Madame de Campvallon permitted herself to be introduced by M. de Camors.  Madame de la Roche-Jugan followed her there, because she followed her everywhere, and took her son Sigismund.  On this evening the reunion was small.  M. de Camors had only been there a few moments, when he had the satisfaction of seeing the General and the Marquise enter.  She tranquilly expressed to him her regret at not having been at home the preceding day; but it was impossible to hope for a more decided explanation in a circle so small, and under the vigilant eye of Madame de la Roche-Jugan.  Camors interrogated vainly the face of his young cousin.  It was as beautiful and cold as usual.  His anxiety increased; he would have given his life at that moment to hear her say one word of love.

The Viscountess liked the play of wit, as she had little herself.  They played at her house such little games as were then fashionable.  Those little games are not always innocent, as we shall see.

They had distributed pencils, pens, and packages of paper—­some of the players sitting around large tables, and some in separate chairs—­and scratched mysteriously, in turn, questions and answers.  During this time the General played whist with Madame de la Roche-Jugan.  Madame Campvallon did not usually take part in these games, as they fatigued her.  Camors was therefore astonished to see her accept the pencil and paper offered her.

This singularity awakened his attention and put him on his guard.  He himself joined in the game, contrary to his custom, and even charged himself with collecting in the basket the small notes as they were written.

An hour passed without any special incident.  The treasures of wit were dispensed.  The most delicate and unexpected questions—­such as, “What is love?” “Do you think that friendship can exist between the sexes?” “Is it sweeter to love or to beloved?”—­succeeded each other with corresponding replies.  All at once the Marquise gave a slight scream, and they saw a drop of blood trickle down her forehead.  She laughed, and showed her little silver pencil-case, which had a pen at one end, with which she had scratched her forehead in her abstraction.

The attention of Camors was redoubled from this moment—­the more so from a rapid and significant glance from the Marquise, which seemed to warn him of an approaching event.  She was sitting a little in shadow in one corner, in order to meditate more at ease on questions and answers.  An instant later Camors was passing around the room collecting notes.  She deposited one in the basket, slipping another into his hand with the cat-like dexterity of her sex.  In the midst of these papers, which each person amused himself with reading, Camors found no difficulty in retaining without remark the clandestine note of the Marquise.  It was written in red ink, a little pale, but very legible, and contained these words: 

   “I belong, soul, body, honor, riches, to my best-beloved cousin,
   Louis de Camors, from this moment and forever.