“What is to be done?” he said to the Count, not altogether realizing what he was doing himself, but yielding to his habit of consulting the latter about everything.

“Indeed, Most Serene Highness, I know nothing about it,” answered the Count, with the air of a man who is rendering up his final sigh; he could hardly utter the words of his response.  His tone of voice gave the Prince the first consolation which his wounded pride had found during the interview, and this slight satisfaction helped him to a phrase which was comforting to his self-esteem:—­

“Well,” said he, “I am the most reasonable of all three; I am quite ready to leave my position in the world entirely out of consideration. I am going to speak as a friend,” and he added with a charming smile of condescension, a fine imitation of the happy times of Louis XIV, “as a friend speaking to friends: Madame la Duchesse,” he continued, “what are we to do to make you forget your untimely resolution?”

“Really, I am at a loss to say,” replied the Duchess, with a deep sigh, “really, I am at a loss to say:  I have such a horror of Parma!” There was no attempt at epigram in this speech; one could see that she spoke in all sincerity.

The Count turned sharply away from her; his courtier’s soul was scandalized.  Then he cast a supplicating glance at the Prince.  With much dignity and self-possession the latter allowed a moment to pass; then, addressing himself to the Count, “I see,” said he, “that your charming friend is altogether beside herself.  It is perfectly simple, she adores her nephew;” and turning towards the Duchess, he added with the most gallant glance, and at the same time with the air which one assumes in borrowing a phrase from a comedy:  "What must we do to find favor in these lovely eyes?"

The Duchess had had time to reflect:  She answered in a firm, slow tone, as if she were dictating her ultimatum:—­

“His Highness might write me a gracious letter, such as he knows so well how to write:  he might say to me, that being by no means convinced of the guilt of Fabrice del Dongo, First Grand Vicar of the Archbishop, he will refuse to sign the sentence when they come to present it to him, and that this unjust procedure shall have no consequence in the future.”

“How is that?  Unjust!” cried the Prince, coloring to the whites of his eyes, and with renewed anger.

“That is not all,” replied the Duchess with truly Roman pride, “this very evening—­and,” she interposed, glancing at the clock, “it is already a quarter past eleven—­this very evening, his Most Serene Highness will send word to the Marquise Raversi that he advises her to go into the country to recuperate from the fatigues which she must have suffered from a certain trial which she was discussing in her salon early in the evening.”  The Prince strode up and down his cabinet, like a madman.  “Did one ever see such a woman?” he exclaimed.  “She is lacking in respect for me.”