“And yet,” cried Rodin, “you and they were not the only victims.”

“Who, then, are the others, sir?”

“A young East Indian.”

“Prince Djalma?” said Adrienne, hastily.

“For the same reason he has been nearly poisoned with a narcotic.”

“Great God!” cried the young girl, clasping her hands in horror.  “It is fearful.  That young prince, who was said to have so noble and generous a character!  But I had sent to Cardoville Castle—­”

“A confidential person, to fetch the prince to Paris—­I know it, my dear young lady; but, by means of a trick, your friend was got out of the way, and the young Oriental delivered to his enemies.”

“And where is he now?”

“I have only vague information on the subject.  I know that he is in Paris, and do not despair of finding him.  I shall pursue my researches with an almost paternal ardor, for we cannot too much love the rare qualities of that poor king’s son.  What a heart, my dear young lady! what a heart!  Oh, it is a heart of gold, pure and bright as the gold of his country!”

“We must find the prince, sir,” said Adrienne with emotion; “let me entreat you to neglect nothing for that end.  He is my relation—­alone here—­without support—­without assistance.”

“Certainly,” replied Rodin, with commiseration.  “Poor boy!—­for he is almost a boy—­eighteen or nineteen years of age—­thrown into the heart of Paris, of this hell—­with his fresh, ardent, half-savage passions—­with his simplicity and confidence—­to what perils may he not be exposed?”

“Well, we must first find him, sir,” said Adrienne, hastily; “and then we will save him from these dangers.  Before I was confined here, I learned his arrival in France, and sent a confidential person to offer him the services of an unknown friend.  I now see that this mad idea, with which I have been so much reproached, was a very sensible one.  I am more convinced of it than ever.  The prince belongs to my family, and I owe him a generous hospitality.  I had destined for him the lodge I occupied at my aunt’s.”

“And you, my dear young lady?”

“To-day, I shall remove to a house, which I had prepared some time ago, with the determination of quitting Madame de Saint-Dizier, and living alone as I pleased.  Then, sir, as you seem bent upon being the good genius of our family, be as generous with regard to Prince Djalma, as you have been to me and Marshal Simon’s daughters.  I entreat you to discover the hiding-place of this poor king’s son, as you call him; keep my secret for me, and conduct him to the house offered by the unknown friend.  Let him not disquiet himself about anything; all his wants shall be provided for; he shall live—­like a prince.”

“Yes; he will indeed live like a prince, thanks to your royal munificence.  But never was such kind interest better deserved.  It is enough to see (as I have seen) his fine, melancholy countenance—­”