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.