“And this woman, this second mother,” said Djalma, “is her character such, that I can rely on her judgment?”

“She!” cried Rodin, clasping his hands, and speaking with increased excitement.  “Why, she is the most noble, the most generous, the most valiant being upon earth!—­why, if you were really her son, and she loved you with all the strength of maternal affection, and a case arose in which you had to choose between an act of baseness and death, she would say to you:  ‘Die!’ though she might herself die with you.”

“Oh, noble woman! so was my mother!” cried Djalma, with enthusiasm.

“Yes,” resumed Rodin, with growing energy, as he approached the window concealed by the shade, towards which he threw an oblique and anxious glance, “if you would imagine your protectress, think only of courage, uprightness, and loyalty personified.  Oh! she has the chivalrous frankness of the brave man, joined with the high-souled dignity of the woman, who not only never in her life told a falsehood, never concealed a single thought, but who would rather die than give way to the least of those sentiments of craft and dissimulation, which are almost forced upon ordinary women by the situation in which they are placed.”

It is difficult to express the admiration which shone upon the countenance of Djalma, as he listened to this description.  His eyes sparkled, his cheeks glowed, his heart palpitated with enthusiasm.

“That is well, noble heart!” said Rodin to him, drawing still nearer to the blind; “I love to see your soul sparkle through your eyes, on hearing me speak thus of your unknown protectress.  Oh! but she is worthy of the pious adoration which noble hearts and great characters inspire!”

“Oh!  I believe you,” cried Djalma, with enthusiasm; “my heart is full of admiration and also of astonishment, for my mother is no more, and yet such a woman exists!”

“Yes, she exists.  For the consolation of the afflicted, for the glory of her sex, she exists.  For the honor of truth, and the shame of falsehood, she exists.  No lie, no disguise, has ever tainted her loyalty, brilliant and heroic as the sword of a knight.  It is but a few days ago that this noble woman spoke to me these admirable words, which, in all my life, I shall not forget:  ‘Sir,’ she said, ’if ever I suspect any one that I love or esteem—­’”

Rodin did not finish.  The shade, so violently shaken that the spring broke, was drawn up abruptly, and, to the great astonishment of Djalma, Mdlle. de Cardoville appeared before him.  Adrienne’s cloak had fallen from her shoulders, and in the violence of the movement with which she had approached the blind, her bonnet, the strings of which were untied, had also fallen.  Having left home suddenly, with only just time to throw a mantle over the picturesque and charming costume which she often chose to wear when alone, she appeared so radiant with beauty to Djalma’s dazzled eyes, in the centre of those leaves and flowers, that the Indian believed himself under the influence of a dream.