“I think it is an occasion that we shall none of us forget,” said the marquise, with her pure, neat enunciation.

People made way for her as she passed, others turned round and looked at her, and she received a great many greetings and pressings of the hand, all of which she accepted with the most delicate dignity.  But though she smiled upon every one, she said nothing until she reached the last of the rooms, where she found her elder son.  Then, “This is enough, sir,” she declared with measured softness to Newman, and turned to the marquis.  He put out both his hands and took both hers, drawing her to a seat with an air of the tenderest veneration.  It was a most harmonious family group, and Newman discreetly retired.  He moved through the rooms for some time longer, circulating freely, overtopping most people by his great height, renewing acquaintance with some of the groups to which Urbain de Bellegarde had presented him, and expending generally the surplus of his equanimity.  He continued to find it all extremely agreeable; but the most agreeable things have an end, and the revelry on this occasion began to deepen to a close.  The music was sounding its ultimate strains and people were looking for the marquise, to make their farewells.  There seemed to be some difficulty in finding her, and Newman heard a report that she had left the ball, feeling faint.  “She has succumbed to the emotions of the evening,” he heard a lady say.  “Poor, dear marquise; I can imagine all that they may have been for her!” But he learned immediately afterwards that she had recovered herself and was seated in an armchair near the doorway, receiving parting compliments from great ladies who insisted upon her not rising.  He himself set out in quest of Madame de Cintre.  He had seen her move past him many times in the rapid circles of a waltz, but in accordance with her explicit instructions he had exchanged no words with her since the beginning of the evening.  The whole house having been thrown open, the apartments of the rez-de-chaussee were also accessible, though a smaller number of persons had gathered there.  Newman wandered through them, observing a few scattered couples to whom this comparative seclusion appeared grateful and reached a small conservatory which opened into the garden.  The end of the conservatory was formed by a clear sheet of glass, unmasked by plants, and admitting the winter starlight so directly that a person standing there would seem to have passed into the open air.  Two persons stood there now, a lady and a gentleman; the lady Newman, from within the room and although she had turned her back to it, immediately recognized as Madame de Cintre.  He hesitated as to whether he would advance, but as he did so she looked round, feeling apparently that he was there.  She rested her eyes on him a moment and then turned again to her companion.

“It is almost a pity not to tell Mr. Newman,” she said softly, but in a tone that Newman could hear.