And he escaped, but not so promptly that he should not have heard the count’s angry voice, as he said,—
“Ah, ah! Is this the virtuous young lady who dares to insult Miss Sarah?”
As soon as Daniel had locked the door again, he listened for a moment, hoping that he might hear something of importance. But he could only make out a few indistinct exclamations, then nothing, nothing more.
It was all over now. He would have to sail without seeing Henrietta again, without enjoying that bitter happiness of holding her once more in his arms. And yet he had told her nothing of all he had to tell her; he had not spoken to her of half his recommendations, nor given her a thousandth part of his tender farewells.
How had they been surprised? How came it about that the count had stayed at home, instead of hurrying off immediately after dinner, as was his custom? Why should he have inquired after his daughter, he who generally took no more trouble about her than if she had not existed?
“Ah, we have been betrayed!” thought the unhappy man.
By whom? By that unpleasant maid evidently, whom he had seen that morning; by that very Clarissa in whom Henrietta put such confidence. If that was so,—and it was but too probable,—to whom should he send his letters hereafter? Here, again, he saw himself reduced to Maxime de Brevan as the only one who could convey news from him to Henrietta. Ah! he recognized but too clearly the execrable but most cunning policy of Miss Brandon.
“The wretch!” he swore; “the infamous woman!”
Wrath, mad wrath, set his brains on fire. And he could do nothing against that woman!
“But she does not stand alone!” he suddenly exclaimed. “There is a man there who shelters her under his responsibility,—Sir Thorn!”