“Geographical?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, interrupting M. de Montbron: “you may find this taste somewhat serious for my age my dear count—but one must find occupation for leisure hours—and then, having a cousin, who is both an Indian and a prince, I should like to know something of the fortunate country from which I derive this savage relationship.”
These last words were pronounced with a bitterness that was not lost on M. de Montbron: watching Adrienne attentively, he observed: “Meseems, you speak of the prince with some harshness.”
“No; I speak of him with indifference.”
“Yet he deserves a very different feeling.”
“On the part of some other person, perhaps,” replied Adrienne, dryly.
“He is so unhappy!” said M, de Montbron, in a tone of sincere pity. “When I saw him the other day, he made my heart ache.”
“What have I to do with it?” exclaimed Adrienne, with an accent of painful and almost angry impatience.
“I should have thought that his cruel torments at least deserved your pity,” answered the count gravely.
“Pity—from me!” cried Adrienne, with an air of offended pride. Then restraining herself, she added coldly: “You are jesting, M. de Montbron. It is not in sober seriousness that you ask me to take interest in the amorous torments of your prince.”
There was so much cold disdain in these last words of Adrienne, her pale and agitated countenance betrayed such haughty bitterness, that M. de Montbron said, sorrowfully: “It is then true; I have not been deceived. I, who thought, from our old and constant friendship, that I had some claim to your confidence have known nothing of it—while you told all to another. It is painful, very painful to me.”