failure. How could he, with his deeply-rooted aristocratic prejudices, ever consent to lend his name to an industrial enterprise?

“It must have cost prodigies of patience and cunning,” she thought, “to induce him to make such a sacrifice, such a surrender of old and cherished convictions. They must have worried him terribly, and brought to bear upon him a fearful pressure.”

She was, therefore, truly amazed, when, two days afterwards, she became accidentally a witness to a lively discussion between her father and the countess on this very subject of the famous placards, which were now scattered all over Paris and France. The countess seemed to be distressed by the whole affair, and presented to her husband all the objections which Henrietta herself would have liked to have urged; only she did it with all the authority she derived from the count’s passionate love for her. She did not understand, she said, how her husband, a nobleman of ancient lineage, could stoop to “making money.” Had he not enough of it already? Would he be any happier if he had twice or thrice as many thousands a year?

He met all these objections with a sweetish smile, like a great artist who hears an ignoramus criticise his work. And, when the countess paused, he deigned to explain to her in that emphatic manner which betrayed his intense conceit, that if he, the representative of the very oldest nobility, threw himself into the great movement, it was for the purpose of setting a lofty example. He had no desire for “filthy lucre,” he assured her; he only desired to render his country a great service.

“Too dangerous a service!” replied the countess. “If you succeed, as you hope, who will thank you for it? No one. More than that, if you speak to them of disinterestedness, they will laugh in your face. If the thing fails, on the other hand, who is to pay? You. And they will call you a dunce into the bargain.”

Count Ville-Handry shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly; and then he said, taking his wife by the hand,—

“Would you love me less if I were ruined?”

She looked at him with her beautiful eyes as if overflowing with affection, and replied in a voice full of emotion,—

“God is my witness, my friend, that I should be delighted to be able to prove to you that I did not think of money when I married you.”

“Sarah!” cried the count in ecstasy, “Sarah, my darling, that was a word worth the whole of that fortune which you blame me for risking.”

Even if Henrietta had been more disposed to mistrust appearances, she would never have supposed that the whole scene was most cunningly devised for the purpose of impressing upon the count’s feeble intellect this idea more forcibly than ever. She was rather inclined to believe, and she did believe, that this Petroleum Society, conceived by Sir Thorn, was unpleasant to the countess; and that thus discord reigned in the enemy’s camp.

The result of her meditations was a long letter to a gentleman for whom her mother had always entertained a great esteem, the Duke of Champdoce. After having explained to him her situation, she told him all that she knew of the new enterprise, and besought him to interfere whilst it was yet time.

When she had written her letter, she gave it to Clarissa, urging her to carry it immediately to its address. Alas! the poor girl was rapidly approaching an incident which was to bring about a crisis.

Having by chance followed the maid down stairs, she saw her go into the Countess Sarah’s room, and hand her the letter.

Was Henrietta thus betrayed even by the girl whom she thought so fully devoted to her interests, and since when? Perhaps from the first day. Ah, how many things this explained to her which she had hitherto wondered at as perfectly incomprehensible!

This last infamy, however, tempted her to lay aside for once her carefully-nursed reserve. She rushed into the room, crimson with shame and wrath, and said in a fierce tone,—

“Give me that letter, madam!”

Clarissa had fled when she saw her treachery discovered.

“This letter,” replied the countess coldly, “I shall hand to your father, madam, as it is my duty to do.”

“Ah, take care, madam!” broke in the poor girl with a threatening gesture; “take care! My patience has its limits.”

Her attitude and her accent were so terrible, that the countess thought it prudent to put a table between herself and her victim. But suddenly a great revolution had taken place in Henrietta’s heart. She said roughly,—

“Look here, madam, let us have an explanation while we are alone. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing, I assure you.”

“Nothing? Who is it, then, that has meanly slandered me, has robbed me of my father’s affection, surrounds me with spies, and overwhelms me with insults? Who forces me to lead this wretched life to which I am condemned?”

The countess showed in her features how deeply she was reflecting. She was evidently calculating the effect of a new plan.

