you not even see Madame d'Harville, my lord, ere you set out
on your journey?"

At the recollection of Clemence, Rodolph started; his affection for her
burned as steadfastly and sincerely as ever, but, for the moment, it
seemed buried beneath the overwhelming grief which oppressed him. The
tender sympathy of Madame d'Harville appeared to him the only source of
consolation; but, the next instant, he rejected the idea of seeking
consolation in the love of another as unworthy his paternal sorrow.

"No, my kind friend, I shall not see Madame d'Harville previously to
quitting Paris. I wrote to her a few days since, telling her of the
death of Fleur-de-Marie, and the pain it had caused me. When she learns
that the ill-fated girl was my long-lost daughter, she will readily
understand that there are some griefs, or rather fatal punishments, it
is requisite to endure alone."

A gentle knock was heard at the door at this minute. Rodolph, with
displeasure at the interruption, signed for Murphy to ascertain who it
was. The faithful squire immediately rose, and, partly opening the door,
perceived one of the prince's aides-de-camp, who said a few words in a
low tone, to which Murphy replied by a motion of the head, and,
returning to Rodolph, said, "Have the goodness, my lord, to excuse me
for an instant! A person wishes to see me directly on business that
concerns your royal highness."

"Go!" replied the prince.

Scarcely had the door closed on Murphy, than Rodolph, covering his face
with his hands, uttered a heavy groan.

"What horrible feelings possess me!" cried he. "My mind seems one vast
ocean of gall and bitterness; the presence of my best and most faithful
friend is painful to me; and the recollection of a love pure and
elevated as mine distresses and embarrasses me. Last night, too, I was
cowardly enough to learn the death of Sarah with savage joy. I
felicitated myself on being free from an unnatural being like her, who
had caused the destruction of my child; I promised myself the horrible
satisfaction of witnessing the mortal agonies of the wretch who deprived
my child of life. But I was baffled of my dear revenge. Another cruel
punishment!" exclaimed he, starting with rage from his chair. "Yet
although I knew yesterday as well as to-day that my child was dead, I
did not experience such a whirlwind of despairing, self-accusing agony
as now rends my soul; because I did not then recall to mind the one
torturing fact tha