Rudolph, after having beheld the death of Jacques Ferrand, so terribly punished for his crime, had returned home in a state of deep dejection. After a long and sleepless night, he had sent for Sir Walter Murphy, to confide to this old and faithful friend the heartrending discovery concerning Fleur-de-Marie that he had made the previous evening. The worthy Englishman was overwhelmed; better than any other person, he could comprehend and partake of the profound grief of the prince. The latter, pale, prostrated, his eyes red from weeping, had just made Murphy this painful revelation. "Take courage," said the latter, wiping his eyes; for, notwithstanding his firmness, he had also wept. "Yes, take courage, my lord--much courage. I offer no vain consolations--this sorrow has no cure." "You are right. What I felt yesterday is nothing compared to my present sufferings." "Yesterday your highness felt the shock, but the reaction will each day be more grievous. Therefore, call up all your energy. The future is sad--very sad." "And then, yesterday, the contempt and horror with which this woman inspired me! But may God have pity on her, for at this moment she is before him. Yesterday, in fine, surprise, hatred, fright, so many violent passions, smothered within me these elements of despairing tenderness, that at present I can restrain myself no longer--I can hardly weep. And yet now, with you, I can. Hold! you see, I have no strength--I am cowardly--pardon me. Tears again--always--oh! my child! my poor child!" "Weep, weep, your highness. Alas! the loss is irreparable." "And so many dreadful miseries to make her forget," cried Rudolph, in a touching tone, "after all that she has suffered! Think of the fate which awaited her!" "Perhaps this transition might have been too abrupt for the unfortunate, already so cruelly tried."