of a threatened hearth, the
sweet flower which perfumes the sombre prison."

"It is all beautiful and true," replied Alba, very seriously. She had
hung upon Dorsenne's lips while he spoke, with the instinctive taste for
ideas of that order which proved her veritable origin. "But you do not
mention the sorrow. This is what one can not do--look upon as a tapestry,
as a picture, as an object; the creature who has not asked to live and
who suffers. You, who have feeling, what is your theory when you weep?"

"I can very clearly foresee the day on which Fanny will feel her
misfortune," continued the young girl. "I do not know when she will begin
to judge her father, but that she already begins to judge Ardea, alas, I
am only too sure.... Watch her at this moment, I pray you."

Dorsenne indeed looked at the couple. Fanny was listening to the Prince,
but with a trace of suffering upon her beautiful face, so pure in outline
that the nobleness in it was ideal.

He was laughing at some anecdote which he thought excellent, and which
clashed with the sense of delicacy of the person to whom he was
addressing himself. They were no longer the couple who, in the early days
of their betrothal, had given to Julien the sentiment of a complete
illusion on the part of the young girl for her future husband.

"You are right, Contessina," said he, "the decrystallization has
commenced. It is a little too soon."

"Yes, it is too soon," replied Alba. "And yet it is too late. Would you
believe that there are times when I ask myself if it would not be my duty
to tell her the truth about her marriage, such as I know it, with the
story of the weak man, the forced sale, and of the bargaining of Ardea?"

"You will not do it," said Dorsenne. "Moreover, why? This one or another,
the man who marries her will only want her money, rest assured. It is
necessary that the millions be paid for here below, it is one of their
ransoms.... But I shall cause you to be scolded by your mother, for I am
monopolizing you, and I have still two calls to pay this evening."

"Well, postpone them," said Alba. "I beseech you, do not go."

"I must," replied Julien. "It is the last Wednesday of old Duchess
Pietrapertosa, and after her grandson's recent kindness--"

"She is so ugly," said Alba, "will you sacrifice me to her?"

"Then there is my compatriot, who goes away tomorrow and of whom I must
take leave this evening, Madame de Sauve, with whom you met me at the
mu