One fine summer's morning Fleur-de-Marie gazed listlessly at this splendid landscape; her hair was plainly braided, and she wore a high, white dress with blue stripes; a large muslin collar was fastened around her throat by a small blue silk handkerchief, of the same hue as her sash.
Seated in a large armchair of carved ebony, she leant her head on her small and delicately white hand. Fleur-de-Marie's attitude and the expression of her face showed that she was a prey to the deepest melancholy.
At this instant a female of a grave and distinguished appearance entered the room, and coughed gently to attract Fleur-de-Marie's attention. She started from her reverie, and, gracefully acknowledging the salutation of the newcomer, said:
"What is it, my dear countess?"
"I come to inform your royal highness that the grand duke will be here in a few minutes, and, also, to ask a favour of you."
"Ask it, you know how happy I am to oblige you."
"It concerns an unhappy creature who had unfortunately quitted Gerolstein before your royal highness had founded the asylum for orphans and children abandoned by their parents."
"What do you wish I should do for her?"
"The father went to seek his fortune in America, leaving his wife and daughter to gain a precarious subsistence. The mother died, and this poor girl, then only sixteen, was seduced and abandoned. She fell lower and lower, until at length she became, like so many others, the opprobrium of her sex."
Fleur-de-Marie turned red and shuddered. The countess, fearing she had wounded the delicacy of the princess by the mention of this girl's condition, replied: