And then, after several moments, I forgot my anguish in the sole contemplation of Mademoiselle d’Aillane, beautiful as the purest and most elegant of Diana’s nymphs, and as frankly affectionate with me as a child who confides in a sympathetic face. There was, so to speak, a shining purity about her, an adorable expansion of heart without the least thought of coquetry; and no trace whatever of the always rather reserved manners that a young girl of quality was in the habit of observing when conversing with a _bourgeois_. It seemed as if I were a relative, a friend of her childhood with whom she was renewing her acquaintance after a separation of several years. Her limpid gaze was not at all like the concentrated fire of Madame d’Ionis. It was a serene light like that of the stars. Impressionable and nervous as I had become in consequence of so many exciting vigils, I felt rejuvenated, rested, and deliciously refreshed under this benign influence. She conversed without art, and without pretention, but with a natural distinction and clearness of judgment which evinced a moral education far above what was then regarded as sufficient for women of her rank. She had none of their prejudices, and it was with angelic good faith and even with a certain generous childish enthusiasm that she accepted the conquests of the philosophical mind that was drawing us, without our knowledge, towards a new era. But above all she possessed an irresistible charm of sweetness, and I at once succumbed to its influence without a struggle. Without remembering that in the secrecy of my soul, I had pronounced a sort of monastic vow which consecrated me to the worship of an impalpable ideal. She spoke openly of the joys and sorrows of her family, of the part that I had played in the events of these latter days, and of the gratitude that she considered she owed me for the way in which I had spoken to Bernard of her father’s honor. “Since you know all these things then, you ought to appreciate all it has cost me to take sides against you.” “I know everything,” said she, “even about the duel that you came near having with my brother. _Hélas!_ he was entirely in the wrong, but he is of a nature that rises after committing a mistake, and his esteem for you dates from that time. My father, whose affairs have kept him in Paris all this time, will soon be here, and longs to tell you that henceforth he looks on you as one of his own children. You will like him, I am sure; he is a man of superior mind and of corresponding character.” As she spoke thus, the noise of a carriage and the barking of dogs without caused her to start from her chair. “It is he!” she cried, “I will wager it is he who is coming! Come with me to meet him.”