“I prefer to hear it thunder at Paris.”

“Why?”

“Because then I should not hear it.”

“You have no imagination.”

“I have; but I smother it.”

“Possibly.  I have suspected you of hiding your merits, and particularly from me.”

“Why should I conceal my merits from you?”

“‘Why should I conceal my merits’ is good!” said the Marquise, ironically.  “Why?  Out of charity, Monsieur, not to dazzle me, and in regard for my repose!  You are really too good, I assure you.  Here comes the rain.”

Large drops of rain began to fall on the dry leaves, and on the yellow sand of the alley.  The day was dying, and the sudden shower bent the boughs of the trees.

“We must return,” said the young woman; “this begins to get serious.”

She took, in haste, the path which led to the chateau; but after a few steps a bright flash broke over her head, the noise of the thunder resounded, and a deluge of rain fell upon the fields.

There was fortunately, near by, a shelter in which the Marquise and her companion could take refuge.  It was a ruin, preserved as an ornament to the park, which had formerly been the chapel of the ancient chateau.  It was almost as large as the village chapel—­the broken walls half concealed under a thick mantle of ivy.  Its branches had pushed through the roof and mingled with the boughs of the old trees which surrounded and shaded it.  The timbers had disappeared.  The extremity of the choir, and the spot formerly occupied by the altar, were alone covered by the remains of the roof.  Wheelbarrows, rakes, spades, and other garden tools were piled there.

The Marquise had to take refuge in the midst of this rubbish, in the narrow space, and her companion followed her.

The storm, in the mean time, increased in violence.  The rain fell in torrents through the old walls, inundating the soil in the ancient nave.  The lightning flashed incessantly.  Every now and then fragments of earth and stone detached themselves from the roof, and fell into the choir.

“I find this magnificent!” said Madame de Campvallon.

“I also,” said Camors, raising his eyes to the crumbling roof which half protected them; “but I do not know whether we are safe here!”

“If you fear, you would better go!” said the Marquise.

“I fear for you.”

“You are too good, I assure you.”

She took off her cap and brushed it with her glove, to remove the drops of rain which had fallen upon it.  After a slight pause, she suddenly raised her uncovered head and cast on Camors one of those searching looks which prepares a man for an important question.

“Cousin!” she said, “if you were sure that one of these flashes of lightning would kill you in a quarter of an hour, what would you do?”

“Why, cousin, naturally I should take a last farewell of you.”

“How?”