friend,
which she was, and probably as a charming forbidden fruit, which she
also was. Two or three years passed without making any sensible change
in the relations of the different persons in this history. This was
the most brilliant phase and probably the happiest in the life of M. de
Camors.

His marriage had doubled his fortune, and his clever speculations
augmented it every day. He had increased the retinue of his house in
proportion to his new resources. In the region of elegant high life
he decidedly held the sceptre. His horses, his equipages, his artistic
tastes, even his toilet, set the law.

His liaison with Madame de Campvallon, without being proclaimed, was
suspected, and completed his prestige. At the same time his capacity as
a political man began to be acknowledged. He had spoken in some recent
debate, and his maiden speech was a triumph. His prosperity was great.
It was nevertheless true that M. de Camors did not enjoy it without
trouble. Two black spots darkened the sky above his head, and might
contain destroying thunder. His life was eternally suspended on a
thread.

Any day General Campvallon might be informed of the intrigue which
dishonored him, either through some selfish treason, or through some
public rumor, which might begin to spread. Should this ever happen, he
knew the General never would submit to it; and he had determined never
to defend his life against his outraged friend.

This resolve, firmly decided upon in his secret soul, gave him the last
solace to his conscience. All his future destiny was thus at the
mercy of an accident most likely to happen. The second cause of his
disquietude was the jealous hatred of Madame Campvallon toward the young
rival she had herself selected. After jesting freely on this subject at
first, the Marquise had, little by little, ceased even to allude to it.

M. de Camors could not misunderstand certain mute symptoms, and was
sometimes alarmed at this silent jealousy. Fearing to exasperate this
most violent feminine sentiment in so strong a soul, he was compelled
day by day to resort to tricks which wounded his pride, and probably
his heart also; for his wife, to whom his new conduct was inexplicable,
suffered intensely, and he saw it.

One evening in the month of May, 1860, there was a reception at the
Hotel Campvallon. The Marquise, before leaving for the country, was
making her adieus to a choice group of her friends. Although this fete
professe