"But you, at least, are happy, lady," said the pilgrim.
"Happy! Could you see my face, you would see a mask more impenetrable than this velvet one I wear. It is all smiles," she whispered. "But," she added, laying her hand on her bosom,—
"'I have a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;
It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.'"
"Can it be possible!" cried the pilgrim. "You have the reputation of being one of the gayest of the Parisian ladies."
"Then you know me not."
"I know you by name, Madame Lioncourt."
"Then you should know that name represents a noble and gallant heart—the life of my own widowed bosom. You should know that Lioncourt, the bravest of the brave, the truest of the true, lies in a nameless grave at Austerlitz, the very spot unknown."
"I too was at Austerlitz," said the pilgrim, in a deep voice.
"You were at Austerlitz!"
"Yes, madame, in the—hussars."