That they could think her capable of being trapped by such a shallow artifice! Her heart swelled in her breast over the base wrong to him, the despicable meanness to herself. O, how fine and proud he appeared by contrast with these ignoble minds, how remote from them in his living intensity, his spiritual dignity! She would not even condescend to defend him in thought against a slander so gross and obvious. Its effect was to confirm her tenfold in her faith. “She is pricked,” thought the duke. “We may leave the poison to work.” But the poison was not as he surmised: it was shame, not for the slandered but the slanderer, that burnt in her veins. Her father! That he could have debased himself to such methods! All in a moment he seemed revealed to her for what he was, a prince with a clown’s heart, a whited sepulchre, behind the mask of elegance a soul like a shrivelled kernel, without life or savour. She turned from him, in a very sickness of repulsion. But that night, as Fanchette was preparing her for bed, she rose suddenly from her chair, and, turning upon the maid, clasped her convulsively by the arms. “Tell me of him, or I shall die,” she said. The girl for the moment was completely taken aback. She did not know what to answer, and could only stare and gasp. The feverish clutch closed more urgently upon her. “I have no friend but you in all the world, Fanchette. Have I not been kind to you? O, be kind to me and tell me! You know very well--you have always known, I think. Forgive me if I pretended not to understand you. I tried so long to fight against it; and I could not--and my heart is breaking.” Startled, unnerved as she was, Fanchette could not but be touched by that piteous appeal. “Hush!” she said. “What do you want to know? There, sit upon this couch, and speak low, while I kneel to you. So. Now, tell me, are you always thinking of him?” “Always, always, Fanchette--all the weary day and night. Why does he not send me one least little message?” “It is said he is gone to Vienna.” “O, cruel!” “Would you kill him with your rashness? Do you not know he is suspected?” “Fanchette!--my God! Tell him to keep away. You must--you can find means.” “What is the good, when by your every look and act you betray him.” “I will not--O, I will not! But to hear him so slandered and maligned--it is hard to suffer and to smile.” “Do they slander him--are you sure?” “What do you mean?” “O, nothing!” She gave a little affected laugh. She was beginning to consider her part. “Only it does not do with us to idealise our fancies too much.” She failed, for all her effort, to meet the inquisition of the true grief-stricken eyes. “Fanchette!” “O, we know how gossip is to be discounted. For myself, at least, I never took him seriously.” “In what?” “It is only natural to propitiate the maid if you would come at the mistress.” “Did he make love to _you_?”