CHAPTER XIII

THE PRINCESSE DE FERSEN

The next morning Madame de Fersen did not appear at breakfast. She was not well, the prince said, and had spent a restless night. Then, abruptly, to my great astonishment, he spoke to me most freely and confidentially, regarding the character, the mind, the habits of his wife, and the life led by her, perhaps to warn me of the futility of my aspirations, in the event of my having dreamed of paying my court to Madame de Fersen. I can in no other way explain his incomprehensible whim in entering upon such details with me.

The following is the substance of what I learned from M. de Fersen about his wife.

Mlle. Catherine Metriska, daughter of Count Metriska, governor of one of the Asiatic provinces of the Russian Empire, was seventeen years of age when she married M. de Fersen. She possessed a naturally fine mind, and a highly cultivated education developed an intellect precociously mature. At the time of the marriage, the prince was ambassador at Vienna.

At first he feared for the inexperience of his wife, burdened at so early an age with all the responsibilities devolving upon the ambassadress of so great a power at a court so austere, so solemn, and so imposing in its etiquette as the Austrian court. But Madame de Fersen, wonderfully gifted, satisfied every demand of her position, thanks to the exquisite tact, to the delicate shading, to the perfect balance, she was able to bring in so difficult an intercourse.

"Quite young, full of grace and wit," said the prince, "you may well imagine that Madame de Fersen was at once surrounded by the cream of foreigners arriving at the court of Vienna.

"A husband should no more speak of his wife's virtue, than a man should boast of the nobility of his race," added the prince smiling, "yet I can say I believe, nay, I know, that Cæsar's wife has never been suspected, though Cæsar was fifty years of age. I had married less perhaps for love, though Catherine was charming, than because there are certain embassies which are not entrusted to bachelors, and because in my position I wished to have near me a frank and disinterested person, upon whom I could try the effect of certain combinations, something, save the ferocity of the combination," said the prince, laughing, "as some Roman patricians tried the effect of certain poisons on their slaves. Experience has proved to me that extreme purity was often harder to be deceived than extreme craft, just as children almost always guess intuitively the snares set for them. Hence, when I see Catherine countenancing certain projects, certain ideas, skilfully disguised it is true, in order that her nature, sensitive, delicate, and generous, may not be shocked, I have no fear later in putting forth this idea, that I may irritate the susceptibility of my dear colleagues, whose conscience is usually tolerably tough.

"Little by little," continued the prince, "Madame de Fersen became interested in politics, for, to continue my experiences, I entrusted to her, under various aspects, many of the questions that I must solve. Do not believe, however, that her policy was dry and selfish. No; an exalted love of humanity was her sole impulse. When she spoke of European nations, she spoke as of beloved sisters, not her country's rivals. You may think me in my dotage in speaking thus seriously of what seems to you, doubtless, the dreams of a young and romantic woman; but, you cannot tell of what service has been to me that turn of mind which makes her so wonderfully enthusiastic for universal peace and happiness. Wisdom consists, does it not, in holding to the middle way at an equal distance from all extremes. When, therefore, I have an important decision to make, the generous and conciliatory policy of Madame de Fersen marks one boundary, while, on the other hand, our traditional selfish and cunning policy gives me the other limit. I may then, without difficulty, choose a wise and prudent middle course between these two extremes.

"I reaped another advantage from this mental tendency of Madame de Fersen: that of being able to affirm that Cæsar's wife has never been suspected, for when the powers of love and devotion in a woman's heart find a brilliant scope through her intelligence, she does not seek other employment for them, more especially when her feminine vanity is flattered by the influence thus acquired.

"Add to this a fact of which I should have spoken earlier, but as one of your most celebrated women, Madame de Sévigné, has said: 'Often the gist of a letter is to be found in its postscript.' Well, without referring to my attachment to my wife and her affection for me, without speaking of the puritanic severity of her principles, do you know what, above all, has preserved her from the indiscretions of youth? Her devoted, her passionate love for her daughter. You could not comprehend its excess, its exaltation. Doubtless, our Irene deserves such devotion, but I sometimes tremble when I reflect that, if an unforeseen disaster like that which has already menaced us should bereave us of that child, her mother would assuredly lose her reason or her life."

M. de Fersen was in the prime of life; he had an almost European reputation as a diplomat. His appearance denoted a distinguished man, called by his superior gifts to the exercise of those high functions which he had always filled; I could not but be astonished at the confidence reposed in one so young and so complete a stranger to him.

As I could not suspect that a man long accustomed to handle public affairs of the most difficult and serious character would act without reflection on matters which interested him personally, I concluded that M. de Fersen's discourse held a hidden purpose, and that it was not without design that he had laid aside the reserve imposed by our age and position.

I repeat, I could see in this eccentric confidence no other aim than to prove to me that Madame de Fersen was unapproachable.

On the other hand, I had been disagreeably impressed when the prince spoke of his wife as of an instrument necessary to his diplomatic career. When he spoke of her, I had detected the most absolute heartlessness, and in his daily intercourse with Madame de Fersen, not only he showed no jealousy,—he was too much a man of the world to become ridiculous,—but he appeared even indifferent.

I asked myself, then, what object he could have in confiding to me that which I have just related.

I was thus plunged in an extreme perplexity.

CHAPTER XIV

THE TRADITION

I had not seen Madame de Fersen from the time that Irene had made the strange prediction which had seemed to alarm her mother so greatly.

The uncommon affection shown to me by this child astonished me very much. As soon as she was alone, she would come close to me. If I were reading in the saloon, fearing doubtless to be troublesome, she would sit on a cushion, resting her chin on her little hands, and I could not raise my eyes without meeting her profound and solemn glance.

Sometimes I endeavoured to amuse her with childish games, but she appeared disinclined for them, and said to me solemnly with her childish treble: "I prefer staying here near you, and looking at you as I used to look at Ivan."

I was formerly much more superstitious than I am now; but in thinking over the strange fascination I seemed to have for this child, I recalled with a certain heart pang (I must confess the weakness) a singular Sanscrit tradition which my father had often read to me, because, he said, he had witnessed two events which confirmed its text.

According to this tradition, "those predestined to an early and violent death have the gift of fascinating children and lunatics."

Now, in fact, Ivan had fascinated Irene, and he died a violent death.

I also fascinated Irene, who, in total ignorance of the tradition, had predicted for me a violent death.

This uncommon analogy was, to say the least, most extraordinary, and sometimes forcibly preoccupied me.

Even now that time has elapsed since these occurrences, Irene's prediction at times comes back to my mind.

This tradition had been translated by my father, and was written with some other notes in a book containing the description of his travels in England and the East Indies. I had brought this manuscript with me from France, with other papers which were saved from the wreck of the yacht.

The day following the one when the princess was confined to her room by indisposition, she came into the saloon about two o'clock; I was there alone with her child.

