At times he would sit for hours in an arm-chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his brow knit, and his thoughts apparently bent upon some grave question.  If he was spoken to, he started like a criminal caught in the act.  He who formerly prided himself on his magnificent appetite (he saw in it a resemblance to Louis XIV.) now hardly ate any thing.  On the other hand, he was forever complaining of oppression in the chest, and of palpitation of the heart.

His daughter repeatedly found him with tears in his eyes,—­big tears, which passed through his dyed beard, and fell like drops of ink on his white shirt-front.  Then, again, these attacks of melancholy would be followed by sudden outbursts of joy.  He would rub his hands till they pained him; he would sing and almost dance with delight.

Now and then a commissionaire (it was always the same man) came and brought him a letter.  The count tore it from his hands, threw him a gold-piece, and went to shut himself up in his study.

“Poor papa!” said Henrietta to Daniel.  “There are moments when I tremble for his mind.”

At last, one evening after dinner, when he had drunk more than usually, perhaps in order to gain courage, he drew his daughter on his knee, and said in his softest voice,—­

“Confess, my dear child, that in your innermost heart you have more than once called me a very bad father.  I dare say you blame me for leaving you so constantly alone here in this large house, where you must die from sheer weariness.”

Such a charge would have been but too well founded.  Henrietta was left more completely to herself than the daughter of a workman, whose business keeps him from home all day long.  The workman, however, takes his child out, at least on Sundays.

“I am never weary, papa,” replied Henrietta.

“Really?  Why, how do you occupy yourself?”

“Oh! in the first place I attend to the housekeeping, and try my best to make home pleasant to you.  Then I embroider, I sew, I study.  In the afternoon my music-teacher comes, and my English master.  At night I read.”

The count smiled; but it was a forced smile.

“Never mind!” he broke in; “such a lonely life cannot go on.  A girl of your age stands in need of some one to advise her, to pet her,—­an affectionate and devoted friend.  That is why I have been thinking of giving you another mother.”

Henrietta drew back her arm, which she had wound round her father’s neck; and, rising suddenly, she said,—­

“You think of marrying again?”

He turned his head aside, hesitated moment, and then replied,—­

“Yes.”

At first the poor girl could not utter a word, so great were her stupor, her indignation, her bitter grief; then she made an effort, and said in a pained voice,—­

“Do you really tell me so, papa?  What! you would bring another wife to this house, which is still alive with the voice of her whom we have lost?  You would make her sit down in the chair in which she used to sit, and let her rest her feet on the cushion which she embroidered?  Perhaps you would even want me to call her mamma?  Oh, dear papa! surely you do not think of such profanation!”