t; he wrung the count's hand violently, and
left the room.

"Is he gone?" said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, returning to her place.

The count gave her a glance and passed into the next room, from which he
presently returned accompanied by the Gars.

"He is mine!" she thought, observing his face in the mirror.

She received the young leader with a displeased air and said nothing,
but she smiled as she turned away from him; he was so superior to all
about him that she was proud of being able to rule him; and obeying an
instinct which sways all women more or less, she resolved to let him
know the value of a few gracious words by making him pay dear for them.
As soon as the quadrille was over, all the gentlemen who had been at
La Vivetiere surrounded Mademoiselle de Verneuil, wishing by their
flattering attentions to obtain her pardon for the mistake they had
made; but he whom she longed to see at her feet did not approach the
circle over which she now reigned a queen.

"He thinks I still love him," she thought, "and does not wish to be
confounded with mere flatterers."

She refused to dance again. Then, as if the ball were given for her, she
walked about on the arm of the Comte de Bauvan, to whom she was pleased
to show some familiarity. The affair at La Vivetiere was by this time
known to all present, thanks to Madame du Gua, and the lovers were the
object of general attention. The marquis dared not again address his
mistress; a sense of the wrong he had done her and the violence of his
returning passion made her seem to him actually terrible. On her side
Marie watched his apparently calm face while she seemed to be observing
the ball.

"It is fearfully hot here," she said to the count. "Take me to the other
side where I can breathe; I am stifling here."

And she motioned towards a small room where a few card-players were
assembled. The marquis followed her. He ventured to hope she had left
the crowd to receive him, and this supposed favor roused his passion to
extreme violence; for his love had only increased through the resistance
he had made to it during the last few days. Mademoiselle de Verneuil
still tormented him; her eyes, so soft and velvety for the count, were
hard and stern when, as if by accident, they met his. Montauran at last
made a painful effort and said, in a muffled voice, "Will you never
forgive me?"

"Love forgives nothing, or it forgives all," she said, coldly. "But,"
she added, noticing his