Instead of answering, Adrienne waved her hand to him, in sign that he should not be alarmed; and, in fact, the count was speedily tranquillized, for the beautiful face, which had so lately been contracted with pain, irony, and scorn, seemed now expressive of the sweetest and most ineffable emotions; Adrienne appeared to luxuriate in delight, and to fear losing the least particle of it; then, as reflection told her, that she was, perhaps, the dupe of illusion or falsehood, she exclaimed suddenly, with anguish, addressing herself to M. de Montbron: 'But is what you tell me true?'
'What I tell you!'
'Yes—that Prince Djalma—'
'Loves you to madness?—Alas! it is only too true.'
'No, no,' cried Adrienne, with a charming expression of simplicity; 'that could never be too true.'
'What do you say?' cried the count.
'But that woman?' asked Adrienne, as if the word scorched her lips.
'What woman?'
'She who has been the cause of all these painful struggles.'
'That woman—why, who should it be but you?'
'What, I? Oh! tell me, was it I?'
'On my word of honor. I trust my experience. I have never seen so ardent and sincere a passion.'
'Oh! is it really so? Has he never had any other love?'
'Never.'
'Yet I was told so.'
'By whom?'
'M. Rodin.'
'That Djalma—'
'Had fallen violently in love, two days after I saw him.'
'M. Rodin told you that!' cried M. de Montbron, as if struck with a sudden idea. 'Why, it is he who told Djalma that you were in love with some one else.'
'I!'
'And this it was which occasioned the poor youth's dreadful despair.'
'It was this which occasioned my despair.'
'You love him, then, just as he loves you!' exclaimed M. de Montbron, transported with joy.
'Love him!' said Mdlle. de Cardoville. A discreet knock at the door interrupted Adrienne.
'One of your servants, no doubt. Be calm,' said the count.
'Come in,' said Adrienne, in an agitated voice.
'What is it?' said Mdlle. de Cardoville. Florine entered the room.
'M. Rodin has just been here. Fearing to disturb mademoiselle, he would not come in; but he will return in half an hour. Will mademoiselle receive him?'
'Yes, yes,' said the count to Florine; 'even if I am still here, show him in by all means. Is not that your opinion?' asked M. de Montbron of Adrienne.
'Quite so,' answered the young girl; and a flash of indignation darted from her eyes, as she thought of Rodin's perfidy.
'Oho! the old knave!' said M. de Montbron, 'I always had my doubts of that crooked neck!' Florine withdrew, leaving the count with her mistress.
CHAPTER IX. LOVE.
Mdlle. de Cardoville was transfigured. For the first time her beauty shone forth in all its lustre. Until now overshadowed by indifference, or darkened by grief, she appeared suddenly illumined by a brilliant ray of sunshine. The slight irritation caused by Rodin's perfidy passed like an imperceptible shade from her brow. What cared she now for falsehood and perfidy? Had they not failed? And, for the future, what human power could interpose between her and Djalma, so sure of each other? Who would dare to cross the path of those two things, resolute and strong with the irresistible power of youth, love, and liberty? Who would dare to follow them into that blazing sphere, whither they went, so beautiful and happy, to blend together in their inextinguishable love, protected by the proof armor of their own happiness? Hardly had Florine left the room, when Adrienne approached M. de Montbron with a rapid step. She seemed to have become taller; and to watch her advancing, light, radiant, and triumphant, one might have fancied her a goddess walking upon clouds.
'When shall I see him?' was her first word to M. de Montbron.
'Well—say to-morrow; he must be prepared for so much happiness; in so ardent a nature, such sudden, unexpected joy might be terrible.'
Adrienne remained pensive for a moment, and then said rapidly: 'To morrow—yes—not before to-morrow. I have a superstition of the heart.'
'What is it?'
'You shall know. HE LOVES ME—that word says all, contains all, comprehends all, is all—and yet I have a thousand questions to ask with regard to him—but I will ask none before to-morrow, because, by a mysterious fatality, to-morrow is with me a sacred anniversary. It will be an age till then; but happily, I can wait. Look here!'
Beckoning M. de Montbron, she led him to the Indian Bacchus. 'How much it is like him!' said she to the count.
'Indeed,' exclaimed the latter, 'it is strange!'
'Strange?' returned Adrienne, with a smile of gentle pride; 'strange, that a hero, a demi-god, an ideal of beauty, should resemble Djalma?'
'How you love him!' said M. de Montbron, deeply touched, and almost dazzled by the felicity which beamed from the countenance of Adrienne.
'I must have suffered a good deal, do you not think so?' said she, after a moment's silence.
'If I had not made up my mind to come here to-day, almost in despair, what would have happened?'
'I cannot tell; I should perhaps have died, for I am wounded mortally here'—she pressed her hand to her heart. 'But what might have been death to me, will now be life.'
'It was horrible,' said the count, shuddering. 'Such a passion, buried in your own breast, proud as you are —'
'Yes, proud—but not self-conceited. When I learned his love for another, and that the impression which I fancied I had made on him at our first interview had been immediately effaced, I renounced all hope, without being able to renounce my love. Instead of shunning his image, I surrounded myself with all that could remind me of him. In default of happiness, there is a bitter pleasure in suffering through what we love.'
'I can now understand your Indian library.'
Instead of answering the count, Adrienne took from the stand one of the freshly-cut volumes, and, bringing it to M. de Montbron, said to him, with a smile and a celestial expression of joy and happiness: 'I was wrong—I am vain. Just read this—aloud, if you please. I tell you that I can wait for to-morrow.' Presenting the book to the count, she pointed out one passage with the tip of her charming finger. Then she sank down upon the couch, and, in an attitude of deep attention, with her body bent forward, her hands crossed upon the cushion, her chin resting upon her hands, her large eyes fixed with a sort of adoration on the Indian Bacchus, that was just opposite to her, she appeared by this impassioned contemplation to prepare herself to listen to M. de Montbron.
The latter, much astonished, began to read, after again looking at Adrienne, who said to him, in her most coaxing voice, 'Very slowly, I beg of you.'
M. de Montbron then read the following passage from the journal of a traveller in India: ''When I was at Bombay, in 1829, I constantly heard amongst the English there, of a young hero, the son of—''
The count having paused a second, by reason of the barbarous spelling of the name of Djalma's father, Adrienne immediately said to him, in her soft voice: 'The son of Kadja-sing.'
'What a memory!' said the count, with a smile. And he resumed: ''A young hero, the son of Kadja-sing, king of Mundi. On his return from a distant and sanguinary expedition amongst the mountains against this Indian king, Colonel Drake was filled with enthusiasm for this son of Kadja-sing, known as Djalma. Hardly beyond the age of
