person, who loves you as her son, should find it either
right or useful that I should tell you their names, I will do so--until
she has pronounced, I must be silent."

Djalma looked at Rodin with a dark and wrathful air. At this moment,
Faringhea entered, and said to Rodin: "A man with a letter, not finding
you at home, has been sent on here. Am I to receive it? He says it comes
from the Abbe d'Aigrigny.

"Certainly," answered Rodin. "That is," he added, "with the prince's
permission."

Djalma nodded in reply; Faringhea went out.

"You will excuse what I have done, dear prince. I expected this morning
a very important letter. As it was late in coming to hand, I ordered it
to be sent on."

A few minutes after, Faringhea returned with the letter, which he
delivered to Rodin--and the half-caste again withdrew.

CHAPTER XLIV. ADRIENNE AND DJALMA.

When Faringhea had quitted the room, Rodin took the letter from Abbe
d'Aigrigny with one hand, and with the other appeared to be looking
for something, first in the side pocket of his great-coat, then in the
pocket behind, then in that of his trousers; and, not finding what he
sought, he laid the letter on his knee, and felt himself all over with
both hands, with an air of regret and uneasiness. The divers movements
of this pantomime, performed in the most natural manner, were crowned by
the exclamations.

"Oh! dear me! how vexatious!"

"What is the matter?" asked Djalma, starting from the gloomy silence in
which he had been plunged for some minutes.

"Alas! my dear prince!" replied Rodin, "the most vulgar and puerile
accident may sometimes cause the greatest inconvenience. I have
forgotten or lost my spectacles. Now, in this twilight, with the very
poor eyesight that years of labor have left me, it will be absolutely
impossible for me to read this most important letter--and an immediate
answer is expected--most simple and categorical--a yes or a no. Times
presses; it is really most annoying. If," added Rodin, laying great
stress on his words, without looking at Djalma, but so as the prince
might remark it; "if only some one would render me the service to read
it for me; but there is no one--no--one!"

"Father," said Djalma, obligingly, "shall I read it for you. When I have
finished it, I shall forget what I have read."

"You?" cried Rodin, as if the proposition of the Indian had appeared
to him extravagant and dangerous; "it is impossible, prince, for you to