“Yes.”
At first the poor girl could not utter a word, so great were her stupor, her indignation, her bitter grief; then she made an effort, and said in a pained voice,—
“Do you really tell me so, papa? What! you would bring another wife to this house, which is still alive with the voice of her whom we have lost? You would make her sit down in the chair in which she used to sit, and let her rest her feet on the cushion which she embroidered? Perhaps you would even want me to call her mamma? Oh, dear papa! surely you do not think of such profanation!”
The count’s trouble was pitiful to behold. And yet, if Henrietta had been less excited, she would have read in his eye that his mind was made up.
“What I mean to do is done in your behalf, my dear child,” he stammered out at last. “I am old; I may die; we have no near relations; what would become of you without a friend?”
She blushed crimson; but she said timidly,—
“But, papa, there is M. Daniel Champcey.”
“Well?”
The count’s eyes shone with delight as he saw that she was falling into the pit he had dug for her. The poor girl went on,—
“I thought—I had hoped—poor mamma had told me—in fact, since you had allowed M. Daniel to come here”—