Madame de Fersen's face was pale and sad.

She saluted me graciously; her smile seemed to me more than usually friendly.

"I very much fear, monsieur, that my daughter is troublesome," said she, seating herself and taking Irene on her lap.

"It is I, rather, madame, who may be accused of being troublesome, for Irene has shown me several times, by the gravity of her demeanour and speech, that she considered me too much of her age, and not enough of mine."

"Poor child!" said Madame de Fersen, embracing her daughter. "Have you no ill-will towards her, for her strange, her absurd prediction?"

"No, madame, for in turn I shall make a forecast, and then we shall be quits. Mlle. Irene," said I, very seriously, taking her little hand in mine, "I shall not tell you that you will go up there, but I promise that ten or twelve years hence a beautiful angel will come down here from up there expressly for you. He will be beautiful like you, good like you, charming like you, and will lead you to a gorgeous palace, all marble and gold, where you will live a long, long time, the happiest of the happy with this beautiful angel, for he will love you as you love your mother; and then, one day, this palace being no longer beautiful enough for you, you and your angel together will fly away to go and occupy a more beautiful one up there."

"And will you be there in that palace, with my mamma?" asked the child, fixing her large, inquiring eyes by turns on Madame de Fersen and on me.

It was folly, but I could not help feeling delighted at the association made by Irene in speaking of her mother and of me.

I know not whether Madame de Fersen noticed the sentiment, but she blushed, and said to her daughter, doubtless to avoid answering her question:

"Yes, my child, I shall be there,—at least I hope so."

"But will you be there with him?" persisted the child pointing at me with her little finger.

Whether she was annoyed at Irene's strange insistence, or whether she felt embarrassed, Madame de Fersen kissed her tenderly, took her in her arms and pressed her to her heart, saying, "You are a little goose; go to sleep, my pet."

Then with an absent air she looked through the window of the saloon, saying, "It is a lovely day! How calm is the sea!"

"Very calm," said I, with some irritation at seeing the conversation taking another turn.

Irene closed her eyes and seemed about to go to sleep. Her mother, with infinite grace, caught some of her child's curls and drew them across her eyes, saying softly with motherly fondness, "Sleep, my child, now that I have closed your pretty curtains."

In the early phases of love, there are entrancing trifles which give delight to sensitive souls.

It seemed to me delightful to be able to speak to Madame de Fersen in a half whisper, under pretext of not waking the child. There was in this apparently slight shade of difference something tender, mysterious, veiled, which entranced me.

Irene soon closed her eyes.

"How beautiful she is!" I whispered to her mother. "How much happiness may be read in that lovely face!"

Shall I say that I waited almost with anxiety Madame de Fersen's reply, to know whether she also would whisper back to me?

Shall I say that I was happy, oh, so very happy to hear her reply in the same tone?

"May you be a true prophet," she said; "may she be happy!"

"I could not tell her all I could foresee, madame, she would not have understood; but will you permit me to tell you what I would dream for her?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then, madame, let us not speak of the happiness which is assured to her so long as she lives by your side; that would be too easy a prophecy. Let us speak of the moment so cruel to a mother's heart, when she must abandon her idolised child to the care of an unknown family, of an unknown man. Poor mother! she can scarcely believe it. Her daughter, so timid, so retiring, so sensitive a nature, that to her mother alone she spoke without blushing, and with joyous assurance! Her daughter,—whom she has never left by day or by night! Her daughter,—her pride, her care, her solicitude, and her glory! Her daughter,—that angel of grace and candour, whom she alone can understand, whose joys and sorrows, susceptibility and diffidence she alone can divine! She is now in the power of a stranger, one who has ingratiated himself solely by coming daily for two months under the eyes of her parents to talk to her of conventional trifles, or, perhaps, of the duty that a wife owes her husband. They are now united; and here, madame, I spare you the horribly vulgar and suggestive pageantry with which we lead a young girl to the altar, under the eyes of an unblushing crowd, with great parade, in the glare of daylight, and with the blare of music and of pomp. In Otähiti they act with more modesty, or at least with more reserve. At length, after the ceremony, this man carries off his prey to his home, saying, 'Follow me, wife!' Well, madame, should my predictions be realised, he who before God and before men would have the right to say so harshly to your daughter, 'Wife, follow me!' should rather say to her, in a soft, timid, supplicating voice, 'Come, my betrothed!'"

Madame de Fersen looked at me with astonishment.

"Yes, madame, above all, that man will respect with pious adoration, with religious veneration, the chastely sublime terror of the maiden, torn from her mother's arms, from her virgin couch, to be thrown suddenly in a strange household. That deep and instinctive fear, that sorrowful regret which his wife feels, he will calm by degrees, with charming attention, with simple kindness, which will tame that poor shrinking heart. He will know how to make himself beloved as the best of brothers, in the hope of being some day the happiest of lovers."

"What a pity that dream is only a charming folly!" said Madame de Fersen, with a sigh.

"Is it not a pity? Confess that nothing would be more adorable than the mysterious phases of such a love, exalted as hope, passionate as desire, and yet legitimate and authorised. The day on which the young wife, after a prolonged courtship, inspired by passion, should confirm by a tender avowal those rights so ardently desired, which her husband would accept solely from her,—that day would be treasured in her heart as an entrancing and enduring memory. When she had thus freely bestowed herself she would find later that the gallantry and temptations of the world pale before the memory of that dazzling, ardent happiness ever present to her mind. Such a memory would assuredly protect a woman from all sinful allurements, which could never offer to her the ineffable rapture which she had found in a sacred and legitimate union."

Whilst I was talking, Madame de Fersen regarded me with increasing astonishment. At last she said:

"Do you really hold on marriage views of such excessive delicacy?"

"Assuredly, madame, or at least I borrow them for my prediction from the man who some day shall be so fortunate as to be entrusted with your daughter's happiness. Do you not think that a husband such as I predict for her, handsome, young, well born, intellectual, attractive, who should hold these opinions, do you not think that he would offer the greatest possibilities for durable happiness? I am sure that Mlle. Irene is endowed with all those precious gifts of the soul which can inspire and appreciate such a love."

"Of course, it is but a beautiful dream; but I must repeat that I am greatly astonished that you should have such dreams," she said to me, with a slightly mocking air.

"And why, madame?"

"What! you, monsieur, who came to the Orient to seek the idealisation of material life!"

"It is true," I murmured, gazing at her fixedly; "but I renounced that life from the moment when chance brought to my knowledge, and gave me the opportunity of adoring, an idealisation of its opposites, of intellect, grace, and love."

Madame de Fersen looked at me severely.

I do not know what she was about to say, when her husband entered and asked me if I knew an air called "Anacreon and Polycrates."

Since the day on which the avowal passed my lips, Madame de Fersen seemed carefully to avoid remaining alone with me, although before our travelling companions her manner was unchanged.

