before,
now disturbed him more and more, and kept him from coming to any
decision. The more he reflected, the more it seemed to him that Maxime
had allowed himself to be carried away beyond what was probable, or
even possible. The last accusation, especially, seemed to him perfectly
monstrous.

A young and beautiful woman, consumed by ambition and covetousness,
might possibly play a comedy of pure love while she was disgusted in her
heart. She might catch by vile tricks a foolish old man, and make him
marry her, openly and avowedly selling her beauty and her youth. Such
things happen, and are excused by the morality of our day. The same
wicked, heartless woman might speculate upon becoming speedily a widow,
and thus regaining her liberty, together with a large fortune. This also
happens, however horrible it may appear. But that she should marry a
poor old fool, with the preconceived purpose of hastening his end by a
deliberate crime, there was a depth in that wickedness which terrified
Daniel's imagination.

Deeply ensconced in his chair, he was losing himself in conjectures,
forgetting how time passed, and how his work was waiting for him, even
the invitation to dinner which the count had given to him, and the
prospect of being introduced that very evening to Miss Brandon. Night
came; and then only his concierge, who came in to see what had become of
him all day long, aroused him from his torpor.

"Ah, I am losing my senses!" he exclaimed, rising suddenly. "And
Henrietta, who has been waiting for me--what must she think of me?"

Miss Ville-Handry, at that very moment, had reached that degree of
anxiety which becomes well-nigh intolerable. After having waited for
Daniel all the evening of the day before, and after having spent a
sleepless night, she had surely expected him to-day, counting the
seconds by the beating of her heart, and starting at the noise of every
carriage in the street. In her despair, knowing hardly what she was
doing, she was thinking of running herself to University Street, to
Daniel's house, when the door opened.

In the same indifferent tone in which he announced friends and enemies,
the servant said,--

"M. Daniel Champcey."

Henrietta was up in a moment. She was about to exclaim,--

"What has kept you? What has happened?" But the words died away on her
lips.

It had been sufficient for her to look at Daniel's sad face to feel that
a great misfortune had befallen her.

"Ah! you had