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.”