"I do not know this man, godmother, or why you hate him so inveterately; but I, too, hate him with my bitterest scorn, because you have already told me that he formerly occasioned you great sorrow."
As Iris pronounced the words, "I know not why you hate him so inveterately," she could not repress a slight shudder, which, however, passed unnoticed by Madame de Hansfeld.
"You ask me wherefore I hold him in such detestation?" cried the princess, almost wildly.
"I said so but from curiosity, godmother. But, if you hate, you would also be avenged."
"Avenged! oh, yes, I would have vengeance great and startling as the ill he has done me."
"If I can serve you, speak."
"You, my poor girl?"
"Command, and I obey. Iris is yours—yours in all things; her life depends on yours—her breath is as your breath—she sees but with your eyes—she has no will but yours."
Without replying, Madame de Hansfeld extended her beautiful hand to Iris, who raised it to her moist red lips with an expression of respect and devotion more than filial; then, suddenly springing up, she exclaimed,—
"Gracious Heaven, godmother! your hand is cold as death!—you shiver, too! You must go to bed—indeed you must."