She had been pained to see Madame Maitland seated a few paces farther on, with brow and lips contracted as if by thoughts of bitterness.  She wondered:  Does Lydia suspect them, too?  But was it possible that her mother, whom she knew to be so generous, so magnanimous, so kind, could have that smile of sovereign tranquillity with such secrets in her heart?  Was it possible that she could have betrayed Maud for months and months with the same light of joy in her eyes?

“Come,” said Julien, stopping himself suddenly in the midst of a speech, in which he had related two or three literary anecdotes.  “Instead of listening to your friend Dorsenne, little Countess, you are following several blue devils flying through the room.”

“They would fly, in any case,” replied Alba, who, pointing to Fanny Hafner and Prince d’Ardea seated on a couch, continued:  “Has what I told you a few weeks since been realized?  You do not know all the irony of it.  You have not assisted, as I did the day before yesterday, at the poor girl’s baptism.”

“It is true,” replied Julien, “you were godmother.  I dreamed of Leo Thirteenth as godfather, with a princess of the house of Bourbon as godmother.  Hafner’s triumph would have been complete!”

“He had to content himself with his ambassador and your servant,” replied Alba with a faint smile, which was speedily converted into an expression of bitterness.  “Are you satisfied with your pupil?” she added.  “I am progressing....  I laugh—­when I wish to weep....  But you yourself would not have laughed had you seen the fervor of charming Fanny.  She was the picture of blissful faith.  Do not scoff at her.”

“And where did the ceremony take place?” asked Dorsenne, obeying the almost suppliant injunction.

“In the chapel of the Dames du Cenacle.”

“I know the place,” replied the novelist, “one of the most beautiful corners of Rome!  It is in the old Palais Piancini, a large mansion almost opposite the ‘Calcographie Royale’, where they sell those fantastic etchings of the great Piranese, those dungeons and those ruins of so intense a poesy!  It is the Gaya of stone.  There is a garden on the terrace.  And to ascend to the chapel one follows a winding staircase, an incline without steps, and one meets nuns in violet gowns, with faces so delicate in the white framework of their bonnets.  In short, an ideal retreat for one of my heroines.  My old friend Montfanon took me there.  As we ascended to that tower, six weeks ago, we heard the shrill voices of ten little girls, singing:  ‘Questo cuor tu la vedrai’.  It was a procession of catechists, going in the opposite direction, with tapers which flickered dimly in the remnant of daylight....  It was exquisite....  But, now permit me to laugh at the thought of Montfanon’s choler when I relate to him this baptism.  If I knew where to find the old leaguer!  But he has been hiding since our duel.  He is in some retreat doing penance.  As I have already told you, the world for him has not stirred since Francois de Guise.  He only admits the alms of the Protestants and the Jews.  When Monseigneur Guerillot tells him of Fanny’s religious aspirations, he raves immoderately.  Were she to cast herself to the lions, like Saint Blandine, he would still cry out ‘sacrilege.’”