Thanks to the singular affection, however, with which I had inspired Irene, the princess found it difficult to carry out her project.

Whether I appeared on deck or in the saloon, the child took me by the hand, and led me to Madame de Fersen, saying:

"Come, I like to see you with my mother."

At first I could hardly refrain from smiling at Madame de Fersen's vexation at being thus forced into a tête-à-tête which she desired to avoid.

But I feared that this vexation of which I was the involuntary cause might make her take a dislike to me, and I tried to repulse Irene's advances. When she insisted, I refused brusquely two or three times.

The poor child said not a word, two great tears trickled down her cheeks, and she went silently and sat down at a distance from me and her mother.

The latter tried to approach her, to console her, but Irene gently repulsed her caresses.

That evening she ate nothing, and her nurse, who passed the night at her bedside, said that she had hardly slept, and had had several fits of silent weeping.

M. de Fersen, who was not aware of the cause of his daughter's trifling ailment, made light of it and attributed it to the child's excessive nervous susceptibility.

But Madame de Fersen gave me a look of irritation.

I understood her.

My avowal, by placing her on her guard, had made her avoid opportunities of being alone with me.

Irene felt considerably aggrieved at this apparent coldness; the princess naturally looked upon me as the primary cause of her daughter's grief, and she loved her with mad devotion.

Madame de Fersen had therefore good cause to dislike me. I resolved to end Irene's unhappiness.

I took advantage of a moment when I was alone with Madame de Fersen to say to her:

"Madame, forgive an insensate avowal. I regret it the more that it has not been alien to the sorrow and suffering of poor little Irene. I pledge you my word that I will never again say a single word which might trouble your maternal joys and thus expose me to forfeit your good graces which I so highly value."

Madame de Fersen gave me her hand, with charming gratitude, and said:

"I believe you, and thank you with all my heart, for you will thus no longer separate me from my daughter!"

CHAPTER XV

THE ADIEUX

I soon regretted having promised Madame de Fersen never to address her a word of gallantry. Since she felt entirely at her ease with me, she appeared to me more and more charming, and each day I became more deeply in love.

Constant to our meetings in the saloon, where we were almost always alone with Irene, our intercourse soon became quite friendly and intimate.

I very skilfully displayed my total ignorance of politics so that they should be entirely banished in our conversations. Having mastered the situation, I succeeded in always bringing back our talks to the thousand subjects relating to tender or passionate sentiments.

Sometimes, as though fearing the tendency of our intercourse, Madame de Fersen insisted on speaking politics. Then I would profess my ignorance, and the princess would wittily accuse me of acting like those lovers who pretend to dislike sport, in order that they may stay at home with the ladies while their husbands go tramping across the fields.

When the tediousness of navigation had given rise to a certain degree of intimacy between me and the officers of the Russian frigate, our conversation often introduced the name of Madame de Fersen, and I was surprised at the profound respect with which they always spoke of her. Calumny, they said, had never attacked her, be it in Russia, Constantinople, or at the different courts where she had resided.

A reputation of unimpeachable purity has, I believe, an irresistible charm, especially when found in a young, beautiful, and intellectual woman, of an exalted position; for she must be endowed with a powerful moral strength, to disarm envy, or to blunt its darts, and inspire, as did Madame de Fersen, a general sentiment of benevolence and respect.

In comparing my love for Madame de Pënâfiel to what I felt for Madame de Fersen, I appreciated the lofty and alluring charm of this seduction.

Marguerite had, doubtless, been shamefully maligned,—of this I had received indisputable proofs; but, however false may be the rumours that attack the woman you love, they will ever produce a feeling of resentment.

Admitting, even, that you succeed in convincing yourself of the falsehood of the rumour, you then accuse the woman who is its victim of not possessing the wit to assert her virtue.

Hélène's life had been pure, and yet she had been attacked. My attentions to her had alone occasioned those odious rumours, and yet, in my unjust frenzy, I accused her of not having known how to hold herself above suspicion.

Apart from the grace, the beauty, and intellect of Madame de Fersen, what contributed most to the feeling of adoration in me was, I repeat it, her reputation for exalted and calm virtue.

Most men, when they persist in combating the resistance of a woman seriously attached to her duties, are only led on by the love of contention, by the anticipation of a proud victory!

These were not the sentiments that made me persist in my love for Madame de Fersen. It was an unlimited reliance on the purity of her heart, in the nobility of her character; it was the certainty of loving her with all the chaste delights of the soul, without fear of being deceived by feigned severity or false prudery.

Moreover, I had given myself up to such coarse materialism during my stay at Khios, that I had an inexpressible desire to abandon myself to the exquisite refinement of a pure and lofty sentiment.

Our crossing, delayed by equinoctial winds, and followed by a long quarantine at the Toulon lazaretto, lasted six weeks.

I did not think I had made any progress in the affections of Madame de Fersen, for her manner towards me had become more and more unconstrained and friendly. She had frankly confessed her pleasure at what she was pleased to call my witty discourse, and expressed a hope that during her stay in Paris we should renew as frequently as possible "our conversations of the saloon."

It was evident Madame de Fersen considered me absolutely unimportant. However unpleasant this discovery was to my vanity, such was my love for Catherine, that I only thought of the happiness of seeing her as frequently as possible, and hoped in the sincerity of my affection for her.

At the end of our quarantine we landed at Toulon, and remained some days to visit that port. M. de Fersen proposed to me that we should not yet separate, and continue our journey together as far as Paris.

I accepted.

I sent for my carriage, which I had sent back to Marseilles when we started from Porquerolles, and we left for Paris towards the beginning of November.

M. de Fersen and his wife travelled in one coach; his daughter, with her nurse, in another. As my travelling carriage was of the same description, and could only accommodate two persons, every day, when about to start after breakfast, M. de Fersen would beg me to take his place in his wife's carriage, while he took his customary siesta in mine.

Irene, who had shown much sorrow at the mere idea of separating from me, always joined us at these times, and our "conversations of the saloon" continued thus up to Paris.

Notwithstanding the promise I had made Madame de Fersen, I determined on the last day of our journey, to renew my avowal of love.

Until then I had scrupulously kept my word, because I feared by not doing so I would forfeit the privilege of our tête-à-tête during the journey.

My hope had been to become, at least for Catherine, a daily thought, and to captivate and interest her mind so that little by little she should become keenly sensitive to my presence or my absence.

I believed that I had achieved this end. I loved Madame de Fersen ardently. I had an excessive longing to please her, and except the word "love," which never passed my lips, I put in my attentions to her all the eagerness, all the tenderness, of the most passionate lover.

Without studying my conversation too deeply, I endeavoured to speak to Catherine only on subjects that were new to her.

