"I do not know, madame. At the farm where he sent me, he was only known by the name of Rudolph." "And his age?" "He is still young, madame." "And handsome?" "Oh, yes! handsome, noble--as his heart." The grateful, feeling manner with which Fleur-de-Marie pronounced these words, caused a disagreeable sensation to Madame d'Harville. An invincible, an inexplicable presentiment told her that this Rudolph was the prince. "The observations of the inspectress were well founded," thought Clemence. "The Goualeuse loves Rudolph; it was his name she pronounced in her sleep. Under what strange circumstances had the prince and this poor girl met? Why did Rudolph go disguised into the city?" She could not resolve these questions; only she remembered that Sarah had formerly, wickedly and falsely, related to her some pretended eccentricities of Rudolph, and of his strange amours. Was it not, indeed, strange that he had taken from a life of misery this creature, of ravishing beauty and of no common mind? Clemence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, and she loved Rudolph profoundly, although she had determined to bury this secret in the very depths of her heart. Without reflecting that this, no doubt, was one of those generous actions which the prince was accustomed to do secretly; without reflecting that, perhaps, she confounded with love a sentiment of warm gratitude; without reflecting, finally, that of this sentiment, even if it were more tender, Rudolph might be ignorant, the lady, in the first feeling of bitterness and injustice, could not prevent herself considering the Goualeuse as a rival. Her pride revolted in feeling that she blushed; that she suffered, in spite of herself, at a rivalry so abject. She resumed, then, in a cold manner, which cruelly contrasted with the affectionate benevolence of her first words, "And how is it, girl, that your protector leaves you in prison? How did you get here?" "Madame," said Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, struck with this change of language: "have I displeased you in any way?" "How could you have displeased me?" demanded Madame d'Harville, with haughtiness. "It seems to me that just now you spoke to me with more kindness, madame." "Truly, girl, must I weigh each of my words, since I consent to interest myself in you? I have the right, I think, to address you questions?" Hardly were these words pronounced than Clemence, for many reasons, regretted their severity. In the first place, by a praiseworthy return of generosity; then because she thought, by offending her rival, she could learn nothing more of what she wished to know. In effect, the countenance of La Goualeuse, one moment open and confiding, became instantly reserved. Like the sensitive plant, which at the first touch closes its delicate leaves, and folds them within its bosom, the heart of Fleur-de-Marie contracted painfully.