Camors dreamed little of reproaching himself for it, but struck with all the harmony that surrounded the Marquise, he regretted more bitterly than ever the fatality which separated them.

He felt, however, more sure of himself, since he had bound himself by the strictest obligations of honor.  He abandoned himself from this moment with less scruple to the emotions, and to the danger against which he believed himself invincibly protected.  He did not fear to seek often the society of his beautiful cousin, and even contracted the habit of repairing to her house two or three times a week, after leaving the Chamber of Deputies.  Whenever he found her alone, their conversation invariably assumed a tone of irony and of raillery, in which both excelled.  He had not forgotten her reckless confidences at the opera, and recalled it to her, asking her whether she had yet discovered that hero of love for whom she was looking, who should be, according to her ideas, a villain like Bothwell, or a musician like Rizzio.

“There are,” she replied, “villains who are also musicians; but that is imagination.  Sing me, then, something apropos.”

It was near the close of winter.  The Marquise gave a ball.  Her fetes were justly renowned for their magnificence and good taste.  She did the honors with the grace of a queen.  This evening she wore a very simple costume, as was becoming in the courteous hostess.  It was a gown of dark velvet, with a train; her arms were bare, without jewels; a necklace of large pearls lay on her rose-tinted bosom, and the heraldic coronet sparkled on her fair hair.

Camors caught her eye as he entered, as if she were watching for him.  He had seen her the previous evening, and they had had a more lively skirmish than usual.  He was struck by her brilliancy—­her beauty heightened, without doubt, by the secret ardor of the quarrel, as if illuminated by an interior flame, with all the clear, soft splendor of a transparent alabaster vase.

When he advanced to join her and salute her, yielding, against his will, to an involuntary movement of passionate admiration, he said: 

“You are truly beautiful this evening.  Enough so to make one commit a crime.”

She looked fixedly in his eyes, and replied: 

“I should like to see that,” and then left him, with superb nonchalance.

The General approached, and tapping the Count on the shoulder, said: 

“Camors! you do not dance, as usual.  Let us play a game of piquet.”

“Willingly, General;” and traversing two or three salons they reached the private boudoir of the Marquise.  It was a small oval room, very lofty, hung with thick red silk tapestry, covered with black and white flowers.  As the doors were removed, two heavy curtains isolated the room completely from the neighboring gallery.  It was there that the General usually played cards and slept during his fetes.  A small card-table was placed before a divan.  Except this addition, the boudoir preserved its every-day aspect.  Woman’s work, half finished, books, journals, and reviews were strewn upon the furniture.  They played two or three games, which the General won, as Camors was very abstracted.