"It was not your fault?" "And then, where is the great evil, monseigneur? Your religious poet made mediocre verses, but now he writes magnificent ones." "They are only the more dangerous, madame. And his soul,--his soul?" "His soul has passed into his verses, monseigneur, so now it is twice immortal." "And the cardinal legate, madame?" "At least, you cannot reproach me for having injured his soul, for he had none." "What, madame! have you not sufficiently vilified the sacred character of the prince of the Church, this priest who until then was so austere, this statesman who for twenty years was the terror of the impious and the seditious? Have you not delivered him to the contempt, the hatred, of wicked people? But for unexpected succour, they would have murdered him; in short, madame, were you not on the point of revolutionising Bologna?" "Ah, monseigneur, you flatter me." "And you dare, madame, to present yourself in the palace of a prince who has so much interest in the peace and submission of Germany and Italy? You dare come to ask favours of me,--things that you yourself say are impossible or almost impossible? And in what tone do you make this inconceivable request? In a tone familiar and jesting, as if you were certain of obtaining anything from me. You have made a mistake, madame, a great mistake! I resemble, I give you fair warning, neither the poet, Moser-Hartmann, nor the cardinal legate, nor many others, they say you have bewitched; in truth, your impudence would seem to be more like a dream or nightmare than reality. But who are you then, madame, you who think yourself so far above respect and duty as to treat me as an equal,--me, whom the princesses of royal families approach only with deference?" "Alas, monseigneur! I am only a poor woman," replied Madeleine. And she threw back the veil which had concealed her face from the eyes of the archduke. CHAPTER XV. The prince, carried away by the vehemence of his furious indignation, had, as he talked, come nearer and nearer the marquise, who still sat at her ease in the armchair. When she threw back her veil, at the same time throwing her head back lightly, so as to be able to fix her eyes upon the eyes of the prince, he stood motionless, and experienced that mingling of surprise, admiration, and involuntary pain which almost everybody felt at the sight of that charming face, to which a pallid complexion, large azure blue eyes, black eyebrows, and blonde hair gave a fascination so singular. This profound impression made upon the prince, Charles Dutertre had also received, notwithstanding his love for his wife, notwithstanding the agonising fears of ruin and disaster by which he was besieged.