Should she break her betrothal promise?

She certainly could do it, as she had given no other pledge than her word.  But when he had left her, who could say that she would not wish him back?

In that little brain, turned by ambition, the strangest ideas chased one another.  Sometimes, while Grandfather Gardinois, who had laid aside in her honor his old-fashioned hunting-jackets and swanskin waistcoats, was jesting with her, amusing himself by contradicting her in order to draw out a sharp reply, she would gaze steadily, coldly into his eyes, without replying.  Ah! if only he were ten years younger!  But the thought of becoming Madame Gardinois did not long occupy her.  A new personage, a new hope came into her life.

After Sidonie’s arrival, Georges Fromont, who was seldom seen at Savigny except on Sundays, adopted the habit of coming to dinner almost every day.

He was a tall, slender, pale youth, of refined appearance.  Having no father or mother, he had been brought up by his uncle, M. Fromont, and was looked upon by him to succeed him in business, and probably to become Claire’s husband.  That ready-made future did not arouse any enthusiasm in Georges.  In the first place business bored him.  As for his cousin, the intimate good-fellowship of an education in common and mutual confidence existed between them, but nothing more, at least on his side.

With Sidonie, on the contrary, he was exceedingly embarrassed and shy, and at the same time desirous of producing an effect—­a totally different man, in short.  She had just the spurious charm, a little free, which was calculated to attract a superficial nature, and it was not long before she discovered the impression that she produced upon him.

When the two girls were walking together in the park, it was always Sidonie who remembered that it was time for the train from Paris to arrive.  They would go together to the gate to meet the travellers, and Georges’s first glance was always for Mademoiselle Chebe, who remained a little behind her friend, but with the poses and airs that go halfway to meet the eyes.  That manoeuvring between them lasted some time.  They did not mention love, but all the words, all the smiles they exchanged were full of silent avowals.

One cloudy and threatening summer evening, when the two friends had left the table as soon as dinner was at an end and were walking in the long, shady avenue, Georges joined them.  They were talking upon indifferent subjects, crunching the gravel beneath their idling footsteps, when Madame Fromont’s voice, from the chateau, called Claire away.  Georges and Sidonie were left alone.  They continued to walk along the avenue, guided by the uncertain whiteness of the path, without speaking of drawing nearer to each other.

A warm wind rustled among the leaves.  The ruffled surface of the pond lapped softly against the arches of the little bridge; and the blossoms of the acacias and lindens, detached by the breeze, whirled about in circles, perfuming the electricity-laden air.  They felt themselves surrounded by an atmosphere of storm, vibrant and penetrating.  Dazzling flashes of heat passed before their troubled eyes, like those that played along the horizon.