She knew neither Paris, nor France, nor England, nor Spain, and I was thoroughly acquainted with them all. I tried, therefore, to amuse her with my accounts of these places, and my descriptions of the customs and habits of these nations.

I succeeded almost always, as I could perceive by the serious attention given to my words, and the interested questions they elicited; then, in spite of myself, I showed my happiness and delight in having interested her.

Madame de Fersen had too much tact not to notice the great impression she continued to make upon me, and she seemed grateful to me for my reserve.

Especially, every time that I found the way, without grieving Irene too deeply, to avoid the embarrassments which the child's strange affection for me brought about at every moment, Madame de Fersen would thank me by an enchanting glance.

One of Irene's chief delights was to take one of my hands, and, having placed it between her mother's, she would silently gaze at us.

This slight favour would have been precious to me had it been granted spontaneously by a tender sentiment on the part of Madame de Fersen; but, not wishing to obtain it otherwise, each time that Irene had this caprice I would carry her little fingers up to my lips without giving her a chance to place my hand in her mother's.

The day before reaching Paris, I was resolved to make another attempt at declaring my love, when a strange incident, which should perhaps have encouraged me to take this step, deterred me from it.

I had not yet been able to ascertain whether or no Madame de Fersen was jealous of her daughter's affection for me; sometimes she had spoken of it in a gaily bantering manner, at other times, on the contrary, she had alluded to it with sadness, almost with bitterness.

That day Irene, who occupied a place in her mother's carriage, asked her if I should have a handsome room in Paris.

I hastily answered the child that I would have a house of my own, and would not live with them.

At these words, Irene as usual silently wept.

Madame de Fersen, seeing her tears, exclaimed, with grieved impatience: "Mon Dieu! what is the matter with the child? Why does she love you thus? It is hateful!"

"She loves me, perhaps, for the same reason that she loved Ivan," said I.

As Madame de Fersen did not seem to understand my words, I explained to her the meaning which I attached to them, and spoke of the Sanscrit tradition.

Madame de Fersen thought I was joking.

I have already said that this tradition was written by my father in a book full of notes relating to one of his journeys to England.

Fortunately, this manuscript was in my carriage, for quite recently I had sought in it some particulars in order to explain to Madame de Fersen certain customs which in Scotland are handed down from generation to generation.

At one of the relays, I went for the manuscript, and showed it to Madame de Fersen.

The date was so clear, the writing so faded, that Madame de Fersen could not doubt its authenticity.

I shall never forget the tearful look which Madame de Fersen fixed on me as she let the book fall on her lap.

Doubtless she experienced the same strange emotion I felt when I considered Irene's affection for Ivan and his death, with the writing of this extraordinary tradition:

"Those predestined to an early and violent death have the gift of fascinating children and lunatics."

Irene displayed for me the same fondness she had for Ivan. Might not my fate be the same?

To understand, moreover, all the interest felt by Madame de Fersen at this discovery, one should know that I had frequently frankly confessed to her my excessive superstition, and had so greatly impressed her by relating many singular incidents of this character, that the germs of the same weakness had been laid in her mind.

I must confess, I seemed to discover in Madame de Fersen's look, in her emotion, in her agitation, more than friendship, more than the expression of a touching regret.

Wild with hope, a fresh declaration sprang to my lips; but fortunately I held back, for I would have committed an irreparable mistake.

If Madame de Fersen's sentiments were really tender, would it not have been stupid in me to arouse her vigilance, which, under her imperious will and sense of duty, would have smothered the first vague instinct of love awakening in her heart?

On the contrary, if the interest which Madame de Fersen showed me was simply friendly, my presumption would have covered me with ridicule in her eyes.

The turn soon taken by our conversation led easily to a proposition which I wished to make to Madame de Fersen, as much as a safeguard to her reputation as in the interest of my affection.

We were speaking of Irene.

"Poor child!" said I to her mother, "how can she get accustomed not to see me?"

"But she will retain, I hope for her and for me, this charming intercourse," replied Catherine, "for it has been agreed that once in Paris our 'conversations of the saloon,' as we call them, would continue. M. de Fersen's position and mine, being most independent at the Court of France, I shall not be submitted to any duties but such as I am willing to assume, and I assure you that no pleasures, no diversions, will induce me to miss these pleasant, friendly chats of daily recurrence, if, however," added Madame de Fersen, smiling, "if your old friends will allow you to think of your new friends. But I count very much on my claims as a stranger, and on your perfect French gallantry, to oblige you to be my cicerone, and to do the honours of Paris for me, for I wish to see nothing, to admire nothing, unless under your guidance."

I will confess, I had need of all my courage, all my love, and a great terror of the withering calumnies of the world, to enable me to thrust aside the delightful prospect which Madame de Fersen dreamt for us both.

After a few minutes of silence, "Madame," said I, with deep and sad emotion, "you cannot doubt my respectful attachment for you?"

"What a question! On the contrary, I believe in it firmly; yes, I believe I would be wretched if I could not believe."

"Well, then, madame, permit a true and devoted friend to tell you what he might say to a sister; and when you will have heard me, do not permit yourself to yield to your first impression, for it would be unfavourable to me; but second thoughts will prove to you that what I am going to say is dictated by the strongest and most sincere affection."

"Speak then, I beg you—speak—you alarm me."

"Until now, madame, you have never known calumny; it did not, it could not, attack you. It is that sublime confidence in your own high-mindedness that has saved you from the fear of evil speaking. Yet, believe me, madame, were I to avail myself of the delightful prospect you hold out to me, the irreproachable purity of your principles would not guarantee you from the most perfidious attacks."

"Never shall I abandon my friends from fear, my conscience suffices me," said Madame de Fersen, with the courageous indifference of a woman sure of herself.

"How can you tell, madame?" I exclaimed. "Have you struggled, to be so sure of victory? Never! Until now the dazzling purity of your life has sufficed to guard you. How could you have given rise to slander? But reflect now. I have come with you all the way from Khios, all the way from Toulon to Paris. I am aware that I am of not the slightest importance; you know me now well enough to believe that I do not exaggerate my importance for the sake of a miserable paltry vanity. But what is that to the world so long as it can malign? Does it not know, moreover, that slander is all the more odious when the object of the guilty love it supposes is least worthy of that love? We shall associate with the same people, I shall be seen every day at your house, escorting you in your walks, in society with you, and you believe, you insist, that jealousy, envy, and hatred will not seize upon the opportunity of revenging themselves for your wit, your beauty, and your exalted position; and above all for your shining virtue, the most precious jewel in your noble crown! But think of it, madame, the arch-type of our judge-executioners has said: 'Give me four lines of writing of the most honest man in the world, and I will undertake to have him hung.' The world, that judge-executioner, may say with equal assurance, 'Give me four days of the life of the purest woman in the world, and I will undertake to have her disgraced.'"

