“Let us go up then,” said Brevan.

The concierge and his wife, however, were economical people; and the gas on the stairs had long since been put out.

“Give me a candlestick, Chevassat,” said the woman to her husband.

And with her lighted candle she went ahead, lighting M. de Brevan and Henrietta, and stopping at every landing to praise the neatness of the house.  At last, in the fifth story, at the entrance to a dark passage, she opened a door, and said,—­

“Here we are!  The young lady will see how nice it is.”

It might possibly have been nice in her eyes; but Henrietta, accustomed to the splendor of her father’s palace, could not conceal a gesture of disgust.  This more than modest chamber looked to her like a garret such as she would not have permitted the least of her maids to occupy at home.

But never mind!  She went in bravely, putting her travelling-bag on a bureau, and taking off her shawl, as if to take possession of the lodging.  But her first impression had not escaped M. de Brevan.  He drew her into the passage while the woman was stirring the fire, and said in a low voice,—­

“It is a terrible room; but prudence induced me to choose it.”

“I like it as it is, sir.”

“You will want a great many things, no doubt; but we will see to that to-morrow.  To-night I must leave you:  you know it is all important that I should be seen again at your father’s house.”

“You are quite right; sir, go, make haste!”

Still he did not wish to go without having once more recommended his “young kinswoman” to Mrs. Chevassat.  He only left when she had over and over again assured him that there was nothing more to be done; and then the woman also went down.

The terrible emotions which had shaken and undermined Henrietta during the last forty-eight hours were followed now by a feeling of intense astonishment at what she had done, at the irrevocable step she had taken.  Her quiet life had been interrupted by an event which to her appeared more stupendous than if a mountain had been moved.  Standing by the mantle-piece, she looked at her pale face in the little looking-glass, and said to herself,—­

“Is that myself, my own self?”

Yes, it was she herself, the only daughter of the great Count Ville-Handry, here in a strange house, in a wretched garret-room, which she called her own.  It was she, yesterday still surrounded by princely splendor, waited on by an army of servants, now in want of almost every thing, and having for her only servant the old woman to whom M. de Brevan had recommended her.

Was this possible?  She could hardly believe it herself.  Still she felt no repentance at what she had done.  She could not remain any longer in her father’s house where she was exposed to the vilest insults from everybody.  Could she have stayed any longer?

“But what is the use,” she said to herself, “of thinking of what is past?  I must not allow myself to think of it; I must shake off this heaviness.”