mother-of-pearl, is not at present
occupied, and almost disappears beneath snowy curtains of lace and
muslin, transparent and vapory as clouds. On the white marble
mantlepiece, from beneath which the fire throws ruddy beams on the ermine
carpet, is the usual basket filled with a bush of red camellias, in the
midst of their shining green leaves. A pleasant aromatic odor, rising
from a warm and perfumed bath in the next room, penetrates every corner
of the bed-chamber. All without is calm and silent. It is hardly eleven
o'clock. The ivory door, opposite to that which leads to the bath-room,
opens slowly. Djalma appears. Two hours have elapsed since he committed a
double murder, and believed that he had killed Adrienne in a fit of
jealous fury.

The servants of Mdlle. de Cardoville, accustomed to Djalma's daily
visits, no longer announced his arrival, and admitted him without
difficulty, having received no orders to the contrary from their
mistress. He had never before entered the bed-chamber, but, knowing that
the apartment the lady occupied was on the first floor of the house, he
had easily found it. As he entered that virgin sanctuary, his countenance
was pretty calm, so well did he control his feelings, only a slight
paleness tarnished the brilliant amber of his complexion. He wore that
day a robe of purple cashmere, striped with silver--a color which did not
show the stains of blood upon it. Djalma closed the door after him, and
tore off his white turban, for it seemed to him as if a band of hot iron
encircled his brow. His dark hair streamed around his handsome face. He
crossed his arms upon his bosom, and looked slowly about him. When his
eyes rested on Adrienne's bed, he started suddenly, and his cheek grew
purple. Then he drew his hand across his brow, hung down his head, and
remained standing for some moments in a dream, motionless as a statue.

After a mournful silence of a few seconds' duration, Djalma fell upon his
knees, and raised his eyes to heaven. The Asiatic's countenance was
bathed in tears, and no longer expressed any violent passion. On his
features was no longer the stamp of hate, or despair, or the ferocious
joy of vengeance gratified. It was rather the expression of grief at once
simple and immense. For several minutes he was almost choked with sobs,
and tears ran freely down his cheeks.

"Dead! dead!" he murmured, in a half-stifled voice. "She, who this
morning slept so peacefully in this chamb