that of rival, and d'Arthez was free to do so without dishonor. He had
suddenly, in a moment, perceived the enormous differences existing
between a well-bred woman, that flower of the great world, and common
women, though of the latter he did not know beyond one specimen. He
was thus captured on the most accessible and sensitive sides of his
soul and of his genius. Impelled by his simplicity, and by the
impetuosity of his ideas, to lay immediate claim to this woman, he
found himself restrained by society, also by the barrier which the
manners and, let us say the word, the majesty of the princess placed
between them. The conversation, which remained upon the topic of
Michel Chrestien until the dessert, was an excellent pretext for both
to speak in a low voice: love, sympathy, comprehension! she could pose
as a maligned and misunderstood woman; he could slip his feet into the
shoes of the dead republican. Perhaps his candid mind detected itself
in regretting his dead friend less. The princess, at the moment when
the dessert appeared upon the table, and the guests were separated by
a brilliant hedge of fruits and sweetmeats, thought best to put an end
to this flow of confidences by a charming little speech, in which she
delicately expressed the idea that Daniel and Michel were twin souls.

After this d'Arthez threw himself into the general conversation with
the gayety of a child, and a self-conceited air that was worthy of a
schoolboy. When they left the dining-room, the princess took
d'Arthez's arm, in the simplest manner, to return to Madame d'Espard's
little salon. As they crossed the grand salon she walked slowly, and
when sufficiently separated from the marquise, who was on Blondet's
arm, she stopped.

"I do not wish to be inaccessible to the friend of that poor man," she
said to d'Arthez; "and though I have made it a rule to receive no