Thus, little by little, she mentally reached the point to which Octave wished to bring her.  The desire for an explanation with him, which she dared not admit to herself at first from a feeling of pride, became greater from day to day, and at last Octave himself could not have longed more ardently for an interview.  Now that Octave seemed to forget her, she realized that she loved him almost to adoration.  She reproached herself for her harshness toward him more than she had ever reproached herself for her weakness.  Her antipathy for all that did not concern him increased to such a degree that the most simple of household duties became odious to her.  It seemed to her that all the people about her were enemies bent upon separating her from happiness, for happiness was Octave; and this happiness, made up of words, letters, glances from him, was lost!

The evening of the fourth day, she found this torture beyond her strength.

“I shall become insane,” she thought; “to-morrow I will speak to him.”

Gerfaut was saying to himself, at nearly the same moment:  “To-morrow I will have a talk with her.”  Thus, by a strange sympathy, their hearts seemed to understand each other in spite of their separation.  But what was an irresistible attraction in Clemence was only a determination resulting from almost a mathematical calculation on her lover’s part.  By the aid of this gift of second sight which intelligent men who are in love sometimes possess, he had followed, degree by degree, the variations of her heart, without her saying one word; and in spite of the veil of scorn and indifference with which she still had the courage to shield herself, he had not lost a single one of the tortures she had endured for the last four days.  Now he thought that he had discovered enough to allow him to risk a step that, until then, he would have deemed dangerous; and with the egotism common to all men, even the best of lovers, he trusted in the weakness born of sorrow.

The next day a hunting party was arranged with some of the neighbors.  Early in the morning, Bergenheim and Marillac started for the rendezvous, which was at the foot of the large oak-tree where the artist’s tete-a-tete had been so cruelly interrupted.  Gerfaut refused to join them, under the pretence of finishing an article for the ’Revue de Paris’, and remained at home with the three ladies.  As soon as dinner was ended, he went to his room in order to give a semblance of truth to his excuse.

He had been busying himself for some time trimming a quill pen at the window, which looked out upon the park, when he saw in the garden, directly beneath him, Constance’s forefeet and nose; soon the dog jumped upon the sill in order to warm herself in the sun.

“The old lady has entered her sanctuary,” thought Gerfaut, who knew that it was as impossible to see Constance without her mistress as St.-Roch without his dog.