He turned, and madame, casting a regretful glance at the planets which
were beginning to blaze in the firmament, followed him. She was at
once disturbed and curious. This man, brilliant and daring though she
knew him to be, always stirred a vague distrust. He had never done
aught to give rise to this inward antagonism; yet a shadowy instinct, a
half-slumbering sense, warned her against him. D'Hérouville she hated
cordially, for he had pursued her openly; but this man walking before
her, she did not hate him, she feared him. There had been nights at
the hôtel in Paris when she had felt the fiery current of his glance,
but he had never spoken; many a time she had read the secret in his
eyes, but his lips had remained mute. She understood this tact, this
diplomacy which, though it chafed her, she could not rebuke. Thus, he
was more or less a fragment of her thoughts, day after day. Ah, that
mad folly, that indescribable impulse, which had brought her to New
France instead of Spain! Eh well, the blood of the De Rohans and De
Montbazons was in her veins, and the cool of philosophy was never
plentiful in that blood. She was to learn something to-night, if only
the purpose of this man who loved and spoke not.

"In here, Madame," said the vicomte, courteously, "if you will do me
that honor."

A glance told madame that she had been in this room before. Did they
burn candles every night in here, or had the vicomte, relying upon a
woman's innate curiosity, lighted these candles himself? Her gaze,
traveling along the oak table, discovered a few particles of burnt
paper. Her face grew warm.

The vicomte closed the door gently, leaving the key in the lock. She