On another occasion, toward the end of February, and when several days of fine spring weather had succeeded each other, the poor child could not help expressing a desire to go out and breathe a little fresh air.  Her father said, in reply to her request,—­“Every day, your mother and I go out and drive for an hour or two in the Bois de Boulogne.  Why don’t you go with us?”

She said nothing.  She would sooner have allowed herself to be cut to pieces than to appear in public seated by the side of the young countess and in the same carriage with her.

Months passed thus without her having put a foot outside of the palace, except her daily attendance at mass at eight o’clock on Sunday mornings.  Count Ville-Handry had not dared to refuse her that; but he had added the most painful and most humiliating conditions.  On these occasions M. Ernest, his valet, accompanied her, with express orders not to let her speak to any one whatsoever, and to “apprehend” her (this was the count’s own expression), and to bring her back forcibly, if needs be, if she should try to escape.

But in vain they multiplied the insults; they did not extort a single complaint.  Her unalterable patience would have touched ordinary executioners.  And yet she had no other encouragement, no other support, but what she received from M. de Brevan.

Faithful to the plan which he had mentioned to her, he had managed so well as gradually to secure the right to come frequently to the house.  He was on the best terms with Mrs. Brian; and the count invited him to dinner.  At this time Henrietta had entirely overcome her prejudice against him.  She had discovered in M. de Brevan such a respectful interest in her welfare, such almost womanly delicacy, and so much prudence and discretion, that she blessed Daniel for having left her this friend, and counted upon his devotion as upon that of a brother.

Was it not he, who, on certain evenings, when she was well-nigh overcome by despair, whispered to her,—­

“Courage; here is another day gone!  Daniel will soon be back!”

But the more Henrietta was left to the inspirations of solitude, and compelled to live within herself only, the more she observed all that was going on around her.  And she thought she noticed some very strange changes.  Never would Count Ville-Handry’s first wife have been able to recognize her reception-rooms.  Where was that select society which had been attracted by her, and which she had fashioned into something like a court, in which her husband was king?  The palace had become, so to say, the headquarters of that motley society which forms the “Foreign Legion” of pleasure and of scandal.

Sarah Brandon, now Countess Ville-Handry, was surrounded by that strange aristocracy which has risen upon the ruins of old Paris,—­a contraband aristocracy, a dangerous kind of high life, which, by its unheard-of extravagance and mysterious splendor, dazzles the multitude, and puzzles the police.