in his ear, as she led him to the
coach. "We have fallen into the hands of a creature who is trafficking
for your head; but since she is such a fool as to have fallen in love
with you, for heaven's sake don't behave like a boy; pretend to love her
at least till we reach La Vivetiere; once there--But," she thought to
herself, seeing the young man take his place with a dazed air, as if
bewildered, "can it be that he already loves her?"

The coach rolled on over the sandy road. To Mademoiselle de Verneuil's
eyes all seemed changed. Death was gliding beside her love. Perhaps it
was only fancy, but, to a woman who loves, fancy is as vivid as reality.
Francine, who had clearly understood from Marche-a-Terre's glance that
Mademoiselle de Verneuil's fate, over which she had commanded him to
watch, was in other hands than his, looked pale and haggard, and could
scarcely restrain her tears when her mistress spoke to her. To her
eyes Madame du Gua's female malignancy was scarcely concealed by
her treacherous smiles, and the sudden changes which her obsequious
attentions to Mademoiselle de Verneuil made in her manners, voice, and
expression was of a nature to frighten a watchful observer. Mademoiselle
de Verneuil herself shuddered instinctively, asking herself, "Why should
I fear? She is his mother." Then she trembled in every limb as the
thought crossed her mind, "Is she really his mother?" An abyss suddenly
opened before her, and she cast a look upon the mother and son, which
finally enlightened her. "That woman loves him!" she thought. "But why
has she begun these attentions after showing me such coolness? Am I
lost? or--is she afraid of me?"

As for the young man, he was flushed and pale by turns; but he kept
a quiet attitude and lowered his eyes to conceal the emotions which
agitated him. The graceful curve of his lips was lost in their close
compression, and his skin turned yellow under the struggle of his stormy
thoughts. Mademoiselle de Verneuil was unable to decide whether any love
for her remained in his evident anger. The road, flanked by woods at
this particular point, became darker and more gloomy, and the obscurity
prevented the eyes of the silent travellers from questioning each other.
The sighing of the wind, the rustling of the trees, the measured step
of the escort, gave that almost solemn character to the scene which
quickens the pulses. Mademoiselle de Verneuil could not long try in vain
to discover the reason