This adventure, worthy of the finest days of the Fronde, was the text of a very witty letter, in which the princess rendered to “Madame” an account of the negotiations.  The Duc de Maufrigneuse went to La Vendee, and was able to return secretly without being compromised, but not without taking part in “Madame’s” perils; the latter, however, sent him home the moment she saw that her cause was lost.  Perhaps, had he remained, the eager vigilance of the young man might have foiled that treachery.  However great the faults of the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse may have seemed in the eyes of the bourgeoisie, the behavior of her son on this occasion certainly effaced them in the eyes of the aristocracy.  There was great nobility and grandeur in thus risking her only son, and the heir of an historic name.  Some persons are said to intentionally cover the faults of their private life by public services, and vice versa; but the Princesse de Cadignan made no such calculation.  Possibly those who apparently so conduct themselves make none.  Events count for much in such cases.

On one of the first fine days in the month of May, 1833, the Marquise d’Espard and the princess were turning about—­one could hardly call it walking—­in the single path which wound round the grass-plat in the garden, about half-past two in the afternoon, just as the sun was leaving it.  The rays reflected on the walls gave a warm atmosphere to the little space, which was fragrant with flowers, the gift of the marquise.

“We shall soon lose de Marsay,” said the marquise; “and with him will disappear your last hope of fortune for your son.  Ever since you played him that clever trick, he has returned to his affection for you.”

“My son will never capitulate to the younger branch,” returned the princess, “if he has to die of hunger, or I have to work with my hands to feed him.  Besides, Berthe de Cinq-Cygne has no aversion to him.”

“Children don’t bind themselves to their parents’ principles,” said Madame d’Espard.

“Don’t let us talk about it,” said the princess.  “If I can’t coax over the Marquise de Cinq-Cygne, I shall marry Georges to the daughter of some iron-founderer, as that little d’Esgrignon did.”

“Did you love Victurnien?” asked the marquise.

“No,” replied the princess, gravely, “d’Esgrignon’s simplicity was really only a sort of provincial silliness, which I perceived rather too late—­or, if you choose, too soon.”

“And de Marsay?”

“De Marsay played with me as if I were a doll.  I was so young at the time!  We never love men who pretend to teach us; they rub up all our little vanities.”

“And that wretched boy who hanged himself?”

“Lucien?  An Antinous and a great poet.  I worshiped him in all conscience, and I might have been happy.  But he was in love with a girl of the town; and I gave him up to Madame. de Serizy. . . .  If he had cared to love me, should I have given him up?”