“Full of resources and invention—­”

“Oh, madame!”

“It is not my fault if, in our long interview at Dr. Baleinier’s, you betrayed that superiority of mind which struck me so forcibly, and which seems to embarrass you so much at present.  What would you have, sir?—­great minds like yours find it difficult to maintain their incognito.  Yet, as by different ways—­oh! very different,” added the young lady, maliciously, “we are tending to the same end (still keeping in view our conversation at Dr. Baleinier’s), I wish, for the sake of our future communion, as you call it, to give you a piece of advice, and speak frankly to you.”

Rodin had listened to Mdlle. de Cardoville with apparent impassibility, holding his hat under his arm, and twirling his thumbs, whilst his hands were crossed upon his waistcoat.  The only external mark of the intense agitation into which he was thrown by the calm words of Adrienne, was that the livid eyelids of the Jesuit, which had been hypocritically closed, became gradually red, as the blood flowed into them.  Nevertheless, he answered Mdlle. de Cardoville in a firm voice, and with a low bow:  “Good advice and frankness are always excellent things.”

“You see, sir,” resumed Adrienne, with some excitement, “happy love bestows such penetration, such energy, such courage, as enables one to laugh at perils, to detect stratagems, and to defy hatred.  Believe me, the divine light which surrounds two loving hearts will be sufficient to disperse all darkness, and reveal every snare.  You see, in India—­excuse my weakness, but I like to talk of India,” added the young girl, with a smile of indescribable grace and meaning—­“in India, when travellers sleep at night, they kindle great fires round their ajoupa (excuse this touch of local coloring), and far as extends the luminous circle, it puts to flight by its mere brilliancy, all the impure and venomous reptiles that shun the day and live only in darkness.”

“The meaning of this comparison has quite escaped me,” said Rodin, continuing to twirl his thumbs, and half raising his eyelids, which were getting redder and redder.

“I will speak more plainly,” said Adrienne, with a smile.  “Suppose, sir, that the last is a service which you have rendered me and the prince—­for you only proceed by way of services—­that, I acknowledge, is novel and ingenious.”

“Bravo, my dear child!” said the count, joyfully.  “The execution will be complete.”

“Oh! this is meant for an execution?” said Rodin, still impassible.

“No, sir,” answered Adrienne, with a smile; “it is a simple conversation between a poor young girl and an old philosopher, the friend of humanity.  Suppose, then, that these frequent services that you have rendered to me and mine have suddenly opened my eyes; or, rather,” added the young girl, in a serious tone, “suppose that heaven, who gives to the mother the instinct to defend her child, has given me, along with happiness, the instinct to preserve my happiness, and that a vague presentiment, by throwing light on a thousand circumstances until now obscure, has suddenly revealed to me that, instead of being the friend, you are perhaps, the most dangerous enemy of myself and family.”