For some time Madame de Fersen had been gazing at me with an astonishment she could not disguise. At first she seemed almost shocked at my refusal and my remarks.

It was not unexpected. Then her features assumed a more amiable expression, and she said, with a shade of coldness:

"I will not discuss with you as to your views of the world, especially of Parisian society, which I am aware is most brilliant and dangerous; but I believe you exaggerate the risk one would run, and above all the effect of slander upon me."

"And why then, madame, should calumny have no effect on you? What am I to you that you should hereafter hesitate for one instant to sacrifice me to the imperious demands of your reputation? Would you put in the balance the guardianship of your honour, your responsibility for your child's future, with the charm of our daily conversations? Most assuredly not, and you would be right; for if you persisted in your project, if I were base enough to encourage you in it, when slander reached you, you would have the right to turn upon me with scorn and say: 'You pretended to be my friend! You were false! You took advantage of my indiscretion to draw me into an intimacy where appearances may be most damaging. Go; I shall never see you again!' And once more you would be right, madame. Can you realise how much courage it takes to speak to you as I do,—to refuse what you offer? Think of what you are, of all that you are, and say if the pride and vanity of a less honest man than I would not be gratified and flattered by those very rumours from which I strive to save you. For, after all, what do I risk in aiding you to compromise yourself? What do I risk? To assist the world to misinterpret, to wither with its customary malice our intercourse, however innocent it may be? But, you reply, in that case you would drive me from your presence. What does that matter? Do you know how the world would interpret this deserved banishment? It would be said that a discord had arisen between us. If the world were well disposed towards you, it would say you had discarded me in favour of some other lover. If it was unfavourable to you it would say that I had abandoned you for another mistress."

"Ah, monsieur, monsieur!" exclaimed Madame de Fersen, pressing her hands together almost in terror. "What a picture! May it never come true!"

"It is but too true, madame; if the world were wise and clear-sighted as it is supposed to be, it would be less dangerous, for it would keep to the truth; but it is wicked, coarsely credulous, and a gossip, which renders it most mischievous. The world clear-sighted! It is too willing to slander to be clear-sighted. Has it time and leisure to penetrate the sentiments it supposes? It loves too well to keep on the outside, and conjecture from appearances which frequently are displayed without mistrust because they are guiltless,—that is enough for the infernal activity of its envy. Ah, believe me, madame, had I not the sad experience I possess of men and things, the instinct of my attachment to you would enlighten me, for you never can know how precious to me is all that concerns you, how distressed I should be to see that radiant halo which now enhances your beauty tarnished. I repeat it, the honour of my mother, of my sister, are not more precious to me than yours. Think how dreadful it would be for me if I were the cause of slander which should attack that treasure in which I glory. I will confess another weakness. Yes, it would be hateful to me to think that the world should speak with its insolent and brutal scorn of that which was my happiness and my pride. Yes, my dream is that this charming intimacy, which will ever be one of the most delightful recollections of my life, shall remain unknown to this world, for its shameless word would destroy the purity of this intercourse,—and this dream, I shall realise it."

"Then," said Madame de Fersen, with an almost solemn air, "we must give up all thought of meeting in Paris?"

"Not so, madame, not so! We shall meet the evenings you receive, just like all the other people you receive. Later, perhaps, you will permit me occasionally to call on you of a morning."

Madame de Fersen remained for some time in silent meditation, her head bent low; then suddenly she drew herself up; her face was slightly tinged with colour, and, with a voice betraying much agitation, she said: "You have a generous heart. Your friendship is austere, but it is great, strong, and noble. I understand the duties which it imposes and I will be worthy of it. From this moment," and she gave me her hand, "you have won a sincere and unalterable friendship."

I kissed her hand respectfully.

At the same moment we reached one of the last post-stations.

I left Madame de Fersen's coach, and sought her husband, who was asleep in my chaise.

"My dear prince," I said to him, "I wish to ask a service of you."

"Speak, my dear count."

"For a reason which I must keep secret, I wish that no one should know that I come from Khios, and consequently that I travelled from Toulon to Paris with you. I am a personage of so little importance that my name will not have been noticed on our journey. I shall stop at the next relay, make a long round to reach Fontainebleau, where I shall remain several days, and will thus arrive in Paris some time after you. All that I ask of your friendship is that you will receive favourably the request of one of my friends who will ask permission to present me to you. I should regret it keenly were I obliged to suspend an intercourse so delightful to me."

M. de Fersen, with his usual tact, made no objection, and promised all that I asked.

At the next relay, I informed Madame de Fersen that I was unfortunately obliged to take my leave of her, and delegated to the prince, who was present, the task of explaining to her why I was deprived of the pleasure of continuing the journey with her.

She gave me her hand, which I kissed.

Then I tenderly embraced Irene, throwing a sad farewell glance at her mother.

Fresh horses were put to the carriages of the prince, they started, and I remained alone.

My heart was broken.

Little by little the consciousness of having acted nobly towards Madame de Fersen soothed my mind.

I reflected that I should thus learn without in any way endangering her reputation whether Madame de Fersen felt for me a true friendship, perhaps even a more tender sentiment, or whether I owed to isolation, to idleness, and to the absence of all comparison, the interest which she had shown me.

If she loved me, the constraint, the necessity of no longer seeing me, would be irksome to her, would perhaps be painful, and this sorrow, this regret, would assuredly betray itself.

If, on the other hand, I had only been an agreeable acquaintance who had helped to while away the long hours of the journey, I should, without doubt, be sacrificed to the first more entertaining conversation, or the slightest worldly consideration.

I would never willingly expose myself to be superseded, and I thus avoided it.

I would doubtless suffer much, should I find that Madame de Fersen's sentiments for me were so weak that they were easily effaced, but in acting otherwise I would have had the same sorrow and mortification besides.

I remained eight days at Fontainebleau and then left for Paris.

CHAPTER XVI

A MINISTER IN LOVE

I reëntered Paris, from which I had been absent eighteen months, with a certain heartache. I had a faint hope, or rather some dread, of meeting Hélène or Marguerite.

I fancied myself completely cured of my fatal monomania of distrust; my great love for Madame de Fersen had, in my eyes, performed this prodigy. I promised myself, in case I should meet my cousin, or Madame de Pënâfiel, frankly to ask their forgiveness, and to endeavour by the most affectionate and friendly attentions to make amends for the hateful follies of the lover of former days.

I met M. de Cernay, who from the Opéra had transferred his amorous worship to the Comédie-Française, in the suite of Mlle. ——, a most enticing soubrette.

M. de Pommerive was heavier, more slanderous, and more wearisome than ever. Cernay greeted me with effusive cordiality, and asked me about my travels with Falmouth, for as yet nothing had transpired.

As I was very reserved on this subject, as much by natural tendency as by premeditation, Cernay and Pommerive ended by imagining the most unheard-of things on the pretended mystery of my adventures.

