“Is it really true, father, that you have ordered my furniture to be removed?”

“Yes, I have done so, my daughter.  My architect will transform your three rooms into a large reception-room for Mrs. Brian, who had not space enough for”—­

The young countess made a gesture of displeasure.

“I cannot understand,” she said, “how Aunt Brian can accept that.”

“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed the admirable lady, “this is done entirely without my consent.”

But the count interposed, saying,—­

“Sarah, my darling, permit me to be sole judge in all the arrangements that concern my daughter.”

Count Ville-Handry’s accent was so firm as he said this, that one would have sworn the idea of dislodging Henrietta had sprung from his own brains.  He went on,—­

“I never act thoughtlessly, and always take time to mature my decisions.  In this case I act from motives of the most ordinary propriety.  Mrs. Brian is no longer young; my daughter is a mere child.  If one of the two has to submit to some slight inconvenience, it is certainly my daughter.”

All of a sudden M. Elgin rose.

“I should leave,” he began.

Unfortunately the rest of the phrase was lost in an indistinct murmur.

He was no doubt at that moment recalling a promise he had made.  And resolved not to interfere in the count’s family affairs, and, on the other hand, indignant at what he considered an odious abuse of power, he left the room abruptly.  His looks, his physiognomy, his gestures, all betrayed these sentiments so clearly, that Henrietta was quite touched.

But Count Ville-Handry continued, after a moment’s surprise, saying,—­

“Therefore, my daughter will hereafter live in the rooms formerly occupied by the companion of my—­I mean of her mother.  They are small, but more than sufficient for her.  Besides, they have this advantage, that they can be easily overlooked from one of our own rooms, my dear Sarah; and that is important when we have to deal with an imprudent girl, who has so sadly abused the liberty which she enjoyed, thanks to my blind confidence.”

What should she say?  What could she reply?

If she had been alone with her father, she would certainly have defended herself; she would have tried to make him reconsider his decision; she would have besought him; she might have gone on her knees to him.

But here, in the presence of these two women, with the mocking eye of Countess Sarah upon her, it was impossible!  Ah! she would have died a thousand times over rather than to give these miserable adventurers the joy and the satisfaction of a new humiliation.

“Let them crush me,” she said to herself; “they shall never hear me complain, or cry for mercy.”

And when her father, who had been quietly watching her, asked,—­

“Well?”

“You shall be obeyed this very night,” she replied.