Iris, after innumerable difficulties, had told him, that perhaps it might be possible to abstract the book the next day for a few hours only, when the princess was going to pass the morning with Madame de Lormoy, De Morville's aunt.
M. de Brévannes had requested the young girl to bring the precious volume to the Rue des Martyrs, when he would read it in her presence, and return it to her instantly, with the recompense due to such a service,—a recompense which she resolved to accept, in order that no suspicion of De Brévannes should be excited.
He was thus awaiting Iris in the small saloon to which we have before referred.
If the disposition of De Brévannes be borne in mind,—if his unmoveable obstinacy, his pride, his headstrong passion to succeed in whatever he undertook, be not forgotten,—if his will, his obstinacy, his vanity called into play by a deep and enthusiastic love, against which he had struggled for two years, be remembered, we may conceive with what passionate desire he sought to be beloved by Madame de Hansfeld, a woman so attractive, so envied, so respected.
It was noon. M. de Brévannes was awaiting Iris with great impatience.
Madame Grassot, the guardian of this mysterious dwelling, remained in the upper story. Iris arrived, and De Brévannes ran to meet her.
She affected to be trembling and alarmed, and M. de Brévannes reassured, and led her to the room; she holding in her hand a small album bound in black morocco, and closed with a silver lock. Trembling with delight and impatience at the sight of this book, De Brévannes took from the mantel-piece a ring, with a fine-sized brilliant, which he placed on the finger of Iris in spite of her assumed resistance.
"I pray you, my charming Iris," he said, "accept so trifling a token of my gratitude. This pretty hand has no need of ornament, but it is a souvenir which I entreat you to wear, and you promised you would accept it."
"Yes, I did; but I do not know if I ought—a diamond?"
"What is a diamond? It is the ring I speak of."