The resumption of hostilities, which had been clearly signified to him foreboded surely fresh troubles for his peace and fresh anguish for Clotilde’s happiness.  Was he, then, about returning to those odious agitations which had so long harassed his existence, and this time without any hopes of escape?  How, indeed, was it possible not to despair of that untamable nature which age and reason, which so much attention and affection had left unmoved in her prejudices and her hatred?  How was it possible to understand, and, above all, ever to overcome the quixotic sentiment, or rather the mania which had taken possession of that concentrated soul, and which was smoldering in it, ever ready to break forth in furious outbursts?

Clotilde and Julia had not yet made their appearance.  Lucan went to take a walk in the garden, to breathe once more the peace of his beloved solitude, pending the anticipated storms.  At the extremity of an alley of evergreens, he discovered the Count de Moras, his arm resting on the pedestal of an old statue, and his eyes fixed on the ground.

Monsieur de Moras had never been a dreamer, but since his arrival at the chateau, he had, on more than one occasion, manifested to Lucan a melancholy state of mind quite foreign to his natural disposition.  Lucan had felt alarmed; nevertheless, as he did not himself like any one to intrude upon his confidence, he had abstained from questioning him.

They shook hands as they met.

“You came home late last night?” inquired the count.

“At about three o’clock.”

“Oh! povero!  Apropos, thanks for your kindness to Julia.  How did she behave to you?”

“Why—­well enough,” said Lucan—­“a little peculiar, as usual.”

“Oh! peculiar of course!”

He smiled rather sadly, took Monsieur de Lucan’s arm, and leading him through the meandering paths of the garden: 

“Voyons, mon cher,” he said in a suppressed voice, “between you and me, what is Julia?”

“How, my friend?”

“Yes, what sort of a woman is my wife?  If you know, do tell me, I beg of you.”

“Excuse me, but it is the very question I would like to ask of you myself.”

“Of me?” said the count.  “But I have not the slightest idea.  She is a Sphinx, a riddle, the solution of which escapes me completely.  She both charms and frightens me.  She is peculiar, you said?  She is more than that; she is fantastic.  She is not of this world.  I know not whom or what I have married.  You remember that cold and beautiful creature in the Arabian tales who rose at night to go and feast in the graveyard.  It’s absurd, but she reminds me of that.”

The count’s troubled look, the constrained laugh with which he accompanied his words, moved Lucan deeply.

“So, then,” said the latter, “you are unhappy?”

“It is impossible to be more so,” replied the count, pressing his hand hard.  “I adore her, and I am jealous—­without knowing of whom and of what!  She does not love me—­and yet she loves some one—­she must love some one!  How can I doubt it?  Look at her; she is the very embodiment of passion; the fire of passion overflows in her words, in her looks, in the blood of her veins!  And near me, she is as cold as the statue upon a tomb!”