He therefore reserved for him the triumph of his gradual conversion.  Be that as it might, it was neither of centralization nor of decentralization that the young Count proposed to speak to Madame de Tecle, when, at the appointed hour, he presented himself before her.  He found her in the garden, which, like the house, was of an ancient, severe, and monastic style.  A terrace planted with limetrees extended on one side of the garden.  It was at this spot that Madame de Tecle was seated under a group of lime-trees, forming a rustic bower.

She was fond of this place, because it recalled to her that evening when her unexpected apparition had suddenly inspired with a celestial joy the pale, disfigured face of her betrothed.

She was seated on a low chair beside a small rustic table, covered with pieces of wool and silk; her feet rested on a stool, and she worked on a piece of tapestry, apparently with great tranquillity.

M. de Camors, an expert in all the niceties and exquisite devices of the feminine mind, smiled to himself at this audience in the open air.  He thought he fathomed its meaning.  Madame de Tecle desired to deprive this interview of the confidential character which closed doors would have given it.

It was the simple truth.  This young woman, who was one of the noblest of her sex, was not at all simple.  She had not passed ten years of her youth, her beauty, and her widowhood without receiving, under forms more or less direct, dozens of declarations that had inspired her with impressions, which, although just, were not always too flattering to the delicacy and discretion of the opposite sex.  Like all women of her age, she knew her danger, and, unlike most of them, she did not love it.  She had invariably turned into the broad road of friendship all those she had surprised rambling within the prohibited limits of love.  The request of M. de Camors for a private interview had seriously preoccupied her since the previous evening.  What could be the object of this mysterious interview?  She puzzled her brain to imagine, but could not divine.

It was not probable that M. de Camors, at the beginning of their acquaintance, would feel himself entitled to declare a passion.  However vividly the famed gallantry of the young Count rose to her memory, she thought so noted a ladykiller as he might adopt unusual methods, and might think himself entitled to dispense with much ceremony in dealing with an humble provincial.

Animated by these ideas, she resolved to receive him in the garden, having remarked, during her short experience, that open air and a wide, open space were not favorable to bold wooers.

M. de Camors bowed to Madame de Tecle as an Englishman would have bowed to his queen; then seating himself, drew his chair nearer to hers, mischievously perhaps, and lowering his voice into a confidential tone, said:  “Madame, will you permit me to confide a secret to you, and to ask your counsel?”