And Djalma, this man of formidable energy, began again to weep with the weakness of a child. At sight of this deep, touching, passionate despair, Adrienne, with that admirable courage which women alone possess in love, thought only of consoling Djalma. By an effort of superhuman passion, as the prince revealed to her this infernal plot, the lady's countenance became so splendid with an expression of love and happiness, that the East Indian looked at her in amazement, fearing for an instant that he must have lost his reason.
"No more tears, my adored!" cried the young lady, exultingly. "No more tears—but only smiles of joy and love! Our cruel enemies shall not triumph!"
"What do you say?"
"They wished to make us miserable. We pity them. Our felicity shall be the envy of the world!"
"Adrienne—bethink you—"
"Oh! I have all my senses about me. Listen to me, my adored! I now understand it all. Falling into a snare, which these wretches spread for you, you have committed murder. Now, in this country, murder leads to infamy, or the scaffold—and to-morrow—to-night, perhaps—you would be thrown into prison. But our enemies have said: 'A man like Prince Djalma does not wait for infamy—he kills himself. A woman like Adrienne de Cardoville does not survive the disgrace or death of her lover—she prefers to die.'"
"Therefore a frightful death awaits them both," said the black-robed men; "and that immense inheritance, which we covet—'"
"And for you—so young, so beautiful so innocent—death is frightful, and these monsters triumph!" cried Djalma. "They have spoken the truth!"
"They have lied!" answered Adrienne. "Our death shall be celestial. This poison is slow—and I adore you, my Djalma!"
She spoke those words in a low voice, trembling with passionate love, and, leaning upon Djalma's knees, approached so near, that he felt her warm breath upon his cheek. As he felt that breath, and saw the humid flame that darted from the large, swimming eyes of Adrienne, whose half opened lips were becoming of a still deeper and brighter hue, the Indian started—his young blood boiled in his veins—he forgot everything—his despair, and the approach of death, which as yet (as with Adrienne), only showed itself in a kind of feverish ardor. His face, like the young girl's, became once more splendidly beautiful.