the transparent thickness of a shade of
white silk, embroidered with large colored birds. The noise of the door,
which Faringhea closed as he went out, seemed to recall the young Indian
to himself; his features, though still animated, recovered their habitual
expression of mildness and gentleness; he started, drew his hand across
his brow, looked around him, as if waking up from a deep reverie, and
then, advancing towards Rodin, with an air as respectful as confused, he
said to him, using the expression commonly applied to old men in his
country, "Pardon me, father." Still following the customs of his nation,
so full of deference towards age, he took Rodin's hand to raise it to his
lips, but the Jesuit drew back a step, and refused his homage.

"For what do you ask pardon, my dear prince?" said he to Djalma.

"When you entered, I was in a dream; I did not come to meet you. Once
more, pardon me, father!"

"Once more, I forgive you with all my heart, my dear prince. But let us
have some talk. Pray resume your place on the couch, and your pipe, too,
if you like it."

But Djalma, instead of adopting the suggestion, and throwing himself on
the divan, according to his custom, insisted on seating himself in a
chair, notwithstanding all the persuasions of "the Old Man with the Good
Heart," as he always called the Jesuit.

"Really, your politeness troubles me, my dear prince," said Rodin; "you
are here at home in India; at least, we wish you to think so."

"Many things remind me of my country," said Djalma, in a mild grave tone.
"Your goodness reminds me of my father, and of him who was a father to
me," added the Indian, as he thought of Marshal Simon, whose arrival in
Paris had been purposely concealed from him.

After a moment's silence, he resumed in a tone full of affectionate
warmth, as he stretched out his hand to Rodin, "You are come, and I am
happy!"

"I understand your joy, my dear prince, for I come to take you out of
prison--to open your cage for you. I had begged you to submit to a brief
seclusion, entirely for your own interest."

"Can I go out to-morrow?"

"To-day, my dear prince, if you please."

The young Indian reflected for a moment, and then resumed, "I must have
friends, since I am here in a palace that does not belong to me."

"Certainly you have friends--excellent friends," answered Rodin. At these
words, Djalma's countenance seemed to acquire fresh beauty. The most
noble sentiments were expr