The uncovered head of the young woman rested a little on the arm with which he held her.  Her lips were slightly parted with a half-wicked smile that showed her fine white teeth; the same expression of ungovernable malice burned in her dark eyes, which she riveted for some seconds on those of Camors with persistent penetration—­then suddenly veiled them under the fringe of her dark lashes.  This glance sent a thrill like lightning to his very marrow.

“Do you wish to drive me mad?” he murmured.

“Who knows?” she replied.

The same moment she disengaged herself from his arms, and placing her foot on the ground again, left the ruin.

They reached the chateau without exchanging a word.  Just before entering the house the young Marquise turned toward Camors and said to him: 

“Be sure that at heart I am very good, really.”

Notwithstanding this assertion, Camors was yet more determined to leave the next morning, as he had previously decided.  He carried away the most painful impression of the scene of that evening.

She had wounded his pride, inflamed his hopeless passion, and disquieted his honor.

“What is this woman, and what does she want of me?  Is it love or vengeance that inspires her with this fiendish coquetry?” he asked himself.  Whatever it was, Camors was not such a novice in similar adventures as not to perceive clearly the yawning abyss under the broken ice.  He resolved sincerely to close it again between them, and forever.  The best way to succeed in this, avowedly, was to cease all intercourse with the Marquise.  But how could such conduct be explained to the General, without awakening his suspicion and lowering his wife in his esteem?  That plan was impossible.  He armed himself with all his courage, and resigned himself to endure with resolute soul all the trials which the love, real or pretended, of the Marquise reserved for him.

He had at this time a singular idea.  He was a member of several of the most aristocratic clubs.  He organized a chosen group of men from the elite of his companions, and formed with them a secret association, of which the object was to fix and maintain among its members the principles and points of honor in their strictest form.  This society, which had only been vaguely spoken of in public under the name of “Societe des Raffines,” and also as “The Templars” which latter was its true name—­had nothing in common with “The Devourers,” illustrated by Balzac.  It had nothing in it of a romantic or dramatic character.  Those who composed this club did not, in any way, defy ordinary morals, nor set themselves above the laws of their country.  They did not bind themselves by any vows of mutual aid in extremity.  They bound themselves simply by their word of honor to observe, in their reciprocal relations, the rules of purest honor.