“You will have it so,” she replied resolutely. “Very well, then, I will be frank with you. Yes, I am bent on ruining you. Why? You know it as well as I do. I will ask you, in my turn, who is it that has done every thing that could possibly be done to prevent my marriage? Who has endeavored to crush me? Who would like to drive me from this house like an infamous person? Is it not you, always you? Yes, you are right. I hate you; I hate you unto death, and I avenge myself!”

“Madam!”

“Wait! What had I done to you before my marriage? Nothing. You did not even know me by name. They came and told you atrocious stories invented by my enemies, and you believed them. Your father told you, ‘They are wicked libels.’ What did you answer? That ‘those only are libelled who deserve it.’ I wanted to prove to you that it is not so. You are the purest and chastest of girls whom I know; are you not? Very well. I defy you to find a single person around you who does not believe that you have had lovers.”

Extreme situations have this peculiarity, that the principal actors may be agitated by the most furious passions, and still outwardly preserve the greatest calmness. Thus these two women, who were burning with mortal hatred, spoke with an almost calm voice.

“And you think, madam,” resumed Henrietta, “that sufferings like mine can be long continued?”

“They will be continued till it pleases me to make an end to them.”

“Or till I come of age.”

The countess made a great effort to conceal her surprise.

“Oh!” she said to herself. “Oh, oh!”

“Or,” continued the young girl, “till he returns whom you have taken from me, my betrothed, M. Daniel Champcey.”

“Stop, madam. You are mistaken. It was not I who sent Daniel away.”

Daniel! the countess said so; said familiarly, Daniel! Had she any right to do so? How? Whence this extraordinary impudence?

Still Henrietta saw in it only a new insult; no suspicion entered her soul, and she replied in the most ironical tone,—

“Then it was not you who sent that petition to the secretary of the navy? It was not you who ordered and paid for that forged document which caused M. Champcey to be ordered abroad?”

“No; and I told him so myself, the day before he left, in his own room.”

Henrietta was stunned. What? This woman had gone to see Daniel? Was this true? It was not even plausible.

“In his room?” she repeated,—“in his room?”

“Why, yes, in University Street. I foresaw that trick which I could not prevent, and I wished to prevent it. I had a thousand reasons for wishing ardently that he should remain in Paris.”

“A thousand reasons? You? Tell me only one!”

The countess courtesied, as if excusing herself for being forced to tell the truth against her inclination, and added simply,—

“I love him!”

As if she had suddenly seen an abyss opening beneath her feet, Henrietta threw herself back, pale, trembling, her eyes starting from their sockets.

“You—-love—Daniel!” she stammered,—“you love him!”

And, agitated by a nervous tremor, she said, laughing painfully,—

“But he—he? Can you hope that he will ever love you?”

“Yes, any day I may wish for it. And I shall wish it the day when he returns.”

Was she speaking seriously? or was the whole scene only a bit of cruel sport? That is what Henrietta was asking herself, as far as she was able to control her thoughts; for she felt her head growing dizzy, and her thoughts rushed wildly through her mind.

“You love Daniel!” she repeated once more, “and yet you were married the very week after his departure!”

“Alas, yes!”

“And what was my father to you? A magnificent prey, which you did not like to let escape,—an easy dupe. After all, you acknowledge it yourself, it was his fortune you wanted. It was for his money’s sake that you married him,—you, the young, marvellously-beautiful woman,—the old man.”

A smile rose upon the lips of the countess, in which she appeared herself in all the deep treachery of her secret calculations. She broke in, laughing ironically—

“I? I had coveted the fortune of this dear count, my husband? You do not think of it, madam? Have you so completely forgotten the zeal with which you heard me, only the other day, try to turn him from this enterprise in which he is about to embark all he possesses?”

Henrietta hardly knew whether she was awake or asleep. Was she not, perhaps, under the influence of one of those hallucinations which fevers produce?

“And you dare tell me all these things, me, Count Ville-Handry’s own daughter, the daughter of your husband?”

“Why not?” asked the countess.

