hand of the little boy with a violence not
natural to her, dragging him along with such precipitate steps that she
seemed to have the motions of a madwoman. She saw neither persons nor
things in the salon as she crossed it, and yet she was saluted by three
men who made way to let her pass.

"That must be she," said one of them.

"She is very handsome," exclaimed another, who was a priest.

"Yes," replied the first; "but how pale and agitated--"

"And beside herself," said the third; "she did not even see us."

At the door of her own room Mademoiselle de Verneuil saw the smiling
face of Francine, who whispered to her: "He is here, Marie."

Mademoiselle de Verneuil awoke, reflected, looked at the child whose
hand she held, remembered all, and replied to the girl: "Shut up that
boy; if you wish me to live do not let him escape you."

As she slowly said the words her eyes were fixed on the door of her
bedroom, and there they continued fastened with so dreadful a fixedness
that it seemed as if she saw her victim through the wooden panels. Then
she gently opened it, passed through and closed it behind her without
turning round, for she saw the marquis standing before the fireplace.
His dress, without being too choice, had the look of careful arrangement
which adds so much to the admiration which a woman feels for her lover.
All her self-possession came back to her at the sight of him. Her lips,
rigid, although half-open, showed the enamel of her white teeth and
formed a smile that was fixed and terrible rather than voluptuous. She
walked with slow steps toward the young man and pointed with her finger
to the clock.

"A man who is worthy of love is worth waiting for," she said with
deceptive gaiety.

Then, overcome with the violence of her emotions, she dropped upon the
sofa which was near the fireplace.

"Dear Marie, you are so charming when you are angry," said the marquis,
sitting down beside her and taking her hand, which she let him take, and
entreating a look, which she refused him. "I hope," he continued, in a
tender, caressing voice, "that my wife will not long refuse a glance to
her loving husband."

Hearing the words she turned abruptly and looked into his eyes.

"What is the meaning of that dreadful look?" he said, laughing. "But
your hand is burning! oh, my love, what is it?"

"Your love!" she repeated, in a dull, changed voice.

"Yes," he said, throwing himself on his knees beside her and taking h