“That’s a good reason.  And where do you expect to go, madam?”

“I don’t know.  Let us make a pedestrian tour somewhere, you and I together; will you?”

“I should like nothing better.  When shall we start?”

Et cetera.  I shall not tire you, my friend, with the particulars of some dozen similar conversations, every occasion of which for four days Madame de Palme evidently sought.  There was on her part a constantly growing effort to leave aside all commonplace topics, and impart to our interviews a character of greater intimacy; there was on mine an equal amount of obstinacy in confining them within the strictest limits of social jargon, and remaining resolutely on the ground of worldly futility.

I now come to the scene that was to bring this painful struggle to a close, and unfortunately prove all its vanity to me.

Monsieur and Madame de Malouet were giving last night a grand farewell ball to their daughter, whose husband has been recalled to his post of duty, and the whole neighborhood within a circuit of ten leagues had been summoned to the feast.  Toward ten o’clock an immense crowd was overflowing the vast ground floor of the chateau, in which the elegant dresses, the lights, and the flowers were mingled in dazzling confusion.  As I was trying to make my way into the main drawing-room, I found myself face to face with Madame de Malouet, who drew me slightly aside.

“Well! my dear sir,” she said, “I do not like the looks of things.”

“Mon Dieu! what is there new?”

“I don’t know exactly, but be on your guard.  Ah! mon Dieu!  I have remarkable confidence in you, sir; you will not take advantage of her, will you?”

Her voice was tender and her eyes moist.

“You may rely upon me, madam; but I sincerely wish I had gone a week ago.”

“Eh! mon Dieu! who could have foreseen such a thing?  Hush! there she comes!”

I turned round and saw Madame de Palme coming out of the parlor; before her the throng opened with that timorous eagerness and that species of terror which the supreme elegance of one of society’s queens generally inspires in our sex.  For the first time, Madame de Palme appeared handsome to me; the expression of her countenance was wholly novel to me, and a weird animation gleamed in her eyes and transfigured her features.

“Am I to your taste?” she said.

I manifested by I know not what movement an assent, which was moreover but too evident to the keen eye of a woman.

“I was looking for you,” she added, “to show you the conservatory; it’s fairy-like.  Come!”

She took my arm, and we started in the direction of the conservatory door which opened at the other end of the parlor, extending as far as the park, through the vines and the perfumes of hundreds of exotic plants, all the splendors of the feast.  While we were admiring the effect of the girandoles that sparkled amid the luxuriant tropical flora like the bright constellations of another hemisphere, several gentlemen came to claim Madame de Palme’s hand for a waltz; she refused them all, though I was sufficiently disinterested to join my entreaties to theirs.