Henrietta looked at him so fixedly, that he could not bear the glance; and then she said in a deep voice,—­

“Unless I die! did you not mean that?  Be it so.”

Coldly M. de Brevan bowed, as if he intended to say,—­

“Yes, unless you should be dead:  that was what I meant.”

Then, opening the door, he added,—­

“Let me hope, madam, that this is not your last word.  I shall, however, have the honor of calling every week to receive your orders.”

And, bowing, he left the room.

“What brought him here, the wretch!  What does he want of me?”

Thus she questioned herself as soon as she was alone, and the door was ‘shut.’  And her anguish increased tenfold; for she did not believe a word of the pretexts which M. de Brevan had assigned for his visit.  No, she could not admit that he had come to see if she had reflected, nor that he really cherished that abominable hope, that misery, hunger, and fear would drive her into his arms.

“He ought to know me well enough,” she thought with a new access of wrath, “to be sure that I would prefer death a thousand times.”

There was no doubt in her mind that this step, which had evidently been extremely painful to himself, had become necessary through some all-powerful consideration.  But what could that be?  By a great effort of mind Henrietta recalled, one by one, all the phrases used by M. de Brevan, in the hope that some word might give her light; but she discovered nothing.  All he had told her as to the consequences of her flight, she had foreseen before she had resolved to escape.  He had told her nothing new, but his duel with Sir Thorn; and, when she considered the matter, she thought that, also, quite natural.  For did they not both covet with equal eagerness the fortune which she would inherit from her mother as soon as she came of age?  The antagonism of their interests explained, she thought, their hatred; for she was well convinced that they hated each other mortally.  The idea that Sir Thorn and M. de Brevan understood each other, and pursued a common purpose, never entered her mind; and, if it had suggested itself, she would have rejected it as absurd.

Must she, then, come to the conclusion that M. de Brevan had really, when he appeared before her, no other aim but to drive her to despair?  But why should he do so? what advantage would that be to him?  The man who wants to make a girl his own does not go to work to chill her with terror, and to inspire her with ineffable disgust.  Still M. de Brevan had done this; and therefore he must aim at something different from that marriage of which he spoke.

What was that something?  Such abominable things are not done for the mere pleasure of doing them, especially if that involves some amount of danger.  Now, it was very clear, that upon Daniel’s return, whether he still loved Henrietta or not, M. de Brevan would have a terrible account to give to that brave sailor who had trusted him with the care of his betrothed.  Did M. de Brevan ever think of that return?  Oh, yes! he did; and with secret terror.  There was proof of that in one of the phrases that had escaped him.