shown himself even more
silent than usual. At the moment of parting:

"_Apropos_, Pierre," he said, "I am tired of Paris; I am going to travel."

"Going to travel! Where on earth?"

"I am going to Sweden. I have always wished to see Sweden."

"What a singular thing! Will you be gone long?"

"Two or three months."

"When do you expect to leave?"

"To-morrow."

"Alone?"

"Entirely so. I'll see you again at the club, to-night, won't I?"

The strange reserve of this dialogue left upon the mind of Monsieur de
Moras an impression of surprise and uneasiness. He was unable to withstand
the feeling, and two hours later he returned to Lucan's. As he went in,
preparations for traveling greeted his eyes on all sides. Lucan was
engaged writing in his study.

"Now, my dear fellow!" said the count to him, "if I am impertinent, say so
frankly and at once; but this sudden and hurried voyage doesn't look like
anything. Seriously, what is the matter? Are you going to fight a duel
outside the frontier?":

"Bah! In that case I should take you with me; you know that very well."

"A woman, then?"

"Yes," said Lucan dryly.

"Excuse my importunity, and good-by."

"I have wounded your feelings, dear friend?" said Lucan, detaining him.

"Yes," said the count, "I certainly do not pretend to enter into your
secrets; but I do not absolutely understand the tone of restraint, and
almost of hostility, in which you are answering me on the subject of this
journey. It is not, moreover, the first symptoms of that nature that
strike and grieve me; for some time past, I find you visibly embarrassed
in your intercourse with me; it seems as though I were in your way and my
friendship were a burden to you, and the cruel idea has occurred to my
mind that this journey is merely a way of putting an end to it."

"Mon Dieu!" murmured Lucan. "Well, then," he went on with evident
agitation in his voice, "I must tell you the whole truth; I hoped that you
would have guessed it--it is so simple. Your cousin, Clotilde, has now
been a widow for nearly two years; that, I believe, is the term
consecrated by custom to the mourning of a husband. I am aware of your
feelings toward her; you may now marry her, and you will be perfectly
right in doing so. Nothing seems to me more just, more natural, more
worthy of her and of yourself. I beg to assure you that my friendship for
you shall remain faithful and entire, but I trust you will not object to
my keepi