"Yes, monseigneur; her uncle occupies a part of the ground floor."
"Very well."
After a few minutes' reflection, the prince added, severely:
"You have given me your confidence, Frantz. I accept it; but act with perfect candour, with the most thorough sincerity, if you do not—"
"Monseigneur!" interrupted Frantz, in painful surprise.
"Well, well, I was wrong to suspect your truthfulness, Frantz. You have never lied to me in your life. Speak, I will listen to you."
"Your Royal Highness knows that, since our arrival in Paris, I have rarely gone out in the evening."
"That is true; I am aware of your disinclination to society, and, too, of your excessive timidity, which increases your distaste for appearing at these dreaded French functions, where you are naturally a stranger. I have not insisted upon it, Frantz, and have allowed you to dispose of most of your evenings as you pleased."
"In one of these evenings, monseigneur, six weeks ago, I saw Mlle. Antonine for the first time. She was watering flowers; I was leaning on my elbow there at the wall. She saw me; I saluted her. She returned my salutation, blushed, and continued to water her flowers; twice she looked up at me, and we bowed to each other again; then, as it grew dark entirely, Mlle. Antonine left the garden."
It is impossible to reproduce the ingenuous grace with which poor Frantz made this artless recital of his first interview with the young girl. The emotion betrayed by his voice, the heightened colour of his face, all proved the honesty of this pure and innocent soul.