s with me a sacred anniversary. It will
be an age till then; but happily, I can wait. Look here!"

Beckoning M. de Montbron, she led him to the Indian Bacchus. "How much
it is like him!" said she to the count.

"Indeed," exclaimed the latter, "it is strange!"

"Strange?" returned Adrienne, with a smile of gentle pride; "strange,
that a hero, a demi-god, an ideal of beauty, should resemble Djalma?"

"How you love him!" said M. de Montbron, deeply touched, and almost
dazzled by the felicity which beamed from the countenance of Adrienne.

"I must have suffered a good deal, do you not think so?" said she, after
a moment's silence.

"If I had not made up my mind to come here to-day, almost in despair,
what would have happened?"

"I cannot tell; I should perhaps have died, for I am wounded mortally
here"--she pressed her hand to her heart. "But what might have been
death to me, will now be life."

"It was horrible," said the count, shuddering. "Such a passion, buried
in your own breast, proud as you are--"

"Yes, proud--but not self-conceited. When I learned his love for
another, and that the impression which I fancied I had made on him at
our first interview had been immediately effaced, I renounced all hope,
without being able to renounce my love. Instead of shunning his image,
I surrounded myself with all that could remind me of him. In default
of happiness, there is a bitter pleasure in suffering through what we
love."

"I can now understand your Indian library."

Instead of answering the count, Adrienne took from the stand one of the
freshly-cut volumes, and, bringing it to M. de Montbron, said to him,
with a smile and a celestial expression of joy and happiness: "I was
wrong--I am vain. Just read this--aloud, if you please. I tell you that
I can wait for to-morrow." Presenting the book to the count, she pointed
out one passage with the tip of her charming finger. Then she sank down
upon the couch, and, in an attitude of deep attention, with her body
bent forward, her hands crossed upon the cushion, her chin resting upon
her hands, her large eyes fixed with a sort of adoration on the Indian
Bacchus, that was just opposite to her, she appeared by this impassioned
contemplation to prepare herself to listen to M. de Montbron.

The latter, much astonished, began to read, after again looking at
Adrienne, who said to him, in her most coaxing voice, "Very slowly, I
beg of you."

M. de Montbron then read the foll