he one, with a gloomy expression of revenge, the other with
curiosity, the curling of the smoke, Mademoiselle de Verneuil's eyes
were fastened on the same rock, trying, but in vain, to see her lover's
signal. The fog, which had thickened, buried the whole region under a
veil, its gray tints obscuring even the outlines of the scenery that
was nearest the town. She examined with tender anxiety the rocks, the
castle, the buildings, which loomed like shadows through the mist. Near
her window several trees stood out against this blue-gray background;
the sun gave a dull tone as of tarnished silver to the sky; its rays
colored the bare branches of the trees, where a few last leaves
were fluttering, with a dingy red. But too many dear and delightful
sentiments filled Marie's soul to let her notice the ill-omens of a
scene so out of harmony with the joys she was tasting in advance.
For the last two days her ideas had undergone a change. The fierce,
undisciplined vehemence of her passions had yielded under the influence
of the equable atmosphere which a true love gives to life. The certainty
of being loved, sought through so many perils, had given birth to a
desire to re-enter those social conditions which sanction love, and
which despair alone had made her leave. To love for a moment only now
seemed to her a species of weakness. She saw herself lifted from the
dregs of society, where misfortune had driven her, to the high rank in
which her father had meant to place her. Her vanity, repressed for a
time by the cruel alternations of hope and misconception, was awakened
and showed her all the benefits of a great position. Born in a certain
way to rank, marriage to a marquis meant, to her mind, living and acting
in the sphere that belonged to her. Having known the chances and changes
of an adventurous life, she could appreciate, better than other women,
the grandeur of the feelings which make the Family. Marriage and
motherhood with all their cares seemed to her less a task than a rest.
She loved the calm and virtuous life she saw through the clouds of this
last storm as a woman weary of virtue may sometimes covet an illicit
passion. Virtue was to her a new seduction.

"Perhaps," she thought, leaving the window without seeing the signal on
the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, "I have been too coquettish with him--but
I knew he loved me! Francine, it is not a dream; to-night I shall
be Marquise de Montauran. What have I done to deserve such p