In accordance with my arrangement with the prince, I begged a man of my acquaintance, very intimate with the Russian ambassador, to present me to Madame de Fersen.

The prince had rented a handsome furnished mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain.

Before long his salons were the customary meeting-place of the corps diplomatique and of the cream of Parisian society, regardless of political opinions.

Madame de Fersen's appearance in the world caused a sensation. Her beauty, her name, and her reputation as a woman versed in politics and interested in the great topics of the day, the respect which she inspired, all contributed to place her very high in public estimation.

In a short time the just appreciation of the rare qualities that distinguished her was followed by the most pronounced infatuation.

The women who shared her austere principles were delighted and proud to strengthen their ranks with such a recruit. Those, on the contrary, who might have dreaded her coldness, taking it as a mute censure of their flightiness, were charmed and surprised at her great amiability. Assured of not finding in her a rival, they became enthusiastic regarding the beautiful stranger.

I can scarcely express my happiness at Madame de Fersen's success.

I went to her house for the first time one evening, five or six days after my arrival in Paris.

Though rather late, there were as yet few people assembled.

She greeted me very gracefully; but I observed in her a certain reserve, uneasiness, and sadness.

I fancied she wished to speak to me in private.

I was striving to ascertain what could be her anxiety, when, in the course of conversation, M. de Sérigny, at that time Minister of Foreign Affairs, spoke of children in connection with an admirable portrait which Lawrence had just exhibited at the Salon.

Madame de Fersen gave me a rapid glance, and then complained that her daughter was ailing and sad at finding herself thrown among strangers, and that no distraction had availed to draw her out of her melancholy,—neither games nor walks in the large gardens surrounding the mansion.

"But, madame," said I, hoping to be understood, "would it not be better to send your daughter to the Tuileries Gardens? She would find there companions more of her own age, and their gaiety would doubtless divert her."

A touching glance from Madame de Fersen showed me she had understood, for she replied, quickly: "Mon Dieu! you are right, monsieur. I am very sorry I did not think of that sooner. From to-morrow, I shall always send my little girl to the Tuileries. I am sure she will be very happy there, and already I feel assured she will get well."

I was happy to see from this mysterious interchange of thoughts that Madame de Fersen's heart read mine.

Fresh visitors interrupted the conversation, the circle grew larger, and I rose to go and chat with some ladies of my acquaintance.

"Ah, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Madame de ——, "M. de Pommerive here! That man thrusts himself everywhere, then?"

In fact, there was Pommerive, with a less impudent air than usual, following in the steps of the chargé d'affaires of some little German court, who was doubtless leading him up to Madame de Fersen.

"It is a presentation," said Madame de —— to me.

"If there were justice," I replied, "it would be an exposition."

"But how can Madame de Fersen receive affably so slanderous and false a man?" said Madame de ——.

"To prove, doubtless, the weakness of that man's calumnies," replied I.

Pommerive made a profound bow to Madame de Fersen, then followed the chargé d'affaires, and both went in search of M. de Fersen.

A few minutes later, I found myself face to face with Pommerive.

"Hello! Are you here?" he cried.

This exclamation was so absurdly impertinent, that I answered:

"If I were less polite, M. de Pommerive, I might express my astonishment at finding you here."

"I am not at all astonished at it," said Pommerive with an impudent assurance, for which he was indebted to his age, and to a reputation for cynic cowardice, which I should have stated he was wont to boast of. "I did not expect to meet you; that is all. But listen." Then, taking my arm, he led me to the recess of a window, saying as we moved along: "Do you know the Prince do Fersen very well?"

Pommerive was repugnant to me, but I was curious to know if people had heard of my having travelled with the princess, and as Pommerive was sure to pick up the slightest report, true or false, he might enlighten me on this subject.

"I do not know M. de Fersen any better than you know him," I said.

"Then you know him very well," he replied, conceitedly.

"How is that?"

"Certainly. I dined with him yesterday, a miserable dinner it is true, at Baron ——'s, chargé d'affaires of ——, who brought me here just now in his carriage! And what a carriage! a wretched concern with a glass window in the back, a regular rattletrap. It is indeed a carriage which seems made expressly to help to digest his bad dinners, so hard is it; for that miserly fellow scrapes up dowries for his six hideous daughters from the allowance made him for entertaining; and he is right, for without dowry who the devil would look twice at any of his daughters? But I come back to the prince."

"Very unfortunate for him, M. de Pommerive."

"Oh, not at all! I shall be careful of the dear prince, for he appreciates me, and I have come to make an appointment for our business."

"And what business, M. de Pommerive? May one, without being indiscreet, inquire into this diplomatic secret?"

"Oh, it is quite plain; he asked that miserly baron—" and here Pommerive opened a parenthesis to insert another piece of malice. "Speaking of this miserly baron," he continued, "would you believe it? when he gives his wretched dinners, a sort of Maître Jacques goes once around the table with a miserable bottle of champagne, not iced, which he holds tightly in his arms, just as a nurse holds her precious nursling; and he says very quickly, as he passes on still more quickly, 'Monsieur does not drink champagne,' without any point of interrogation, the wretch, but with an accent of affirmation."

"See now the value of punctuation, M. de Pommerive! But come back to the prince."

"Well, M. de Fersen having asked the baron to point out to him some one of enlightenment and good taste who could coach him on theatrical matters, and give him information about the actors, the baron has had the good sense to present me."

"Ah, I understand," I replied, "you are going to be M. de Fersen's dramatic cicerone."

"That is it exactly; but, between us, I find this fondness for the theatre very ridiculous in a man like the prince. To judge by this sample he must be a poor sort of a fellow, this Fersen. I am not surprised at people saying that his wife directs all the diplomatic affairs. She has the appearance of a strong-minded woman, sharp and hard; and, moreover, they say a thirty-six carats virtue. What do I care about her virtue? I do not grudge it to her, though there is not a dissenting voice. It is astonishing!"

"There is something even more astonishing, M. de Pommerive."

"And what is it, dear count?"

"It is that some straightforward, honourable man has not the courage to go to M. de Fersen and repeat word for word all the insolent things you have permitted yourself to say about him, so that he might kick you out of his house."

"Dash it! no one would surely go and repeat to him what I have said! I feel pretty safe on that score; but if any one did I would not care, I would stand by my words."

"You are boasting, M. de Pommerive!"

"What, I boasting! That does not prevent that on one occasion they repeated to Verpuis—you know Verpuis, who was such a duellist—that I had said that he had only the courage of foolhardiness. Verpuis comes to me with his bullying air and asks me in the presence of twenty persons, 'Did you make use of these words, yes or no?' 'No, sir,' I replied, also putting on a bullying air, 'I said, on the contrary, that you had only the foolhardiness of courage.'"

