“This,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “becomes really interesting; but you do not intend to leave this evening, I suppose?”

“No,” said Camors.

“Very well,” she replied, inclining her head in sign of dismissal, without offering her hand; “we shall see each other again.”

“But when?”

“At an early day.”

He thought she required time for reflection, a little terrified doubtless by the monster she had evoked; he saluted her gravely and departed.

The next day, and on the two succeeding days, he vainly presented himself at her door.

The Marquise was either dining out or dressing.

It was for Camors a whole century of torment.  One thought which often disquieted him revisited him with double poignancy.  The Marquise did not love him.  She only wished to revenge herself for the past, and after disgracing him would laugh at him.  She had made him sign the contract, and then had escaped him.  In the midst of these tortures of his pride, his passion, instead of weakening, increased.

The fourth day after their interview he did not go to her house.  He hoped to meet her in the evening at the Viscountess d’Oilly’s, where he usually saw her every Friday.  This lady had been formerly the most tender friend of the Count’s father.  It was to her the Count had thought proper to confide the education of his son.

Camors had preserved for her a kind of affection.  She was an amiable woman, whom he liked and laughed at.

No longer young, she had been compelled to renounce gallantry, which had been the chief occupation of her youth, and never having had much taste for devotion, she conceived the idea of having a salon.  She received there some distinguished men, savants and artists, who piqued themselves on being free-thinkers.

The Viscountess, in order to fit herself for her new position, resolved to enlighten herself.  She attended public lectures and conferences, which began to be fashionable.  She spoke easily about spontaneous generation.  She manifested a lively surprise when Camors, who delighted in tormenting her, deigned to inform her that men were descended from monkeys.

“Now, my friend,” she said to him, “I can not really admit that.  How can you think your grandfather was a monkey, you who are so handsome?”

She reasoned on everything with the same force.

Although she boasted of being a sceptic, sometimes in the morning she went out, concealed by a thick veil, and entered St. Sulpice, where she confessed and put herself on good terms with God, in case He should exist.  She was rich and well connected, and in spite of the irregularities of her youth, the best people visited her house.