“If he has loved me one moment, one single moment, Rosas will love me,” she thought.

The salon was stiflingly hot, but Marianne was determined to keep herself in the first row, to be directly under the eye of the duke.

She felt the waves of over-heated air rise to her temples, and at times she feared that she would faint, half-stifled as she was and unaccustomed now to attend soirees.  She remained, however, looking anxiously toward the door, watching for the appearance of the traveller and wondering when the pale face of the Spaniard would show itself.

At a short distance from her there was a young woman of twenty-three or twenty-four, courted like a queen and somewhat confused by the many questions addressed to her; robed in a white gown, she was extremely pretty, fair, and wore natural roses in her ash-colored hair, her eyes had a wondering expression, her cheeks were flushed, and in her amiable, gracious manner, she disclosed a touch of provincialism, modesty and hesitation—­Marianne heard Madame Gerson say to her neighbors: 

“It is the minister’s wife.”

“Madame Vaudrey?”

“Yes!  Very charming, isn’t she?”

“Ravishingly pretty!  Fresh-looking!”

Then in lowered tone: 

“Too fresh!”

“Rather provincial!”

And one voice replied, in an ironical, apologetic tone: 

“Bless me, my dear, nothing dashing!  Hair and complexion peculiarly her own!  So much the better.”

Notwithstanding the low tone of this conversation, Marianne heard it all.  One by one, every one looked at this young woman who borrowed her golden tints from the rising sun.  She bore the popular name of the new minister.  She entered into prominence with him, accepting gracefully and unaffectedly the weight of his fame.  Her timid, almost restless, uncertain smile, seemed to crave from the other women pardon for her own success, and there, surrounded by a group of men seated near the window, were two persons for whom chairs had just been placed, one of whom was a young, happy man, who exhaled an atmosphere of joy, and looked from time to time toward Adrienne and Marianne as if to see if the young wife were annoyed.

“Where is Monsieur Vaudrey then?” Marianne asked Madame Gerson.

“Why, he is just opposite to you!  There on your right, beside Monsieur Collard, and he is devouring you with his glances.”

“Ah, bah!” said Marianne with an indifferent smile.

And she looked in her turn.

She had, in fact, already noticed this very elegant man who had been watching her for some time.

But how could she know that he was Monsieur Vaudrey?  He was delightful, moreover, sprightly in manner and of keen intelligence.  A few moments before, she had heard him, as she passed by him under Sabine’s guidance, utter some flattering remarks which had charmed her and made her smile.

Ah! that was Vaudrey?