Any day General Campvallon might be informed of the intrigue which dishonored him, either through some selfish treason, or through some public rumor, which might begin to spread.  Should this ever happen, he knew the General never would submit to it; and he had determined never to defend his life against his outraged friend.

This resolve, firmly decided upon in his secret soul, gave him the last solace to his conscience.  All his future destiny was thus at the mercy of an accident most likely to happen.  The second cause of his disquietude was the jealous hatred of Madame Campvallon toward the young rival she had herself selected.  After jesting freely on this subject at first, the Marquise had, little by little, ceased even to allude to it.

M. de Camors could not misunderstand certain mute symptoms, and was sometimes alarmed at this silent jealousy.  Fearing to exasperate this most violent feminine sentiment in so strong a soul, he was compelled day by day to resort to tricks which wounded his pride, and probably his heart also; for his wife, to whom his new conduct was inexplicable, suffered intensely, and he saw it.

One evening in the month of May, 1860, there was a reception at the Hotel Campvallon.  The Marquise, before leaving for the country, was making her adieus to a choice group of her friends.  Although this fete professed to be but an informal gathering, she had organized it with her usual elegance and taste.  A kind of gallery, composed of verdure and of flowers, connected the salon with the conservatory at the other end of the garden.

This evening proved a very painful one to the Comtesse de Camors.  Her husband’s neglect of her was so marked, his assiduities to the Marquise so persistent, their mutual understanding so apparent, that the young wife felt the pain of her desertion to an almost insupportable degree.  She took refuge in the conservatory, and finding herself alone there, she wept.

A few moments later, M. de Camors, not seeing her in the salon, became uneasy.  She saw him, as he entered the conservatory, in one of those instantaneous glances by which women contrive to see without looking.  She pretended to be examining the flowers, and by a strong effort of will dried her tears.  Her husband advanced slowly toward her.

“What a magnificent camellia!” he said to her.  “Do you know this variety?”

“Very well,” she replied; “this is the camellia that weeps.”

He broke off the flowers.

“Marie,” he said, “I never have been much addicted to sentimentality, but this flower I shall keep.”

She turned upon him her astonished eyes.

“Because I love it,” he added.

The noise of a step made them both turn.  It was Madame de Campvallon, who was crossing the conservatory on the arm of a foreign diplomat.

“Pardon me,” she said, smiling; “I have disturbed you!  How awkward of me!” and she passed out.