BOOK X.

XXXIII.  Confessions
XXXIV.  More Confessions
XXXV.  The Rivals
XXXVI.  The Interview
XXXVII.  Soothing Words
XXXVIII.  The Two Carriages
XXXIX.  The Appointment
XL.  Anxiety
XLI.  Adrienne and Djalma
XLII.  “The Imitation”
XLIII.  Prayer
XLIV.  Remembrances
XLV.  The Blockhead
XLVI.  The Anonymous Letters
XLVII.  The Golden City
XLVIII.  The Stung Lion
XLIX.  The Test

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Confessions.

During the painful scene that we have just described, a lively emotion glowed in the countenance of Mdlle. de Cardoville, grown pale and thin with sorrow.  Her cheeks, once so full, were now slightly hollowed, whilst a faint line of transparent azure encircled those large black eyes, no longer so bright as formerly.  But the charming lips, though contracted by painful anxiety, had retained their rich and velvet moisture.  To attend more easily to Mother Bunch, Adrienne had thrown aside her bonnet, and the silky waves of her beautiful golden hair almost concealed her face as she bent over the mattress, rubbing the thin, ivory hands of the poor sempstress, completely called to life by the salubrious freshness of the air, and by the strong action of the salts which Adrienne carried in her smelling-bottle.  Luckily, Mother Bunch had fainted, rather from emotion and weakness than from the effects of suffocation, the senses of the unfortunate girl having failed her before the deleterious gas had attained its highest degree of intensity.

Before continuing the recital of the scene between the sempstress and the patrician, a few retrospective words will be necessary.  Since the strange adventure at the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, where Djalma, at peril of his life, rushed upon the black panther in sight of Mdlle. de Cardoville, the young lady had been deeply affected in various ways.  Forgetting her jealousy, and the humiliation she had suffered in presence of Djalma—­of Djalma exhibiting himself before every one with a woman so little worthy of him—­Adrienne was for a moment dazzled by the chivalrous and heroic action of the prince, and said to herself:  “In spite of odious appearances, Djalma loves me enough to brave death in order to pick up my nosegay.”

But with a soul so delicate as that of this young lady, a character so generous, and a mind so true, reflection was certain soon to demonstrate the vanity of such consolations, powerless to cure the cruel wounds of offended dignity an love.

“How many times,” said Adrienne to herself, and with reason, “has the prince encountered, in hunting, from pure caprice and with no gain, such danger as he braved in picking up my bouquet! and then, who tells me he did not mean to offer it to the woman who accompanied him?”