hem all from that moment with scrupulous care. Julia seemed
penetrated with the same feeling of reserve, and anxious to the same
degree as himself to avoid any tete-a-tete, while striving to save
appearances; but in that respect she did not dispose of that power of
dissimulation which Lucan owed to his natural and acquired firmness. He
was able, without visible effort, to hide under his habitual air of
gravity the anxieties that consumed him. Julia did not succeed, without an
almost convulsive restraint, in carrying with bold and smiling countenance
the burden of her thought. To the only witness who knew the secret of her
struggles, it was a poignant spectacle to behold the gracious and feverish
animation of which the unhappy child sustained the appearance with so much
difficulty. He saw her sometimes at a distance, like an exhausted
comedienne, retiring to some isolated bench in the garden, and fairly
panting with her hand pressing upon her bosom, as if to keep down her
rebellious heart. He felt then, in spite of all, overcome with immense
pity in presence of so much beauty and so much misery.

Was it only pity?

The attitude, the words, the looks of Clotilde and of Julia's husband were
at the same time, for Monsieur de Lucan, the objects of constant and
uneasy observation. Clotilde had evidently not conceived the slightest
alarm. The gentle serenity of her features remained unaltered. A few
oddities, more or less, in Julia's ways did not constitute a sufficient
novelty to attract her particular attention. Her mind, moreover, was too
far away from the monstrous abysses yawning at her side; she might have
stepped into them and been swallowed up, before she had suspected their
existence.

The blonde, placid, and handsome countenance of the Count de Moras
retained at all times, like Lucan's dark face, a sort of sculptural
firmness. It was, therefore, rather difficult to read upon it the
impressions of a soul which was naturally strong and self-controlling. On
one point, however, that soul had become weak. Monsieur de Lucan was not
ignorant of the fact; he was aware of the count's ardent love for Julia,
and of the sickly susceptibility of his passion.

It seemed unlikely that such a sentiment, if it were seriously set at
defiance, should not betray itself in some violent or at least perceptible
exterior sign. Monsieur de Lucan, in reality, was unable to observe any of
these dreaded symptoms. If he did occasionally surpr