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