who watched her closely, as one watching a prey, testified, herself, in her favor; and judged her more and more worthy of her son.  And Camors, who observed her, in spite of himself, with an eager curiosity, was finally induced to believe, as did his aunt and all the world, that she conscientiously performed her difficult duties, and that she found in the eclat of her life and the gratification of her pride a sufficient compensation for the sacrifice of her youth, her heart, and her beauty; but certain souvenirs of the past, joined to certain peculiarities, which he fancied he remarked in the Marquise, induced him to distrust.

There were times, when recalling all that he had once witnessed—­the abysses and the flame at the bottom of that heart—­he was tempted to suspect the existence of many storms under all this calm exterior, and perhaps some wickedness.  It is true she never was with him precisely as she was before the world.  The character of their relations was marked by a peculiar tone.  It was precisely that tone of covert irony adopted by two persons who desired neither to remember nor to forget.  This tone, softened in the language of Camors by his worldly tact and his respect, was much more pointed, and had much more of bitterness on the side of the young woman.

He even fancied, at times, that he discovered a shade of coquetry under this treatment; and this provocation, vague as it was, coming from this beautiful, cold, and inscrutable creature, seemed to him a game fearfully mysterious, that at once attracted and disturbed him.

This was the state of things when the Count came, according to custom, to pass the first days of September at the chateau of Campvallon, and met there Madame de Tecle and her daughter.  The visit was a painful one, this year, for Madame de Tecle.  Her confidence deserted her, and serious concern took its place.  She had, it is true, fixed in her mind, as the last point of her hopes, the moment when her daughter should have reached twenty years of age; and Marie was only eighteen.

But she already had had several offers, and several times public rumor had already declared her to be betrothed.

Now, Camors could not have been ignorant of the rumors circulating in the neighborhood, and yet he did not speak.  His countenance did not change.  He was coldly affectionate to Madame de Tecle, but toward Marie, in spite of her beautiful blue eyes, like her mother’s, and her curly hair, he preserved a frozen indifference.  For Camors had other anxieties, of which Madame de Tecle knew nothing.  The manner of Madame Campvallon toward him had assumed a more marked character of aggressive raillery.  A defensive attitude is never agreeable to a man, and Camors felt it more disagreeable than most men—­being so little accustomed to it.

He resolved promptly to shorten his visit at Campvallon.

On the eve of his departure, about five o’clock in the afternoon, he was standing at his window, looking beyond the trees at the great black clouds sailing over the valley, when he heard the sound of a voice that had power to move him deeply—­“Monsieur de Camors!” He saw the Marquise standing under his window.