Madame Lescande reassured herself more and more; and feeling it unnecessary to be on her guard, as at first, thought she might permit herself a little levity.  No woman is flattered at being loved only as a sister.

Camors, a little disquieted by the course things were taking, made some slight effort to divert it.  But, although men in fencing wish to spare their adversaries, sometimes they find habit too strong for them, and lunge home in spite of themselves.  Besides, he began to be really interested in Madame Lescande—­in her coquettish ways, at once artful and simple, provoking and timid, suggestive and reticent—­in short, charming.

The same evening that M. de Camors, the elder, returned to his home bent on suicide, his son, passing up the Avenue Maillot, was stopped by Lescande on the threshold of his villa.

“My friend,” said the latter, “as you are here you can do me a great favor.  A telegram calls me suddenly to Melun—­I must go on the instant.  The ladies will be so lonely, pray stay and dine with them!  I can’t tell what the deuce ails my wife.  She has been weeping all day over her tapestry; my mother-in-law has a headache.  Your presence will cheer them.  So stay, I beg you.”

Camors refused, hesitated, made objections, and consented.  He sent back his horse, and his friend presented him to the ladies, whom the presence of the unexpected guest seemed to cheer a little.  Lescande stepped into his carriage and departed, after receiving from his wife an embrace more fervent than usual.

The dinner was gay.  In the atmosphere was that subtle suggestion of coming danger of which both Camors and Madame Lescande felt the exhilarating influence.  Their excitement, as yet innocent, employed itself in those lively sallies—­those brilliant combats at the barriers—­that ever precede the more serious conflict.  About nine o’clock the headache of Madame Mursois—­perhaps owing to the cigar they had allowed Camors—­became more violent.  She declared she could endure it no longer, and must retire to her chamber.  Camors wished to withdraw, but his carriage had not yet arrived and Madame Mursois insisted that he should wait for it.

“Let my daughter amuse you with a little music until then,” she added.

Left alone with her guest, the younger lady seemed embarrassed.  “What shall I play for you?” she asked, in a constrained voice, taking her seat at the piano.

“Oh! anything—­play a waltz,” answered Camors, absently.

The waltz finished, an awkward silence ensued.  To break it she arose hesitatingly; then clasping her hands together exclaimed, “It seems to me there is a storm.  Do you not think so?” She approached the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony.  In a second Camors was at her side.

The night was beautifully clear.  Before them stretched the sombre shadow of the wood, while nearer trembling rays of moonlight slept upon the lawn.