his pipe out of his mouth, without even
getting up from his seat, answered in a surly tone,--

"The count has sent me orders never to let you go out without a verbal
or written permission; so that"--

"Impudence!" exclaimed Henrietta.

And resolutely she went up to the ponderous gates of the court-yard,
stretching out her hand to pull the bolt. But the man, divining her
intention, and quicker than she, had rushed up to the gate, and, crying
out as loud as he could, he exclaimed,--

"Miss, miss! Stop! I have my orders, and I shall lose my place."

At his cries a dozen servants who were standing idly about in the
stables, the vestibule, and the inner court, came running up. Then Sir
Thorn appeared, ready to go out on horseback, and finally the count
himself.

"What do you want? What are you doing there?" he asked his daughter.

"You see, I want to go out."

"Alone?" laughed the count. Then he continued harshly, pointing at the
concierge,--

"This man would be instantly dismissed if he allowed you to leave the
house alone. Oh, you need not look at me that way! Hereafter you will
only go out when, and with whom, it pleases me. And do not hope to
escape my watchful observation. I have foreseen every thing. The little
gate to which you had a key has been nailed up. And, if ever a man
should dare to steal into the garden, the gardeners have orders to shoot
him down like a dog, whether it be the man with whom I caught you the
other day, or some one else."

Under this mean and cowardly insult Henrietta staggered; but,
immediately collecting herself, she exclaimed,--

"Great God! Am I delirious? Father, are you aware of what you are
saying?"

And, as the suppressed laughter of the servants reached her, she added
with--almost convulsive vehemence,--

"At least, say who the man was with whom I was in the garden, so
that all, all may hear his name. Tell them that it was M. Daniel
Champcey,--he whom my sainted mother had chosen for me among all,--he
whom for long years you have daily received at your house, to whom you
have solemnly promised my hand, who was my betrothed, and who would now
be my husband, if we had chosen to approve of your unfortunate marriage.
Tell them that it was M. Daniel Champcey, whom you had sent off the day
before, and whom a crime, a forgery committed by your Sarah, forced to
go to sea; for he had to be put out of the way at any _hazard_. As
long as he was in Paris, you would never have dar