At twenty-three years of age, having passed through the many reflections of a long solitude and the anguish of a defeated enterprise, Laurence had become a woman, and felt within her an absorbing desire for affection.  She now put forth all her graces of her mind and was charming; she revealed the hidden beauties of her tender heart with the simple candor of a child.  For the last thirteen years she had been a woman only through suffering; she longed to obtain amends for it, and she showed herself as loving and winning as she had been, up to this time, strong and great.

The four elders, who were the last to leave the salon that night, admitted to each other that they felt uneasy at the new position of this charming girl.  What power might not passion have on a young woman of her character and with her nobility of soul?  The twin brothers loved her with one and the same love and a blind devotion; which of the two would Laurence choose?  To choose one was to kill the other.  Countess in her own right, she could bring her husband a title and certain prerogatives, together with a long lineage.  Perhaps in thinking of these advantages the elder of the twins, the Marquis de Simeuse, would sacrifice himself to give Laurence to his brother, who, according to the old laws, was poor and without a title.  But would the younger brother deprive the elder of the happiness of having Laurence for a wife?  At a distance, this strife of love and generosity might do no harm,—­in fact, so long as the brothers were facing danger the chances of war might end the difficulty; but what would be the result of this reunion?  When Marie-Paul and Paul-Marie reached the age when passions rise to their greatest height could they share, as now, the looks and words and attentions of their cousin? must there not inevitably arise a jealousy between them the consequences of which might be horrible?  What would then become of the unity of those beautiful lives, one in heart though twain in body?  To these questionings, passed from one to another as they finished their game, Madame d’Hauteserre replied that in her opinion Laurence would not marry either of her cousins.  The poor lady had experienced that evening one of those inexplicable presentiments which are secrets between the mother’s heart and God.

Laurence, in her inward consciousness, was not less alarmed at finding herself tete-a-tete with her cousins.  To the active drama of conspiracy, to the dangers which the brothers had incurred, to the pain and penalties of their exile, was now succeeding another sort of drama, of which she had never thought.  This noble girl could not resort to the violent means of refusing to marry either of the twins; and she was too honest a woman to marry one and keep an irresistible passion for the other in her heart.  To remain unmarried, to weary her cousins’ love by no decision, and then to take the one who was faithful to her in spite of her caprices, was a solution of the difficulty not so much sought for by her as vaguely admitted.  As she fell asleep that night she told herself the wisest course to follow was to let things take their chance.  Chance is, in love, the providence of women.