moment to which I alluded, yet her
glance turned to me beneath her eyelids, expressing the joy of a
woman who finds the mere passing tones from her heart preferred to the
delights of another love. The count was losing the game; he said he was
tired, as an excuse to give it up, and we went to walk on the lawn while
waiting for the carriage. When the count left us, such pleasure shone on
my face that Madame de Mortsauf questioned me by a look of surprise and
curiosity.

"Henriette does exist," I said. "You love me still. You wound me with an
evident intention to break my heart. I may yet be happy!"

"There was but a fragment of that poor woman left, and you have now
destroyed even that," she said. "God be praised; he gives me strength
to bear my righteous martyrdom. Yes, I still love you, and I might have
erred; the English woman shows me the abyss."

We got into the carriage and the coachman asked for orders.

"Take the road to Chinon by the avenue, and come back by the Charlemagne
moor and the road to Sache."

"What day is it?" I asked, with too much eagerness.

"Saturday."

"Then don't go that way, madame, the road will be crowded with
poultry-men and their carts returning from Tours."

"Do as I told you," she said to the coachman. We knew the tones of our
voices too well to be able to hide from each other our least emotion.
Henriette understood all.

"You did not think of the poultry-men when you appointed this evening,"
she said with a tinge of irony. "Lady Dudley is at Tours, and she
is coming here to meet you; do not deny it. 'What day is it?--the
poultry-men--their carts!' Did you ever take notice of such things in
our old drives?"

"It only shows that at Clochegourde I forget everything," I answered,
simply.

"She is coming to meet you?"

"Yes."

"At what hour?"

"Half-past eleven."

"Where?"

"On the moor."

"Do not deceive me; is it not at the walnut-tree?"

"On the moor."

"We will go there," she said, "and I shall see her."

When I heard these words I regarded my future life as settled. I at once
resolved to marry Lady Dudley and put an end to the miserable struggle
which threatened to exhaust my sensibilities and destroy by these
repeated shocks the delicate delights which had hitherto resembled the
flower of fruits. My sullen silence wounded the countess, the grandeur
of whose mind I misjudged.

"Do not be angry with me," she said, in her golden voice. "This,
dear, is my puni