e Marquise de Campvallon was then--as she truly said to the man she
resembled--a great pagan; and, as she also said to herself in one of her
serious moments when a woman's destiny is decided by the influence of
those they love, Camors had sown in her heart a seed which had
marvellously fructified.

Camors dreamed little of reproaching himself for it, but struck with all
the harmony that surrounded the Marquise, he regretted more bitterly than
ever the fatality which separated them.

He felt, however, more sure of himself, since he had bound himself by the
strictest obligations of honor. He abandoned himself from this moment
with less scruple to the emotions, and to the danger against which he
believed himself invincibly protected. He did not fear to seek often the
society of his beautiful cousin, and even contracted the habit of
repairing to her house two or three times a week, after leaving the
Chamber of Deputies. Whenever he found her alone, their conversation
invariably assumed a tone of irony and of raillery, in which both
excelled. He had not forgotten her reckless confidences at the opera, and
recalled it to her, asking her whether she had yet discovered that hero
of love for whom she was looking, who should be, according to her ideas,
a villain like Bothwell, or a musician like Rizzio.

"There are," she replied, "villains who are also musicians; but that is
imagination. Sing me, then, something apropos."

It was near the close of winter. The Marquise gave a ball. Her fetes were
justly renowned for their magnificence and good taste. She did the honors
with the grace of a queen. This evening she wore a very simple costume,
as was becoming in the courteous hostess. It was a gown of dark velvet,
with a train; her arms were bare, without jewels; a necklace of large
pearls lay on her rose-tinted bosom, and the heraldic coronet sparkled on
her fair hair.

Camors caught her eye as he entered, as if she were watching for him. He
had seen her the previous evening, and they had had a more lively
skirmish than usual. He was struck by her brilliancy--her beauty
heightened, without doubt, by the secret ardor of the quarrel, as if
illuminated by an interior flame, with all the clear, soft splendor of a
transparent alabaster vase.

When he advanced to join her and salute her, yielding, against his will,
to an involuntary movement of passionate admiration, he said:

"You are truly beautiful this evening. Enough so to make