"You certainly did not say that, M. de Pommerive!"

"I did, and the proof of it is that he kicked me. I then said that it was cowardly to insult a man who would not fight; and he took that."

This disgusting boast of cowardice, for Pommerive had never quite lowered himself to that extent, revolted me. I turned my back upon the man, but could not shake him off readily.

"You will see," said he, "one of your old flames, the pretty Madame de V——, with whom M. de Sérigny, Minister of Foreign Affairs, is madly in love. They say really that he is crazy enough to be shut up in a lunatic asylum since he has been pursuing that little woman; he knows neither what he says, nor what he does. This diplomatic céladon would make you die with laughter, if he was not such a pitiable object. But here he comes. I must go and beg him not to forget my recommendation of my nephew. Let us hope that his ridiculous love affair has not made him lose his memory as well as his wits."

And this insolent person approached M. de Sérigny with abject salutations.

At this moment Madame de V—— was announced.

I had not seen her since my return to Paris. I found her, if possible, looking younger, so much freshness, piquancy, and sparkle did that lively, mobile countenance display.

Madame de V—— dressed in a manner quite her own, but never showy or eccentric, and always with the most perfect taste.

The minister, who had got rid of Pommerive, watched with an anxious and jealous eye the numerous salutations which she acknowledged on all sides with her sparkling coquetry. He seemed somewhat easier when he saw Madame de V—— seated between Lady Bury and another lady.

M. de Sérigny, at that time Minister of Foreign Affairs, was a man of about fifty years of age, rather insignificant and careless in his appearance. He affected a brusqueness of manner, a heedless indifference, which, assumed or not, had always, people said, been of remarkable service to him in his career. He was a man of fine, broad mind, but in society he rarely made use of his intellectual faculties. His superiority was summed up in his taciturnity, and the sole expression of his countenance was concentrated in a smile. Now this silence and this smile, completing, interpreting, and explaining one another, could in turns be so admirably flattering, sarcastic, wicked, or absent, that this language had really a great significance.

Jealous to an excess, his passion for Madame de V—— was intense, at least according to the world of whom Pommerive was the faithful echo.

When a man of the age, character, and position of M. de Sérigny becomes seriously enamoured of a woman so frivolous and coquettish as Madame de V——, his amorous life can only be a prolonged torture.

As I wished to observe M. de Sérigny in his rôle of martyr, I slid behind the easy chair in which sat Madame de V——, and went to salute her.

I well knew the vivacity of her demeanour, and was quite prepared for the explosive friendly recognition. I had formerly rejected the conditions which might have made me succeed in obtaining her favours, but we had parted on the best of terms, and I had kept secret all that passed between us. Now Madame de V——, who unfortunately had more than once exposed herself to being roughly handled, was naturally grateful to me for my prudence.

Scarcely had she heard my voice, therefore, than she turned abruptly, and holding out her hand exclaimed, with her customary volubility:

"What a delightful surprise! and how happy I am to see you once more! But have you fallen from the clouds that no one knew of your return? and I who have really so much to thank you for! Now then give me your arm, and we will settle ourselves in some solitary nook in the next parlour, for you cannot imagine all I have to say to you."

Thereupon, up she jumps from her seat, and, making her way through the crowd surrounding the easy chair, she takes my arm, and we walk out of the big salon into another room which was nearly empty.

Standing talking at the entrance of this room were Madame de Fersen and M. de Sérigny.

Madame de V—— had such compromising ways that nothing with her was insignificant, and she found means during our short progress from one room to the other to call attention to herself by her affectation in whispering to me and then bursting into peals of laughter.

Just as we passed in front of Madame de Fersen, the latter, astonished at Madame de V——'s noisy ways, gave me a look which seemed uneasy and almost inquiring.

The minister stared at me moodily, coloured up a little, assumed his most affable smile, and said to Madame de V——-, with a foppish air, without being heard by the princess: "You are going to establish there a colony of admirers which will soon become more populous than the metropolis."

"Provided you do not interfere in its administration," retorted Madame de V——, laughing playfully; then she added, in a low voice, "You must confess that there is nothing like love to make an idiot of a man. M. de Sérigny is a man of great intellect, and yet you heard him! Is it flattering to inspire a sentiment which is expressed so stupidly under pretence of being sincere?" While saying these words, she seated herself near a table covered with albums. I took a place near her, and we chatted.

During this conversation, two or three times my eyes met those of Madame de Fersen, who, each time she perceived I was looking at her, quickly turned her gaze.

M. de Sérigny watched Madame de V—— all the time and seemed on thorns.

A woman came up; Madame de Fersen took her arm and went into the salon.

The minister was doubtless coming towards us when he was arrested by Baron ——, who, according to Pommerive, accumulated his daughters' dowries from the appropriation for entertainments.

I do not know if the subject of his talk with M. de Sérigny was very important, but I have my doubts as to the attention given him by the minister, so engaged was he in watching Madame de V——.

"Well," said I to my companion, "it is then true? Those charming hands hold the fate of Europe? The reign of female sovereigns and of enslaved ministers is returning? How delightful! It looks as rococo as possible and seems very pretty. See now, for instance, at this very moment you are entangling wildly the destinies of the grand duchy of ——, for the chargé d'affaires of that poor little court seems to me to have exhausted all his arguments, and you look as if he had spoken Greek."

"Let us for once exhaust this miserable subject of conversation," said Madame de V—— with vivacity, "never to return to it. Yes, M. de Sérigny pays furious court to me, and I do not reject his attentions. I am even very coquettish with him, because it amuses me to tyrannise over a man in so high a position; and then, as they attribute to me as much influence over him as they attribute to him worship of me, you can have no idea of the snares laid for me by the corps diplomatique to make me talk. For my own amusement, I make quite innocently the most absurd half confidences, but you can well see that all this can hardly afford amusement to a boarding-school miss. This is my confession; grant me plenary absolution, at least out of pity, for M. de Sérigny is a wearisome sin. And now, in your turn, tell me of your travels, your adventures, your love affairs, and I will see if I can grant you absolution."

"To speak in your own language, I will confess, in the first place, that my greatest sin is being still in love with you."

"Hold!" said Madame de V——, changing voice, manner, and expression, and taking a tone until now unknown to me. "You behaved nobly as regards Madame de Pënâfiel; she was worth a thousand times more than I. I hated her, perhaps I envied her, for she deserved all your love. I demanded of you a base act which might have ruined her, and you refused. Nothing was more simple for you. But this shameful proposition, which I have not ceased to blush having made you, you have kept it secret; you have not made use of this weapon to strike a woman whom every one attacks, perhaps because she deserves it; and true, true as I am a dolt, I shall never, in all my life, forget how good and generous you have been to me in this matter." Madame de V—— looked at me with a softened glance, and for a moment I saw tears in those eyes usually bright and sparkling like brilliants.

