e."

"What have I to do with it?" exclaimed Adrienne, with an accent of
painful and almost angry impatience.

"I should have thought that his cruel torments at least deserved your
pity," answered the count gravely.

"Pity--from me!" cried Adrienne, with an air of offended pride. Then
restraining herself, she added coldly: "You are jesting, M. de Montbron.
It is not in sober seriousness that you ask me to take interest in the
amorous torments of your prince."

There was so much cold disdain in these last words of Adrienne, her pale
and agitated countenance betrayed such haughty bitterness, that M. de
Montbron said, sorrowfully: "It is then true; I have not been deceived.
I, who thought, from our old and constant friendship, that I had some
claim to your confidence have known nothing of it--while you told all to
another. It is painful, very painful to me."

"I do not understand you, M. de Montbron."

"Well then, since I must speak plainly," cried the count, "there is, I
see, no hope for this unhappy boy--you love another."

As Adrienne started--"Oh! you cannot deny it," resumed the count;
"your paleness and melancholy for the last few days, your implacable
indifference to the prince--all prove to me that you are in love."

Hurt by the manner in which the count spoke of the sentiment he
attributed to her, Mdlle. de Cardoville answered with dignified
stateliness: "You must know, M. de Montbron, that a secret discovered is
not a confidence. Your language surprises me.

"Oh, my dear friend, if I use the poor privilege of experience--if I
guess that you are in love--if I tell you so, and even go so far as
to reproach you with it--it is because the life or death of this poor
prince is concerned; and I feel for him as if he were my son, for it is
impossible to know him without taking the warmest interest in him."

"It would be singular," returned Adrienne, with redoubled coldness, and
still more bitter irony, "if my love--admitting I were in love--could
have any such strange influence on Prince Djalma. What can it matter to
him?" added she, with almost agonizing disdain.

"What can it matter to him? Now really, my dear friend, permit me to
tell you, that it is you who are jesting cruelly. What! this unfortunate
youth loves you with all the blind ardor of a first love--twice
has attempted to terminate by suicide the horrible tortures of his
passion--and you think it strange that your love for another should be
with h