Camors remained in that lonely spot many hours, without being aware of the passage of time.  At intervals he paced feverishly to and fro along the narrow strip of land between the woods and the bridge; then, stopping short, with fixed eyes, he became lost in thought, and stood as motionless as the trunk of the tree against which he leaned.  If, as we hope, there is a Divine hand which measures justly our sorrows according to our sins, the unhappy man, in this dark hour, must have rendered his account.

CHAPTER XXII

THE CURTAIN FALLS

The next morning the Marquise de Campvallon was strolling beside a large circular sheet of water which ornamented the lower part of her park, the metallic gleam of the rippling waves being discernible from afar through the branches of the surrounding trees.

She walked slowly along the bank of the lake, her head bowed, and the long skirt of her mourning-robe sweeping the grass.  Two large and dazzlingly white swans, watching their mistress eagerly, in expectation of receiving their usual titbits from her hands, swam close to the bank, following her steps as if escorting her.

Suddenly the Comte de Camors appeared before her.  She had believed that she never should see him again.  She raised her head quickly and pressed one hand to her heart.

“Yes, it is I!” said Camors.  “Give me your hand.”

She gave it to him.

“You were right, Charlotte,” he said, after a moment of silence.  “Ties like ours can not be broken.  I have reflected on everything.  I was seized with a momentary cowardice, for which I have reproached myself bitterly, and for which, moreover, I have been sufficiently punished.  But I come to you to ask your forgiveness.”

The Marquise led him tenderly into the deep shadow of the great plane-trees that surrounded the lake; she knelt before him with theatric grace, and fixed on him her swimming eyes.  She covered his head with kisses.  He raised her and pressed her to his heart.

“But you do not wish that crime to be committed?” he said in a low voice.

She bent her head with mournful indecision.

“For that matter,” he added, bitterly, “it would only make us worthier of each other; for, as to myself, they have already believed me capable of it.”

He took her arm and recounted to her briefly the scene of the night before.

He told her he had not returned home, and never should.  This was the result of his mournful meditations.  To attempt an explanation with those who had so mortally outraged him—­to open to them the depth of his heart—­to allude to the criminal thought they had accused him of—­he had repelled with horror, the evening before, when proposed by another.  He thought of all this; but this humiliation—­if he could have so abased himself—­would have been useless.  How could he hope to conquer by these words the distrust capable of creating such suspicions?