a Christian.  And as to that unfortunate conversation which a deplorable chance caused you to hear, and in which my expressions, as it always happens, went far beyond the measure of my thought, it is an offense which I can never obliterate, I know; but I shall at least explain frankly.  Every one has his own tastes and his own way of understanding life in this world; we differ so much, you and I, and you conceived for me, at first sight, an extreme antipathy.  This disposition, which, on one side at least, madam, was to be singularly modified on better acquaintance, prompted me to some thoughtless manifestations of ill-humor and vivacity of controversy.  You have doubtless suffered, madam, from the violence of my language, but much less, I beg you to believe, than I was to suffer from it myself, after I had recognized its profound and irreparable injustice.”

This apology, more sincere than lucid, drew forth no answer.  We were at this moment just coming out of the old abbey church, and we found ourselves unexpectedly mingled in the last ranks of the cavalcade.  Our appearance caused a suppressed murmur to run through the dense crowd of hunters.  Madame de Palme was at once surrounded by a merry throng that seemed to address congratulations to her on the winning of her wager.  She received them with an indifferent and pouting look, whipped up her horse, and made her way to the front before entering the forest.

In the meantime, Monsieur de Malouet had received me with still more cordial affability than usual, and without making any direct allusion to the accident which had brought me against my will to this cynegetic feast, he omitted no attention that could make me forget its trifling annoyance.  Soon after the hounds started a deer, and I followed them with keen relish, being by no means indifferent to that manly pastime, though it is not sufficient for my happiness in this world.

The pack was thrown off the scent two or three times, and the deer had the best of the day.  At about four o’clock we started on our way back to the chateau.  When we crossed the valley on our return, the twilight was already marking out more clearly upon the sky the outline of the trees and the crest of the hills; a melancholy shade was falling upon the woods, and a whitish fog chilled the grass on the meadows, while a thicker mist indicated the sinuous course of the little river.  As I remained absorbed in the contemplation of the scene which reminded me of better days, I discovered suddenly Madame de Palme at my side.

“I believe, after due reflection,” she said with her usual brusqueness, “that you scorn my ignorance and my lack of wit much more than my supposed want of morality.  You think less of virtue than you do of intelligence.  Is that it?”