The Venosta alone did not share in the contemptuous laughter with which
the inflated style of these diatribes inspired the Rameaus. Her simple
Italian mind was horror-stricken by language which the Abbe treated with
ridicule.

"Ah!" said M. Rameau, "I guess the author--that firebrand Felix Pyat."

"No," answered the Abbe; "the writer signs himself by the name of a more
learned atheist--Diderot le jeune." Here the door opened, and Raoul
entered, accompanying Isaura. A change had come over the face of the
young Vandemar since his brother's death. The lines about the mouth had
deepened, the cheeks had lost their rounded contour and grown somewhat
hollow. But the expression was as serene as ever, perhaps even less
pensively melancholy. His whole aspect was that of a man who has
sorrowed, but been supported in sorrow; perhaps it was more sweet-
certainly it was more lofty.

And, as if there were in the atmosphere of his presence something that
communicated the likeness of his own soul to others, since Isaura had
been brought into his companionship, her own lovely face had caught the
expression that prevailed in his--that, too, had become more sweet--that,
too, had become more lofty.

The friendship that had grown up between these two young mourners was of
a very rare nature. It had in it no sentiment that could ever warm into
the passion of human love. Indeed, had Isaura's heart been free to give
away, love for Raoul de Vandemar would have seemed to her a profanation.
He was never more priestly than when he was most tender. And the
tenderness of Raoul towards her was that of some saint-like nature