really not well."

He clasped his hand more affectionately than usual.

"Adieu, my dear child," he added, and turned around brusquely to hide
the tears which suddenly filled his eyes. M. de Camors experienced for
some moments a lively disquietude, but the friendly and tender adieus
of the General reassured him that it did not relate to himself. Still he
continued astonished and even affected by the emotion of the old man.

Was it not strange? If there was one man in the world whom he loved,
or to whom he would have devoted himself, it was this one whom he had
mortally wronged.

He had, however, good reason to be uneasy; and was wrong in reassuring
himself; for the General in the course of that evening had been informed
of the treachery of his wife--at least he had been prepared for it. Only
he was still ignorant of the name of her accomplice.

Those who informed him were afraid of encountering the blind and
obstinate faith of the General, had they named Camors.

It was probable, also, after what had already occurred, that had
they again pronounced that name, the General would have repelled the
suspicion as a monstrous impossibility, regretting even the thought.

M. de Camors remained until one o'clock at the club and then went to
the Rue Vanneau. He was introduced into the Hotel Campvallon with the
customary precautions; and this time we shall follow him there. In
traversing the garden, he raised his eyes to the General's window, and
saw the soft light of the night-lamp burning behind the blinds.

The Marquise awaited him at the door of her boudoir, which opened on a
rotunda at an elevation of a few feet. He kissed her hand, and told her
in few words of the General's sadness.

She replied that she had been very uneasy about his health for some
days. This explanation seemed natural to M. de Camors, and he followed
the Marquise through the dark and silent salon. She held in her hand
a candle, the feeble light of which threw on her delicate features a
strange pallor. When they passed up the long, echoing staircase, the
rustling of her skirt on the steps was the only sound that betrayed her
light movement.

She stopped from time to time, shivering--as if better to taste the
dramatic solemnity that surrounded them--turned her blonde head a little
to look at Camors; then cast on him her inspiring smile, placed her hand
on her heart, as if to say, "I am fearful," and went on. They reached
her chamber, where a dim la