"But," said Rudolph, in a broken voice, and becoming still paler than Murphy, "I cannot imagine the cause of your trouble--of your emotion--of your looks; there is something else--this interview--" "On my honor, I do not know anything more. These words alone, of the marchioness, have unsettled me. Why, I am ignorant. But you yourself--you are very pale, sir." "I?" said Rudolph, supporting himself on a chair, for he felt his knees giving way under him. "I tell your highness, that you are as much disturbed as I am. What is the matter?" "Although I should die under the blow, beg Madame d'Harville to enter," cried the prince. By a strange sympathy, the visit, so unexpected, so extraordinary, had awakened in both Murphy and Rudolph a certain vague and indefinite hope; but this hope seemed so extravagant, that neither one nor the other dared to avow it. Madame d'Harville, followed by Murphy, entered the cabinet. Ignorant, as we have said, that Fleur-de-Marie was the daughter of the prince, Madame d'Harville, in her joy at bringing back his protégée, had not thought she would be able to present her to him without previous preparation: she had left her in the carriage at the door, as she did not know whether the prince was willing to make himself known to the young girl, and receive her in his own house. But perceiving the great alteration in the looks of Rudolph, and remarking in his eyes the traces of recent tears, Clémence thought he had met with some misfortune more severe than the death of La Goualeuse; thus forgetting the object of her visit, she cried, "What is the matter with your highness?" "Are you ignorant, madame? Ah! all hope is lost. Your haste--the interview you have so earnestly demanded--I thought----" "Oh! I entreat you, let us not speak of the object of my visit. In the name of my father, whose life you saved, I have almost the right to demand from you the cause of the affliction in which you are plunged. Your state of dejection, your paleness, alarms me. Oh! speak, my lord; be generous--speak--have pity on my distress." "For what good, madame? my wound is incurable." "These words redouble my alarm, my lord; explain yourself--Sir Walter, what is it?" "Well!" said Rudolph, in a hollow voice, making a violent effort to restrain himself, "since I informed you of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, I have learned that she was my child." "Fleur-de-Marie your child!" cried Clémence, in a tone impossible to be described. "Yes; and just now, when you asked to see me immediately, to inform me of something that would overwhelm me with joy--have pity on my weakness--but a father, mad with grief at the loss of his child, is capable of indulging in many mad hopes. For a moment I thought--that--but no, no; I see I deceived myself. Pardon me; I am but a miserable, foolish man."