And, shrugging her shoulders, she added in a careless tone,—

“Do you think I am afraid of your reporting me to him? You are at liberty to try it. Listen. I think I hear your father’s footstep in the vestibule; call him in, and tell him what we have been talking about.”

And, as Henrietta said nothing, she laughed, and said,—

“Ah! you hesitate. You do not dare do it? Well, you are wrong. I mean to hand him your letter, and I shall call him.”

There was no need for it; for at the same moment the count entered, followed by austere, grim Mrs. Brian. As he perceived his wife and his daughter, his face lighted up immediately; and he exclaimed,—

“What? You are here, both of you, and chatting amicably like two charming sisters? My Henrietta has come back to her senses, I trust.”

They were both silent; and, seeing how they looked at each other with fierce glances, he went on in a tone of great bitterness—

“But no, it is not so! I am not so fortunate. What is the matter? What has happened?”

The countess shook her head sadly, and replied,—

“The matter is, that your daughter, during your absence, has written a letter to one of my most cruel enemies, to that man who, you know, on our wedding-day, slandered me meanly; in fine, to the Duke of Champdoce!”

“And has any one of my servants dared to carry that letter?”

“No, my friend! It was brought to me in obedience to your orders; and the young lady summoned me haughtily to hand her that letter.”

“That letter?” cried the count. “Where is that letter?”

The countess gave it to him with these words,—

“Perhaps it would be better to throw it into the fire without reading it.”

But already he had torn the envelope; and, as he was reading the first lines, a crimson blush overspread his temples, and his eyes became bloodshot. For Henrietta, sure of the Duke of Champdoce, had not hesitated to open her heart to him, describing her situation as it really was; painting her step-mother as he had anticipated she would be; and at every turn certain phrases were repeated, which were so many blows with a dagger to the count.

“This is unheard of!” he growled with a curse. “This is incomprehensible! Such perversity has never been known before.”

He went and stood before his daughter, his arms crossed, and cried with a voice of thunder,—

“Wretch! Will you disgrace us all?”

She made no reply. Immovable like a statue, she did not tremble under the storm. Besides, what could she do? Defend herself? She would not stoop to do that. Repeat the impudent avowals of the countess? What would be the use? Did she not know beforehand that the count would not believe her? In the meantime, grim Mrs. Brian had taken a seat by the side of her beloved Sarah.

“I,” she said, “if I were, for my sins, afflicted with such a daughter, I would get her a husband as soon as possible.”

“I have thought of that,” replied the count; “and I believe I have even hit upon an arrangement which”—

But, when he saw his daughter’s watchful eye fixed upon him, he paused, and, pointing towards the door, said to her brutally,—

“You are in the way here!”

Without saying a word, she went out, much less troubled by her father’s fury than by the strange confessions which the countess had made. She only now began to measure the full extent of her step-mother’s hatred, and knew that she was too practical a woman to waste her time by making idle speeches. Therefore, if she had stated that she loved Daniel,—a statement which Henrietta believed to be untrue,—if she had impudently confessed that she coveted her husband’s fortune, she had a purpose in view. What was that purpose? How could any one unearth the truth from among such a mass of falsehood and deception?

At all events, the scene was strange enough to confound any one’s judgment. And when Henrietta, that evening, found an opportunity to tell M. de Brevan what had happened, he trembled in his chair, and was so overwhelmed with surprise, that he forgot his precautions, and exclaimed almost aloud,—

“That is not possible!”

There was no doubt that he, usually so impassive, was terribly excited. In less than five minutes he had changed color more than ten times. You would have thought he was a man who at a single blow sees the edifice of all his hopes crumble to pieces. At last, after a moment’s reflection, he said,—

“Perhaps it would be wise, madam, to leave the house.”

But she replied sadly,—

“What? How can I do that? After so many odious calumnies, my honor and Daniel’s honor oblige me to remain here. He recommends me only to flee at the last extremity, and when there is no other resource left. Now, I ask you, shall I be more unhappy or more seriously threatened to-morrow than I am to-day? Evidently not.”