for the
princess discerned very plainly that the great child with whom she had
to do shrank from the combat as much as she desired it. Nevertheless
d'Arthez put into his mute declarations a respectful awe which was
infinitely pleasing to her. Both felt, every day, all the more united
because nothing acknowledged or definite checked the course of their
ideas, as occurs between lovers when there are formal demands on one
side, and sincere or coquettish refusals on the other.

Like all men younger than their actual age, d'Arthez was a prey to those
agitating irresolutions which are caused by the force of desires and
the terror of displeasing,--a situation which a young woman does not
comprehend when she shares it, but which the princess had too often
deliberately produced not to enjoy its pleasures. In fact, Diane enjoyed
these delightful juvenilities all the more keenly because she knew that
she could put an end to them at any moment. She was like a great artist
delighting in the vague, undecided lines of his sketch, knowing well
that in a moment of inspiration he can complete the masterpiece still
waiting to come to birth. Many a time, seeing d'Arthez on the point
of advancing, she enjoyed stopping him short, with an imposing air and
manner. She drove back the hidden storms of that still young heart,
raised them again, and stilled them with a look, holding out her hand
to be kissed, or saying some trifling insignificant words in a tender
voice.

These manoeuvres, planned in cold blood, but enchantingly executed,
carved her image deeper and deeper on the soul of that great writer and
thinker whom she revelled in making childlike, confiding, simple, and
almost silly beside her. And yet she had moments of repulsion against
her own act, moments in which she could not help admiring the grandeur
of such simplicity. This game of choicest coquetry attached her,
insensibly, to her slave. At last, however, Diane grew impatient with
an Epictetus of love; and when she thought she had trained him to the
utmost credulity, she set to work to tie a thicker bandage still over
his eyes.

CHAPTER IV. THE CONFESSION OF A PRETTY WOMAN

One evening Daniel found the princess thoughtful, one elbow resting on
a little table, her beautiful blond head bathed in light from the lamp.
She was toying with a letter which lay on the table-cloth. When d'Arthez
had seen the paper distinctly, she folded it up, and stuck it in her
belt.

"Wh