blood of his life, only makes people shrug their shoulders and laugh."
"But are you certain of this treachery?" said Djalma, mildly.Then he added, with visible hesitation, that proved the goodness of his heart:
"Listen to me, and forgive me for speaking of the past! It will only be another proof, that I cherish no evil memories, and that I fully believe in your repentance and affection.Remember, that I also once thought, that she, who is the angel of my life, did not love me--and yet it was false.Who tells you, that you are not, like me, deceived by false appearances?"
"Alas, my lord! could I only believe so! But I dare not hope it.My brain wanders uncertain, I cannot come to any resolution, and therefore I have recourse to you."
"But what causes your suspicions?"
"Her coldness, which sometimes succeeds to apparent tenderness.The refusals she gives me in the name of duty.Yes," added the half-caste, after a moment's silence."she reasons about her love--a proof, that she has never loved me, or that she loves me no more."
"On the contrary, she perhaps loves you all the more, that she takes into consideration the interest and the dignity of her love."
"That is what they all say," replied the half-caste, with bitter irony, as he fixed a penetrating look on Djalma; "thus speak all those who love weakly, coldly; but those who love valiantly, never show these insulting suspicions.For them, a word from the man they adore is a command; they do not haggle and bargain, for the cruel pleasure of exciting the passion of their lover to madness, and so ruling him more surely.No, what their lover asks of them, were it to cost life and honor, they would grant it without hesitation--because, with them, the will of the man they love is above every other consideration, divine and human.But those crafty women, whose pride it is to tame and conquer man--who take delight in irritating his passion, and sometimes appear on the point of yielding to it--are demons, who rejoice in the tears and torments of the wretch, that loves them with the miserable weakness of a child.While we expire with love at their feet, the perfidious creatures are calculating the effects of their refusals, and seeing how far they can go, without quite driving their victim to despair.Oh! how cold and cowardly are they, compared to the valiant, true-hearted women, who say to the men of their choice: `Let me be thine to-day-and to-morrow, come shame, despair, and death--it matters little! Be happy! my life is not worth one tear of thine!"
Djalma's brow had darkened, as he listened.Having kept inviolable the secret of the various incidents of his passion for Mdlle.de Cardoville, he could not but see in these words a quite involuntary allusion to the delays and refusals of Adrienne.And yet Djalma suffered a moment in his pride, at the thought of considerations and duties, that a woman holds dearer than her love.But this bitter and painful thought was soon effaced from the oriental's mind, thanks to the beneficent influence of the remembrance of Adrienne.His brow again cleared, and he answered the half-caste, who was watching him attentively with a sidelong glance: "You are deluded by grief.If you have no other reason to doubt her you love, than these refusals and vague suspicions, be satisfied! You are perhaps loved better than you can imagine."
"Alas! would it were so, my lord!" replied the half-caste, dejectedly, as if he had been deeply touched by the words of Djalma."Yet I say to myself: There is for this woman something stronger than her love--
delicacy, dignity, honor, what you will--but she does not love me enough to sacrifice for me this something!"
"Friend, you are deceived," answered Djalma, mildly, though the words affected him with a painful impression."The greater the love of a woman, the more it should be chaste and noble.It is love itself that awakens this delicacy and these scruples.He rules, instead of being ruled."
"That is true," replied the half-caste, with bitter irony, "Love so rules me, that this woman bids me love in her own fashion, and I have only to submit."
Pausing suddenly, Faringhea hid his face in his hands, and heaved a deep-
drawn sigh.His features expressed a mixture of hate, rage, and despair, at once so terrible and so painful, that Djalma, more and more affected, exclaimed, as he seized the other's hand: "Calm this fury, and listen to the voice of friendship! It will disperse this evil influence.Speak to me!"
"No, no! it is too dreadful!"
"Speak, I bid thee."
"No! leave the wretch to his despair!"
"Do you think me capable of that?" said Djalma, with a mixture of mildness and dignity, which seemed to make an impression on the half-
caste.
"Alas!" replied he, hesitating; "do you wish to hear more, my lord?"
"I wish to hear all."