“I do not understand you, M. de Montbron.”
“Well then, since I must speak plainly,” cried the count, “there is, I see, no hope for this unhappy boy—you love another.”
As Adrienne started—“Oh! you cannot deny it,” resumed the count; “your paleness and melancholy for the last few days, your implacable indifference to the prince—all prove to me that you are in love.”
Hurt by the manner in which the count spoke of the sentiment he attributed to her, Mdlle. de Cardoville answered with dignified stateliness: “You must know, M. de Montbron, that a secret discovered is not a confidence. Your language surprises me.
“Oh, my dear friend, if I use the poor privilege of experience—if I guess that you are in love—if I tell you so, and even go so far as to reproach you with it—it is because the life or death of this poor prince is concerned; and I feel for him as if he were my son, for it is impossible to know him without taking the warmest interest in him.”
“It would be singular,” returned Adrienne, with redoubled coldness, and still more bitter irony, “if my love—admitting I were in love—could have any such strange influence on Prince Djalma. What can it matter to him?” added she, with almost agonizing disdain.
“What can it matter to him? Now really, my dear friend, permit me to tell you, that it is you who are jesting cruelly. What! this unfortunate youth loves you with all the blind ardor of a first love—twice has attempted to terminate by suicide the horrible tortures of his passion—and you think it strange that your love for another should be with him a question of life or death!”
“He loves me then?” cried the young girl, with an accent impossible to describe.
“He loves you to madness, I tell you; I have seen it.”
Adrienne seemed overcome with amazement. From pale, she became crimson; as the redness disappeared, her lips grew white, and trembled. Her emotion was so strong, that she remained for some moments unable to speak, and pressed her hand to her heart, as if to moderate its pulsations.