“That’s where it is:  they envy your happiness, and that which you bestow upon others.”

“And it is my aunt,” cried Adrienne, with indignation, “my aunt, whose whole life has been one long scandal that accuses me in this revolting manner!—­as if she did not know me proud and honest enough never to make a choice of which I should be ashamed!  Oh! if I ever love, I shall proclaim it, I shall be proud of it:  for love, as I understand it, is the most glorious feeling in the world.  But, alas!” continued Adrienne, with redoubled bitterness, “of what use are truth and honor, if they do not secure you from suspicions, which are as absurd as they are odious?” So saying, she again pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Come, my dear Mdlle.  Adrienne,” said M. Baleinier, in a voice full of the softest unction, “becalm—­it is all over now.  You have in me a devoted friend.”  As he pronounced these last words, he blushed in spite of his diabolical craft.

“I know you are my friend,” said Adrienne:  “I shall never forget that, by taking my part to-day, you exposed yourself to the resentment of my aunt—­for I am not ignorant of her power, which is very great, alas! for evil.”

“As for that,” said the doctor, affecting a profound indifference, “we medical men are pretty safe from personal enmities.”

“Nay, my dear M. Baleinier!  Mme. de Saint-Dizier and her friends never forgive,” said the young girl, with a shudder.  “It needed all my invincible aversion, my innate horror for all that is base, cowardly, and perfidious, to induce me to break so openly with her.  But if death itself were the penalty, I could not hesitate and yet,” she added, with one of those graceful smiles which gave such a charm to her beautiful countenance, “yet I am fond of life:  if I have to reproach myself with anything, it is that I would have it too bright, too fair, too harmonious; but then, you know, I am resigned to my faults.”

“Well, come, I am more tranquil,” said the doctor, gayly; “for you smile—­that is a good sign.”

“It is often the wisest course; and yet, ought I smile, after the threats that my aunt has held out to me?  Still, what can she do? what is the meaning of this kind of family council?  Did she seriously think that the advice of a M. D’Aigrigny or a M. Tripeaud could have influenced me?  And then she talked of rigorous measures.  What measures can she take; do you know?”

“I think, between ourselves, that the princess only wished to frighten you, and hopes to succeed by persuasion.  She has the misfortune to fancy herself a mother of the Church, and dreams of your conversion,” said the doctor, maliciously, for he now wished to tranquillize Adrienne at any cost; “but let us think no more about it.  Your fire eyes must shine with all their lustre, to fascinate the minister that we are going to see.”

“You are right, dear doctor; we ought always avoid grief, for it has the disadvantage of making us forget the sorrows of others.  But here am I, availing myself of your kindness, without even telling you what I require.”