ficent offers. This
was natural. Djalma would have done for others what they were doing for
him, for the traditions of the prodigal magnificence and splendid
hospitality of Indian princes are well known. Djalma had been as moved as
grateful, on hearing that a woman loved him with maternal affection. As
for the luxury with which she nought to surround him, he accepted it
without astonishment and without scruple. This resignation, again,
somewhat disconcerted Rodin, who had prepared many excellent arguments to
persuade the Indian to accept his offers.

"Well, then, it's all agreed, my dear prince," resumed the Jesuit. "Now,
as you must see the world, it's just as well to enter by the best door,
as we say. One of the friends of your maternal protectress, the Count de
Montbron, an old nobleman of the greatest experience, and belonging to
the first society, will introduce you in some of the best houses in
Paris."

"Will you not introduce me, father?"

"Alas! my dear prince, look at me. Tell me, if you think I am fitted for
such an office. No! no; I live alone and retired from the world. And
then," added Rodin, after a short silence, fixing a penetrating,
attentive, and curious look upon the prince, as if he would have
subjected him to a sort of experiment by what follows; "and then, you
see, M. de Montbron will be better able than I should, in the world you
are about to enter, to enlighten you as to the snares that will be laid
for you. For if you have friends, you have also enemies--cowardly
enemies, as you know, who have abused your confidence in an infamous
manner, and have made sport of you. And as, unfortunately, their power is
equal to their wickedness, it would perhaps be more prudent in you to try
to avoid them--to fly, instead of resisting them openly."

At the remembrance of his enemies, at the thought of flying from them,
Djalma trembled in every limb; his features became of a lurid paleness;
his eyes wide open, so that the pupil was encircled with white, sparkled
with lurid fire; never had scorn, hatred, and the desire of vengeance,
expressed themselves so terribly on a human face. His upper lip, blood
red, was curled convulsively, exposing a row of small, white, and close
set teeth, and giving to his countenance lately so charming, an air of
such animal ferocity, that Rodin started from his seat, and exclaimed:
"What is the matter, prince? You frighten me."

Djalma did not answer. Half leaning forward, with