“It said that?” cried the ravished prince.
“Your highness may conclude so, as it said that she does not love her husband.”
“Joy!” said Rohan.
“I had to burn the lock to obtain the verdict by the essence,” explained the necromancer, “but here are the ashes which I scrupulously preserved for each grain is worth a thousand.”
“Thank you, my lord; I shall never be able to repay you.”
“Do not let us speak of that. One piece of advice, though: Do not wash the ashes down with wine as some lovers do; it is a mistaken course for it might make your love incurable and turn the object cold.”
“I shall take care not to do that,” said the prelate; “Farewell, count!”
Twenty minutes after, his carriage crossed that of Duke Richelieu, which it almost upset into one of the pits where they were excavating for a house, much building going on.
“Why, prince!” cried the older peer, with a smile.
“Hush, duke!” replied Rohan, laying a finger on his lips.