Whatever efforts Henrietta might make to remain impassive, the tears would come into her eyes,—­tears of shame and humiliation.  Could this idea of starving her into obedience have originated with her father?  No, he would never have thought of it!  It was evidently a woman’s thought, and the result of bitter, savage hate.

Still the poor girl felt that she was caught; and her heart revolted at the ignominy of the means, and the certainty that she would be forced to yield.  Her cruel imagination painted to her at once the exultation of the new countess, when she, the daughter of Count Ville-Handry, would appear in the dining-room, brought there by want, by hunger.

“Father,” she begged, “send me nothing but bread and water, but spare me that exposure.”

But, if the count was repeating a lesson, he had learned it well.  His features retained their sardonic expression; and he said in an icy tone,—­

“I have told you what I desire.  You have heard it, and that is enough.”

He was turning to leave the room, when his daughter held him back.

“Father,” she said, “listen to me.”

“Well, what is it, now?”

“Yesterday you threatened to shut me up.”

“Well?”

“To-day it is I who beseech you to do so.  Send me to a convent.  However harsh and strict the rules may be, however sad life may be there, I will find there some relief for my sorrow, and I will bless you with all my heart.”

He only shrugged his shoulders over and over again; then he said,—­

“A good idea!  And from your convent you would at once write to everybody and everywhere, that my wife had turned you out of the house; that you had been obliged to escape from threats and bad treatment; you would repeat all the well-known elegies of the innocent young girl who is persecuted by a wicked stepmother.  Not so, my dear, not so!”

The breakfast-bell, which was ringing below, interrupted him.

“You hear, Henrietta,” he said.  “Consult your stomach; and, according to what it tells you, come down, or stay here.”

He went out, manifestly quite proud at having performed what he called an act of paternal authority, without vouchsafing a glance at his daughter, who had sunk back upon a chair; for she felt overcome, the poor child! by all the agony of her pride.  It was all over:  she could struggle no longer.  People who would not shrink from such extreme measures in order to overcome her might resort to the last extremities.  Whatever she could do, sooner or later she would have to succumb.

Hence—­why might she not as well give way at once?  She saw clearly, that, the longer she postponed it, the sweeter would be the victory to the countess, and the more painful would be the sacrifice to herself.  Arming herself, therefore, with all her energy, she went down into the dining-room, where the others were already at table.

She had imagined that her appearance would be greeted by some insulting remark.  Not at all.  They seemed hardly to notice her.  The countess, who had been talking, paused to say, “Good-morning, madam!” and then went on without betraying in her voice the slightest emotion.