"And do you think he loves you?"
"No, father, no—oh, I hope not—he would suffer too much."
"And how did this love come, my beloved angel?"
"Alas, almost without my knowing it-you remember the picture of the page?"
"Which is in the apartment of the Abbess of Saint Hermangilda—it was
Henry's portrait."
"Yes, dear father, believing this to be a painting of another age, one day in your presence, I did not conceal from the superior that I was struck with the beauty of this portrait. You said to me then, in jest, that the picture represented one of our relations of the olden time, who, when very young, had displayed great courage and excellent qualities. The grace of this figure, joined to what you told me of the noble character of this relative, added yet to my first impression. From that day, I often took pleasure in recalling this portrait, and that without the least scruple, believing that it belonged to one of my cousins long since dead. Little by little I habituated myself to these gentle thoughts, knowing that it was not permitted me to love on this earth," added Fleur-de-Marie with a heart-rending expression, and her tears bursting forth anew. "I gave to these romantic reveries a sort of melancholy interest, half smiles, half tears. I looked upon the pretty page of the past time as a lover beyond the grave, whom I should perhaps one day meet in eternity. It seemed to me that such a love was alone worthy of a heart which belonged entirely to you, my father. But pardon me these sad, childish imaginations."
"Nothing can be more touching, on the contrary, poor child," said Clémence.
"Now," replied Rudolph, "I understand why you one day reproached me with an air of regret for having deceived you about the picture."
"Alas, yes, dear father. Judge of my confusion when, afterward, the superior informed me that this picture was that of her nephew, one of our relations. Then my trouble was extreme; I endeavored to forget my first impressions, but the more I endeavored, the more they became rooted in my heart, in consequence even of the perseverance of my efforts. Unfortunately, yet, I often hear you, dear father, praising the heart, the mind, the character of Prince Henry."
"You already loved him, my dear child, even when you had as yet seen only his portrait, and heard of his rare qualities!"