of Monsieur de Moras, a determination so novel and so unexpected?  It was now the middle of August, and it had been agreed for a long time that the entire family should return to Paris on the first of September.  The very proximity of the time fixed upon for the general departure would only serve to make the pretext invoked to explain this sudden separation appear more unlikely.  It was almost impossible that it should not awaken in the mind of Clotilde, and in that of the count, irreparable suspicions and a light fatal to the happiness of both.  The remedy seemed indeed more to be dreaded than the evil itself; for, if the evil was great, it was at least unknown to those whose lives and whose hearts it would have shattered, and it could still be hoped that it might remain so forever.  Monsieur de Lucan thought for a moment of going away himself; but it was still more impossible to justify his departure than it was that of Julia’s.

All these reflections being made, he resolved to arm himself with patience and courage.  Once in Paris, separate dwellings, less frequent intercourse, the obligations of the world, and the activity of life, would doubtless afford relief and then a peaceful solution to a painful and formidable situation which it was henceforth impossible for him not to view in its true light.  He relied upon himself, and also upon Julia’s natural generosity, for reaching without outburst and without rupture the approaching term that was to put an end to their life in common and to its incessant perils.  It ought not to be impossible to endure, for the short period of two weeks more, the threatenings of a storm that had been brewing for months without revealing its lightning.  He was forgetting with what frightful rapidity the maladies of the soul, as well as those of the body, after reaching slowly and gradually certain stages, suddenly precipitate their progress and their ravages.

Monsieur de Lucan asked himself whether he should not inform Julia of the conduct he had resolved to follow, and of the reasons that had dictated it; but every shadow of an explanation between them appeared to him eminently improper and dangerous.  Their confidential understanding upon such a subject would have assumed an air of complicity which was repugnant to all his sentiments of honor.  Despite the terrible light that had flashed forth, there still remained between them something obscure, undecided, and unconfessed that he thought best to preserve at any cost.  Far, therefore, from seeking opportunities for some private interview, he avoided them all from that moment with scrupulous care.  Julia seemed penetrated with the same feeling of reserve, and anxious to the same degree as himself to avoid any tete-a-tete, while striving to save appearances; but in that respect she did not dispose of that power of dissimulation which Lucan owed to his natural and acquired firmness.  He was able, without visible effort, to hide under his habitual air of gravity the anxieties that consumed