knew could never be
realised.

After a long silence, Rodolph resumed, in an agitated voice:

"I cannot stay here after what has happened. Paris is hateful to me; I
will quit it to-morrow."

"You are quite right in so doing, my lord."

"We will go by a circuitous route, and I will stop at Bouqueval as I
pass, that I may spend some few hours alone with my sad thoughts, in the
chamber where my poor child enjoyed the only peaceful days she was ever
permitted to taste. All that was hers shall be carefully collected
together,--the books from which she studied, her writings, clothes, even
the very articles of furniture and hangings of the chamber; I will make
a careful sketch of the whole, and when I return to Gerolstein I will
construct a small building containing the fac-simile of my poor child's
apartment, with all that it contained, to be erected in the private
ground in which stands the monument built by me in memory of my outraged
parent; there I will go and bewail my daughter. These two funeral
mementos will for ever remind me of my crime towards my father, and the
punishment inflicted on me through my own child."

After a fresh silence, Rodolph said, "Let all be got ready for my
departure to-morrow."

Anxious, if possible, to create if but a momentary change of ideas in
the prince's mind, Murphy said, "All shall be prepared, my lord,
according to your desire; only you appear to have forgotten that
to-morrow is fixed for the celebration of the marriage of Rigolette with
the son of Madame Georges, and that the ceremony was to take place at
Bouqueval. Not contented with providing for Germain as long as he lives,
and liberally endowing his bride, you also promised to be present to
bestow the hand of your young protegee on her lover."

"True, true,--I did engage to do so; but I confess I have not sufficient
courage to venture in a scene of gaiety. I cannot, therefore, visit the
farm to-morrow, for to join in the wedding festivities is impossible."

"Perhaps the scene might serve to calm your wounded feelings, with the
thought that, if miserable yourself, you have made others happy."

"No, my friend, no! Grief is ever selfish, and loves to indulge itself
in solitude. You shall supply my place to-morrow; and beg of Madame
Georges to collect together all my poor child's possessions; then when
the room is fitly arranged, you will have an exact copy taken of it, and
cause it to be sent to me in Germany."

"And will