After this sudden explosion he was silent.

“Very well; what do you desire?” said the Marquise, with vexation.  “Do you wish that I should go and tell her the truth—­tell her that you were ready to defend her against me—­that you love her, and hate me?  If it be that you wish, say so.  I believe if this life continues I shall be capable of doing anything!”

“Do not you also outrage me!  Dismiss me, if that will give you pleasure; but I love you only.  My pride bleeds, that is all; and I give you my word of honor that if you ever affront me by going to justify me, I shall never in my life see you or her.  Embrace me!” and he pressed her to his heart.

She was calm for a few hours.

The house he occupied was about to be taken again by its proprietor.  The middle of September approached, and it was the time when the Marquise was in the habit of returning to Paris.  She proposed to M. de Camors to occupy the chateau during the few days he purposed passing in the country.  He accepted; but whenever she spoke of returning to Paris: 

“Why so soon?” he would say; “are we not very well here?”

A little later she reminded him that the session of the Chamber was about to open.  He made his health a pretext for delay, saying that he felt weak and wished to send in his resignation as deputy.  She induced him only by her urgent prayer to content himself with asking leave of absence.

“But you, my beloved!” he said, “I am condemning you to a sad existence!”

“With you,” she replied, “I am happy everywhere and always!”

It was not true that she was happy, but it was true that she loved him and was devoted to him.  There was no suffering she would not have resigned herself to, no sacrifice she would not make, were it for him.

From this moment the prospect of worldly sovereignty, which she thought she had touched with her hand, escaped her.  She had a presentiment of a melancholy future of solitude, of renunciation, of secret tears; but near him grief became a fete.  One knows with what rapidity life passes with those who busy themselves without distraction in some profound grief—­the days themselves are long, but the succession of them is rapid and imperceptible.  It was thus that the months and then the seasons succeeded one another, for Camors and the Marquise, with a monotony that left hardly any trace on their thoughts.  Their daily relations were marked, on the part of the Count with an invariably cold and distant courtesy, and very often silence; on the part of the Marquise by an attentive tenderness and a constrained grief.  Every day they rode out on horseback, both clad in black, sympathetic by their beauty and their sadness, and surrounded in the country by distant respect.  About the beginning of the ensuing winter Madame de Campvallon experienced a serious disquietude.  Although M. de Camors never complained, it was evident his health was gradually failing.  A dark and almost clayey tint covered his thin cheeks, and spread nearly to the whites of his eyes.  The Marquise showed some emotion on perceiving it, and persuaded him to consult a physician.  The physician perceived symptoms of chronic debility.  He did not think it dangerous, but recommended a season at Vichy, a few hygienic precautions, and absolute repose of mind and body.