I was at first tempted to attribute these tears to a skilful flash, but the mind of this woman was so mobile and inconstant that I believed in the sincerity of this temporary emotion, and I was touched by it. Softness in this woman, however, could only be an accident, and I replied:

"I have done for you what any honourable man would have done; but you, do something for me truly meritorious; come, love me frankly in your own way, as a coquette, heedlessly, faithlessly, if you will, and I will imitate you. One is never more amiable than when one has to implore forgiveness, therefore we shall be mutually charming. Nothing more delightful; we shall confide our faithlessness to one another, and will betray each other in the frankest way possible."

"M. Arthur," said Madame de V——, still with a serious, softened air and with a voice trembling with emotion, "I am going to say something which to any other but you would appear improper and incomprehensible; but remember this, and believe that I honour you too much—I love you too much—to have you appear as M. de Sérigny's successor."

In spite of myself I was struck by the expression with which Madame de V—— uttered these words.

This attack of sensitiveness, however, was of short duration; for she soon commenced answering with her accustomed gaiety and bantering to the minister's gallantries. He, with considerable difficulty, had shaken off the Baron de V——, and had come up to us.

Caring very little to be a third in M. de Sérigny's company, I rose. Madame de V—— then said: "Do not forget that I am always at home on Thursdays, so as to avoid me on those days which are devoted to bores; but on the other days, if your triumphs leave you leisure, do not neglect an old friend. You are pretty sure to find me in the mornings, and sometimes even of an evening before I make my evening toilet." With these words, which she accompanied with a most gracious smile, she rose, took M. de Sérigny's arm, and said: "I would like a cup of tea, for I am cold."

"I am at your service, madame," said the minister, who happily had assumed his most absent and indifferent smile, while Madame de V—— invited me to call and see her.

Returning to the salon, my eyes sought Madame de Fersen; I met her glance, which seemed austere.

I went home.

When I was no longer under the charm of Madame de V——'s attractive face, I compared that daring levity with Madame de Fersen's dignified and serious grace. I also compared the profound respect and almost obsequious reserve with which men approached her to the cavalier deportment they exhibited towards Madame de V——, and I felt more and more how powerful is the attraction a virtuous woman possesses, and I felt my love for Catherine still increasing.

I was glad that I might look forward to meeting Irene at the Tuileries, and that I had been so well understood by Madame de Fersen. I fancied also—was it an illusion of love?—that Madame de Fersen had seemed almost sad at my long conversation with Madame de V——.

CHAPTER XVII

THE TUILERIES

I waited with extreme impatience the hour for going to the Tuileries to meet Irene.

I attached a thousand thoughts of love and noble devotion in reflecting that child was coming to me covered with the bloom of her mother's kisses, and doubtless bringing me a thousand secret wishes.

About one o'clock, though the air was opaque with a slight autumnal fog, I saw Irene approaching, accompanied by her nurse, an excellent woman who had filled the same position to Madame de Fersen.

Generally at Toulon, or Lyons for instance, where we had made a few days' stay, one of the princess's maids, followed by a footman, had always accompanied Irene in her walks.

I noticed with pleasure that Madame de Fersen, by entrusting her little girl this time to the nurse, of whose attachment she felt sure, had understood the necessity of keeping these meetings secret.

Tears sprang to my eyes when I saw how much Irene had changed. Her charming face was pale and pinched; no longer with its habitual pallor, delicate and roseate, but with a sickly pallor; her large eyes had dark rings under them, and her cheeks, formerly plump and round, were now slightly hollowed.

Irene did not see me at first; she walked close to her nurse, her pretty head bent down, her arms hanging, and with the tips of her pretty feet she crushed the dead leaves which littered the path.

"Good morning, Irene," I said to her.

Scarcely had she heard the sound of my voice, than she gave a piercing cry, threw herself into my arms, closed her eyes and fainted.

I carried her to a bench near by with the help of Madame Paul, her nurse.

"I feared this shock, monsieur," she said to me; "fortunately, I brought a bottle of salts with me. Poor child! she is so nervous."

"Look—look," said I, "the colour returns to her cheeks; her hands are not so cold; she is regaining consciousness."

In fact, this attack passed, Irene raised herself, and when she could sit up she hung to my neck, shedding silent tears which fell hot upon my cheeks.

"Irene, Irene, my dearest, do not weep thus. I shall see you every day."

I pressed her hands while my eyes sought hers.

She held herself up, and with a familiar motion of her head, full of grace and vivacity, she threw back the big curls which half concealed her tear-stained eyes. Then fastening upon me one of her steady, piercing glances, she said to me:

"I believe what you say. Will you not come to see me here, since you cannot come to our house?"

"Yes, Mlle. Irene," answered the nurse. "Monsieur will come to see you every day, if you promise to be very good,—not to cry, and to do what the doctor orders you."

"Certainly, my dear child; for unless you promise that, you will not see me again," I added, with great seriousness.

"You would never again see monsieur," rejoined Madame Paul, with an air of severity.

"But, Paul," exclaimed Irene, stamping her little foot with charming fractiousness, "you know very well I shall no longer cry. I shall not be ill any more, for I shall see him every day."

The good nurse gave me a touching glance. I quickly embraced Irene, and said to her, "Explain to me, little one, why you are so glad to see me?"

"I don't know," she replied, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her brown curls, with an air of sweet, unconscious simplicity. "When you look at me, I cannot help going to you, your eyes draw me; and when you do not look at me, then I feel so badly here," and she placed her hand on her heart. "And then at night, I see you in my dreams, with me and the angels up there." She raised her little finger and her large eyes solemnly towards heaven. Then with a sigh she added, "And, besides, you are good, like Ivan."

I could not help starting.

Madame Paul, evidently informed of this mysterious adventure, exclaimed: "Mademoiselle, remember what your mother told you."

But engrossed in her thoughts, and seeming not to have heard her nurse's remark, Irene continued:

"Only, when I dreamt of Ivan and the angels, I never saw my mother up there; but since I dream of you, my mother is always with us. I told mamma so," Irene added, seriously.

Madame Paul looked at me again, and bursting into tears said: "Ah, monsieur, all my dread is that this child will not live; her beauty, her gravity, like her ideas and her character, are not suited to her age, are not of this world. Would you believe it, except to the princess, to you, and to me, she never speaks to any one of what she has just said? The princess has impressed upon her not to mention to any one that she saw you here, and I am very sure she never will. Ah, monsieur, I pray Heaven daily that this child may be spared to us."

"And she will be spared, be assured! Children who are silent and thoughtful are always dreamy and excitable; it is not surprising. Do not be uneasy. Well, good-bye, Irene; and you, Madame Paul, assure the princess of my respectful regards, and say how grateful I am for the promise she made me to send me daily my little friend."