But, even if this were so, it would not have satisfactorily explained to Henrietta the eagerness of Papa Ravinet to serve her, nor his perseverance in offering her his advice.  Was it merely from charity that he did all this?  Alas!  Christian charity is not often so pressing.

Did he know who Henrietta was?  Had he at any period of her life come in contact with her? or had his interests ever been mixed up with hers?  Was he anxious to make a return for some kindness shown to him? or did he count upon some reward in the future?  Who could tell?

“Would it not be the height of imprudence to put myself in the power of this man?” thought the poor girl.

If, on the other hand, she rejected his offers, she fell back into that state of forlorn wretchedness, from which she had only been able to save herself by suicide.

This view was all the more urgent, as the poor child, like all persons who have been rescued from death only after having exhausted their sufferings, now began to cling to life with an almost desperate affection.  It seemed as if the contact with death had wiped out at once all the memory of the past, and all the threats of the future.

“O Daniel!” she said to herself, trembling all over,—­“O Daniel! my only friend upon earth, what would you suffer if you knew that you lost me forever by the very means you chose to secure my safety!”

To refuse the assistance offered her by Papa Ravinet would have required an amount of energy which she did not possess.  The voice of reflection continually said to her,—­

“The old man is your only hope.”

It never occurred to her to conceal the truth from Papa Ravinet, or to deceive him by a fictitious story.  She only thought how she could tell him the truth without telling him all; how she could confess enough to enable him to serve her, and yet not to betray a secret which she held more dear than her happiness, her reputation, and life itself.

Unfortunately, she was the victim of one of those intrigues which are formed and carried out within the narrow circle of a family,—­intrigues of the most abominable character, which people suspect, and often even know perfectly well, and which yet remain unpunished, because they cannot be reached by the law.

Henrietta’s father, Count Ville-Handry, was in 1845 one of the wealthiest land-owners of the province of Anjou.  The good people near Rosiers and Saint Mathurin were fond of pointing out to strangers the massive towers of Ville-Handry, a magnificent castle half hid among noble old woods on the beautiful slopes of the bluffs which line the Loire.

“There,” they said, “lives a true gentleman, a little too proud, perhaps, but, nevertheless, a true gentleman.”

For contrary to the usual state of things in the country, where envy is apt to engender hatred, the count was quite popular, in spite of his title and his large fortune.  He was at that time about forty years old, quite tall and good-looking, solemn and courteous, obliging, although reserved, and very good-natured as long as no one spoke in his presence of the church or the reigning family, the nobility or the clergy, of his hounds or the wines of his vineyards, or of various other subjects on which he had what he chose to consider his “own opinions.”