“Why, yes! suppose it were a woman,” resumed Rodin, “would you not then understand her reserve, and the secrecy with which she is obliged to surround the marks of affection she wishes to give you?”

“A woman!” repeated Djalma, in a trembling voice, clasping his hands in adoration; and his beautiful countenance was expressive of the deepest emotion.  “A woman!” said he again.  “A Parisian?”

“Yes, my dear prince, as you force me to this indiscretion, I will confess to you that your friend is a real Parisian—­a noble matron, endowed with the highest virtues—­whose age alone merits all your respect.”

“She is very old, then?” cried poor Djalma, whose charming dream was thus abruptly dispelled.

“She may be a few years older than I am,” answered Rodin, with an ironical smile, expecting to see the young man express a sort of comical disappointment or angry regret.

But it was not so.  To the passionate enthusiasm of love, which had for a moment lighted up the prince’s features, there now succeeded a respectful and touching expression.  He looked at Rodin with emotion, and said to him in a broken voice:  “This woman, is then, a mother to me?”

It is impossible to describe with what a pious, melancholy, and tender charm the Indian uttered the word mother.

“You have it, my dear prince; this respectable lady wishes to be a mother to you.  But I may not reveal to you the cause of the affection she feels for you.  Only, believe me—­this affection is sincere, and the cause honorable.  If I do not tell you her secret, it is that, with us, the secrets of women, young or old, are equally sacred.”

“That is right, and I will respect it.  Without seeing her, I will love her—­as I love God, without seeing Him.”

“And now, my dear prince, let me tell you what are the intentions of your maternal friend.  This house will remain at your disposal, as long as you like it; French servants, a carriage, and horses, will be at your orders; the charges of your housekeeping will be paid for you.  Then, as the son of a king should live royalty, I have left in the next room a casket containing five hundred Louis; every month a similar sum will be provided:  if it should not be found sufficient for your little amusements, you will tell me, and it shall be augmented.”

At a movement of Djalma, Rodin hastened to add:  “I must tell you at once, my dear prince, that your delicacy may be quite at ease.  First of all, you may accept anything from a mother; next, as in about three months you will come into possession of an immense inheritance, it will be easy for you, if you feel the obligation a burden—­and the sum cannot exceed, at the most, four or five thousand Louis—­to repay these advances.  Spare nothing, then, but satisfy all your fancies.  You are expected to appear in the great world of Paris, in a style becoming the son of a king who was called the Father of the Generous.  So once again I conjure you not to be restrained by a false delicacy; if this sum should not be sufficient—­”