M. de Montbron, almost frightened at the sudden change in Adrienne’s countenance, hastily approached her, exclaiming: “Good heaven, my poor child! what is the matter?”
Instead of answering, Adrienne waved her hand to him, in sign that he should not be alarmed; and, in fact, the count was speedily tranquillized, for the beautiful face, which had so lately been contracted with pain, irony, and scorn, seemed now expressive of the sweetest and most ineffable emotions; Adrienne appeared to luxuriate in delight, and to fear losing the least particle of it; then, as reflection told her, that she was, perhaps, the dupe of illusion or falsehood, she exclaimed suddenly, with anguish, addressing herself to M. de Montbron: “But is what you tell me true?”
“What I tell you!”
“Yes—that Prince Djalma—”
“Loves you to madness?—Alas! it is only too true.”
“No, no,” cried Adrienne, with a charming expression of simplicity; “that could never be too true.”
“What do you say?” cried the count.
“But that woman?” asked Adrienne, as if the word scorched her lips.
“What woman?”
“She who has been the cause of all these painful struggles.”