The count’s trouble was pitiful to behold.  And yet, if Henrietta had been less excited, she would have read in his eye that his mind was made up.

“What I mean to do is done in your behalf, my dear child,” he stammered out at last.  “I am old; I may die; we have no near relations; what would become of you without a friend?”

She blushed crimson; but she said timidly,—­

“But, papa, there is M. Daniel Champcey.”

“Well?”

The count’s eyes shone with delight as he saw that she was falling into the pit he had dug for her.  The poor girl went on,—­

“I thought—­I had hoped—­poor mamma had told me—­in fact, since you had allowed M. Daniel to come here”—­

“You thought I intended to make him my son-in-law?”

She made no answer.

“That was in fact the idea your mother had.  She had certainly very odd notions, against which I had to use the whole strength of my firm will.  A sailor is a sorry kind of husband, my dear child; a word from his minister may part him for years from his wife.”

Henrietta remained silent.  She began to understand the nature of the bargain which her father proposed to her, and it made her indignant.  He thought he had said enough for this time, and left her with these words,—­

“Consider, my child; for my part, I will also think of it.”

What should she do?  There were a hundred ways; but which to choose?  Finding herself alone, she took a pen, and for the first time in her life she wrote to Daniel:—­

“I must speak to you instantly.  Pray come.

“Henrietta.”

She gave the letter to a servant, ordering him to carry it at once to its address; and then she waited in a state of feverish anxiety, counting the minutes.

Daniel Champcey had, in a house not far from the university, three rooms, the windows of which looked out upon the gardens of an adjoining mansion, where the flowers bloomed brilliantly, and the birds sang joyously.  There he spent almost all the time which was not required by his official duties.  A walk in company with his friend, Maxime de Brevan; a visit to the theatre, when a particularly fine piece was to be given; and two or three calls a week at Count Ville-Handry’s house,—­these were his sole and certainly very harmless amusements.

“A genuine old maid, that sailor is,” said the concierge of the house.

The truth is, that, if Daniel’s natural refinement had not kept him from contact with what Parisians call “pleasure,” his ardent love for Henrietta would have prevented his falling into bad company.  A pure, noble love, such as his, based upon perfect confidence in her to whom it is given, is quite sufficient to fill up a life; for it makes the present delightful, and paints the distant horizon of the future in all the bright colors of the rainbow.

But, the more he loved Henrietta, the more he felt bound to be worthy of her, and to deserve her affections.  He was not ambitious.  He had chosen a profession which he loved.  He had a considerable fortune of his own, and was thus, by his private income and his pay as an officer, secured against want.  What more could he desire?  Nothing for himself.