"And where have you made the acquaintance of this young lady?" "Here, monseigneur." "Here? I have never received any person of that name." "When I say here, monseigneur, I mean to say in this walk where we are." "Speak more clearly." "Your Royal Highness sees this wall of protection which separates the neighbouring garden?" "Yes, go on." "I was promenading in this walk when I saw Mlle. Antonine for the first time." "In this garden?" replied the prince, advancing to the wall, and taking a view of it. Then he added: "This young lady, then, lives in the next house?" "Yes, monseigneur; her uncle occupies a part of the ground floor." "Very well." After a few minutes' reflection, the prince added, severely: "You have given me your confidence, Frantz. I accept it; but act with perfect candour, with the most thorough sincerity, if you do not--" "Monseigneur!" interrupted Frantz, in painful surprise. "Well, well, I was wrong to suspect your truthfulness, Frantz. You have never lied to me in your life. Speak, I will listen to you." "Your Royal Highness knows that, since our arrival in Paris, I have rarely gone out in the evening." "That is true; I am aware of your disinclination to society, and, too, of your excessive timidity, which increases your distaste for appearing at these dreaded French functions, where you are naturally a stranger. I have not insisted upon it, Frantz, and have allowed you to dispose of most of your evenings as you pleased." "In one of these evenings, monseigneur, six weeks ago, I saw Mlle. Antonine for the first time. She was watering flowers; I was leaning on my elbow there at the wall. She saw me; I saluted her. She returned my salutation, blushed, and continued to water her flowers; twice she looked up at me, and we bowed to each other again; then, as it grew dark entirely, Mlle. Antonine left the garden." It is impossible to reproduce the ingenuous grace with which poor Frantz made this artless recital of his first interview with the young girl. The emotion betrayed by his voice, the heightened colour of his face, all proved the honesty of this pure and innocent soul. "One question, Frantz," said the prince. "Has this young lady a mother?" "No, monseigneur, Mlle. Antonine lost her mother when she was in the cradle, and her father died some years ago." "Is her uncle, President Hubert, married?" "No, monseigneur." "How old is she?" "Fifteen years and a half, monseigneur." "And is she pretty?" "Antonine! monseigneur!" In this exclamation of Frantz, there was almost a reproach, as if it were possible for him not to recognise the beauty of Mlle. Antonine. "I ask you, Frantz," repeated the archduke, "if this young girl is pretty?" "Monseigneur, do you recollect the sleeping Hebe in the gallery of your palace of Offenbach?" "One of my finest Correggios." "Monseigneur, Mlle. Antonine resembles this painting by Correggio, although she is far more beautiful." "It would be difficult to be that."