their ideas, and gives them depth; though later their fascinated
listener may not remember precisely what they said, their end has been
completely attained,--which is the object of all eloquence. The
princess might at that moment have been wearing the diadem of France,
and her brow could not have seemed more imposing than it was beneath
that crown of golden hair, braided like a coronet, and adorned with
heather. She was simple and calm; nothing betrayed a sense of any
necessity to appear so, nor any desire to seem grand or loving.
D'Arthez, the solitary toiler, to whom the ways of the world were
unknown, whom study had wrapped in its protecting veils, was the dupe
of her tones and words. He was under the spell of those exquisite
manners; he admired that perfect beauty, ripened by misfortune, placid
in retirement; he adored the union of so rare a mind and so noble a
soul; and he longed to become, himself, the heir of Michel Chrestien.

The beginning of this passion was, as in the case of almost all deep
thinkers, an idea. Looking at the princess, studying the shape of her
head, the arrangement of those sweet features, her figure, her hand,
so finely modelled, closer than when he accompanied his friend in
their wild rush through the streets, he was struck by the surprising
phenomenon of the moral second-sight which a man exalted by love
invariably finds within him. With what lucidity had Michel Chrestien
read into that soul, that heart, illumined by the fires of love! Thus
the princess acquired, in d'Arthez's eyes, another charm; a halo of
poesy surrounded her.

As the dinner proceeded, Daniel called to mind the various confidences
of his friend, his despair, his hopes, the noble poems of a true
sentiment sung to his ear alone, in honor of this woman. It is rare
that a man passes without remorse from the position of confidant to