wicked, and to teach you to be good?  Though a king’s son, I will be that friend—­in spite of the evil—­ay, because of the evil you have done me.  Yes; I will be your sincere friend, and it shall be my delight to say to myself:  ’The day on which I learned that my angel loved me, my happiness was great indeed—­for, in the morning, I had an implacable enemy, and, ere night, his hatred was changed to friendship.’  Believe me, Faringhea, misery makes crime, but happiness produces virtue.  Be happy!”

At this moment the clock struck two.  The prince started.  It was time to go on his visit to Adrienne.  The handsome countenance of Djalma, doubly embellished by the mild, ineffable expression with which it had been animated whilst he was talking to the half-caste, now seemed illumined with almost divine radiance.

Approaching Faringhea, he extended his hand with the utmost, grace and courtesy, saying to him, “Your hand!”

The half-caste, whose brow was bathed with a cold sweat, whose countenance was pale and agitated, seemed to hesitate for an instant; then, overawed, conquered, fascinated, he offered his trembling hand to the prince, who pressed it, and said to him, in their country’s fashion, “You have laid your hand honestly in a friend’s; this hand shall never be closed against you.  Faringhea, farewell!  I now feel myself more worthy to kneel before my angel.”

And Djalma went out, on his way to the appointment with Adrienne.  In spite of his ferocity, in spite of the pitiless hate he bore to the whole human race, the dark sectary of Bowanee was staggered by the noble and clement words of Djalma, and said to himself, with terror, “I have taken his hand.  He is now sacred for me.”

Then, after a moment’s silence, a thought occurred to him, and he exclaimed, “Yes—­but he will not be sacred for him who, according to the answer of last night, waits for him at the door of the house.”

So saying, the half-caste hastened into the next room, which looked upon the street, and, raising a corner of the curtain, muttered anxiously to himself, “The carriage moves off—­the man approaches.  Perdition! it is gone and I see no more.”

CHAPTER XL.

Anxiety.

By a singular coincidence of ideas, Adrienne, like Djalma, had wished to be dressed exactly in the same costume as at their interview in the house in the Rue Blanche.  For the site of this solemn meeting, so important to her future happiness, Adrienne had chosen, with habitual tact, the grand drawing-room of Cardoville House, in which hung many family portraits.  The most apparent were those of her father and mother.  The room was large and lofty, and furnished, like those which preceded it, with all the imposing splendor of the age of Louis XIV.  The ceiling, painted by Lebrun, to represent the Triumph of Apollo, displayed his bold designing and vigorous coloring, in the centre