“I will ask for more.  My mother is right; the son of a monarch ought to live royally.”

Such was the answer of the Indian, made with perfect simplicity, and without any appearance of astonishment at these magnificent offers.  This was natural.  Djalma would have done for others what they were doing for him, for the traditions of the prodigal magnificence and splendid hospitality of Indian princes are well known.  Djalma had been as moved as grateful, on hearing that a woman loved him with maternal affection.  As for the luxury with which she nought to surround him, he accepted it without astonishment and without scruple.  This resignation, again, somewhat disconcerted Rodin, who had prepared many excellent arguments to persuade the Indian to accept his offers.

“Well, then, it’s all agreed, my dear prince,” resumed the Jesuit.  “Now, as you must see the world, it’s just as well to enter by the best door, as we say.  One of the friends of your maternal protectress, the Count de Montbron, an old nobleman of the greatest experience, and belonging to the first society, will introduce you in some of the best houses in Paris.”

“Will you not introduce me, father?”

“Alas! my dear prince, look at me.  Tell me, if you think I am fitted for such an office.  No. no; I live alone and retired from the world.  And then,” added Rodin, after a short silence, fixing a penetrating, attentive, and curious look upon the prince, as if he would have subjected him to a sort of experiment by what follows; “and then, you see, M. de Montbron will be better able than I should, in the world you are about to enter, to enlighten you as to the snares that will be laid for you.  For if you have friends, you have also enemies—­cowardly enemies, as you know, who have abused your confidence in an infamous manner, and have made sport of you.  And as, unfortunately, their power is equal to their wickedness, it would perhaps be more prudent in you to try to avoid them—­to fly, instead of resisting them openly.”

At the remembrance of his enemies, at the thought of flying from them, Djalma trembled in every limb; his features became of a lurid paleness; his eyes wide open, so that the pupil was encircled with white, sparkled with lurid fire; never had scorn, hatred, and the desire of vengeance, expressed themselves so terribly on a human face.  His upper lip, blood red, was curled convulsively, exposing a row of small, white, and close set teeth, and giving to his countenance lately so charming, an air of such animal ferocity, that Rodin started from his seat, and exclaimed:  “What is the matter, prince?  You frighten me.”

Djalma did not answer.  Half leaning forward, with his hands clinched in rage, he seemed to cling to one of the arms of the chair, for fear of yielding to a burst of terrific fury.  At this moment, the amber mouthpiece of his pipe rolled, by chance, under one of his feet; the violent tension, which contracted all the muscles of the young Indian, was so powerful, and notwithstanding his youth and his light figure, he was endowed with such vigor, that with one abrupt stamp he powdered to dust the piece of amber, in spite of its extreme hardness.