“They are very much mistaken in me, I assure you,” replied Philip.

“No, indeed,” answered the Widow, “they know you very well, and if you do not immediately change your apparel, I shall not speak to you again the whole evening.  I have no desire to give my husband an opportunity of making a scene.”

By this Philip discovered whom he was talking with.  “You were the beautiful Rose-girl; are your roses withered so soon?”

“What is there that does not wither? not the constancy of man?  I saw you when you slipped off with the Carmelite.  Acknowledge your inconstancy—­you can deny it no longer.”

“Hem,” answered Philip, dryly, “accuse me if you will, I can return the accusation.”

“How,—­pretty butterfly?”

“Why, for instance, there is not a more constant man alive than the Marshal.”

“There is not indeed!—­and I am wrong, very wrong to have listened to you so long.  I reproached myself enough, but he has unfortunately discovered our flirtation.”

“Since the last rout at Court, fair Widow—–­”

“Were you so unguarded and particular—­pretty butterfly!”

“Let us repair the mischief.  Let us part.  I honor the Marshal, and, for my part, do not like to give him pain.”

The Widow looked at him for some time in speechless amazement.

“If you have indeed any regard for me,” continued Philip, “you will go with the Marshal to Poland, to visit your relations.  ’Tis better that we should not meet so often.  A beautiful woman is beautiful—­ but a pure and virtuous woman is more beautiful still.”

“Prince!” cried the astonished Widow, “are you really in earnest?  Have you ever loved me, or have you all along deceived?”

“Look you,” answered Philip, “I am a tempter of a peculiar kind.  I search constantly among women to find truth and virtue, and ’tis but seldom that I encounter them.  Only the true and virtuous can keep me constant—­therefore I am true to none; but no!—­I will not lie—­ there is one that keeps me in her chains—­I am sorry, fair Widow, that that one—­is not you!”

“You are in a strange mood to-night, Prince,” answered the Widow, and the trembling of her voice and heaving of her bosom showed the working of her mind.

“No,” answered Philip, “I am in as rational a mood to-night as I ever was in my life.  I wish only to repair an injury; I have promised to your husband to do so.”

“How!” exclaimed the Widow, in a voice of terror, “you have discovered all to the Marshal?”

“Not everything,” answered Philip, “only what I knew.”

The Widow wrung her hands in the extremity of agitation, and at last said, “Where is my husband?”

Philip pointed to the Mameluke, who at this moment approached them with slow steps.

“Prince,” said the Widow, in a tone of inexpressible rage,—­“Prince, you may be forgiven this, but not from me!  I never dreamt that the heart of man could be so deceitful,—­but you are unworthy of a thought.  You are an impostor!  My husband in the dress of a barbarian is a prince; you in the dress of a prince are a barbarian.  In this world you see me no more!”