“Prince Djalma?” said Adrienne, hastily.
“For the same reason he has been nearly poisoned with a narcotic.”
“Great God!” cried the young girl, clasping her hands in horror. “It is fearful. That young prince, who was said to have so noble and generous a character! But I had sent to Cardoville Castle—”
“A confidential person, to fetch the prince to Paris—I know it, my dear young lady; but, by means of a trick, your friend was got out of the way, and the young Oriental delivered to his enemies.”
“And where is he now?”
“I have only vague information on the subject. I know that he is in Paris, and do not despair of finding him. I shall pursue my researches with an almost paternal ardor, for we cannot too much love the rare qualities of that poor king’s son. What a heart, my dear young lady! what a heart! Oh, it is a heart of gold, pure and bright as the gold of his country!”
“We must find the prince, sir,” said Adrienne with emotion; “let me entreat you to neglect nothing for that end. He is my relation—alone here—without support—without assistance.”
“Certainly,” replied Rodin, with commiseration. “Poor boy!—for he is almost a boy—eighteen or nineteen years of age—thrown into the heart of Paris, of this hell—with his fresh, ardent, half-savage passions—with his simplicity and confidence—to what perils may he not be exposed?”
“Well, we must first find him, sir,” said Adrienne, hastily; “and then we will save him from these dangers. Before I was confined here, I learned his arrival in France, and sent a confidential person to offer him the services of an unknown friend. I now see that this mad idea, with which I have been so much reproached, was a very sensible one. I am more convinced of it than ever. The prince belongs to my family, and I owe him a generous hospitality. I had destined for him the lodge I occupied at my aunt’s.”
“And you, my dear young lady?”