“Monsieur—­” said his wife.

“Well, what, my dear?” he said, turning to her with an arrogant harshness which showed plainly enough how absolute he chose to be in his own home.

“Monsieur de Vandenesse walked from Tours this morning and Monsieur de Chessel, not aware of it, has already taken him on foot over Frapesle.”

“Very imprudent of you,” the count said, turning to me; “but at your age—­” and he shook his head in sign of regret.

The conversation was resumed.  I soon saw how intractable his royalism was, and how much care was needed to swim safely in his waters.  The man-servant, who had now put on his livery, announced dinner.  Monsieur de Chessel gave his arm to Madame de Mortsauf, and the count gaily seized mine to lead me into the dining-room, which was on the ground-floor facing the salon.

This room, floored with white tiles made in Touraine, and wainscoted to the height of three feet, was hung with a varnished paper divided into wide panels by wreaths of flowers and fruit; the windows had cambric curtains trimmed with red, the buffets were old pieces by Boulle himself, and the woodwork of the chairs, which were covered by hand-made tapestry, was carved oak.  The dinner, plentifully supplied, was not luxurious; family silver without uniformity, Dresden china which was not then in fashion, octagonal decanters, knives with agate handles, and lacquered trays beneath the wine-bottles, were the chief features of the table, but flowers adorned the porcelain vases and overhung the gilding of their fluted edges.  I delighted in these quaint old things.  I thought the Reveillon paper with its flowery garlands beautiful.  The sweet content that filled my sails hindered me from perceiving the obstacles which a life so uniform, so unvarying in solitude of the country placed between her and me.  I was near her, sitting at her right hand, serving her with wine.  Yes, unhoped-for joy!  I touched her dress, I ate her bread.  At the end of three hours my life had mingled with her life!  That terrible kiss had bound us to each other in a secret which inspired us with mutual shame.  A glorious self-abasement took possession of me.  I studied to please the count, I fondled the dogs, I would gladly have gratified every desire of the children, I would have brought them hoops and marbles and played horse with them; I was even provoked that they did not already fasten upon me as a thing of their own.  Love has intuitions like those of genius; and I dimly perceived that gloom, discontent, hostility would destroy my footing in that household.