The following week M. de Camors was at the club one evening, playing whist with the General.  He remarked that the General was not playing his usual game, and saw also imprinted on his features a painful preoccupation.

“Are you in pain, General?” said he, after they had finished their game.

“No, no!” said the General; “I am only annoyed—­a tiresome affair between two of my people in the country.  I sent Mesnil away this morning to examine into it.”

The General took a few steps, then returned to Camors and took him aside:  “My friend,” he said, “I deceived you, just now; I have something on my mind—­something very serious.  I am even very unhappy!”

“What is the matter?” said Camors, whose heart sank.

“I shall tell you that probably to-morrow.  Come, in any case, to see me to-morrow morning.  Won’t you?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Thanks!  Now I shall go—­for I am really not well.”

He clasped his hand more affectionately than usual.

“Adieu, my dear child,” he added, and turned around brusquely to hide the tears which suddenly filled his eyes.  M. de Camors experienced for some moments a lively disquietude, but the friendly and tender adieus of the General reassured him that it did not relate to himself.  Still he continued astonished and even affected by the emotion of the old man.

Was it not strange?  If there was one man in the world whom he loved, or to whom he would have devoted himself, it was this one whom he had mortally wronged.

He had, however, good reason to be uneasy; and was wrong in reassuring himself; for the General in the course of that evening had been informed of the treachery of his wife—­at least he had been prepared for it.  Only he was still ignorant of the name of her accomplice.

Those who informed him were afraid of encountering the blind and obstinate faith of the General, had they named Camors.

It was probable, also, after what had already occurred, that had they again pronounced that name, the General would have repelled the suspicion as a monstrous impossibility, regretting even the thought.

M. de Camors remained until one o’clock at the club and then went to the Rue Vanneau.  He was introduced into the Hotel Campvallon with the customary precautions; and this time we shall follow him there.  In traversing the garden, he raised his eyes to the General’s window, and saw the soft light of the night-lamp burning behind the blinds.

The Marquise awaited him at the door of her boudoir, which opened on a rotunda at an elevation of a few feet.  He kissed her hand, and told her in few words of the General’s sadness.

She replied that she had been very uneasy about his health for some days.  This explanation seemed natural to M. de Camors, and he followed the Marquise through the dark and silent salon.  She held in her hand a candle, the feeble light of which threw on her delicate features a strange pallor.  When they passed up the long, echoing staircase, the rustling of her skirt on the steps was the only sound that betrayed her light movement.