In the midst of these honorable conflicts one person, who took no part in them, attracted the greatest share of Camors’s interest; first for her beauty and afterward for her qualities.  This was an orphan of excellent family, but very poor, of whom Madame de la Roche-Jugan and Madame Tonnelier had taken joint charge.  Mademoiselle Charlotte de Luc d’Estrelles passed six months of each year with the Countess and six with the Baroness.  She was twenty-five years of age, tall and blonde, with deep-set eyes under the shadow of sweeping, black lashes.  Thick masses of hair framed her sad but splendid brow; and she was badly, or rather poorly dressed, never condescending to wear the cast-off clothes of her relatives, but preferring gowns of simplest material made by her own hands.  These draperies gave her the appearance of an antique statue.

Her Tonnelier cousins nicknamed her “the goddess.”  They hated her; she despised them.  The name they gave her, however, was marvellously suitable.

When she walked, you would have imagined she had descended from a pedestal; the pose of her head was like that of the Greek Venus; her delicate, dilating nostrils seemed carved by a cunning chisel from transparent ivory.  She had a startled, wild air, such as one sees in pictures of huntress nymphs.  She used a naturally fine voice with great effect; and had already cultivated, so far as she could, a taste for art.

She was naturally so taciturn one was compelled to guess her thoughts; and long since Camors had reflected as to what was passing in that self-centred soul.  Inspired by his innate generosity, as well as his secret admiration, he took pleasure in heaping upon this poor cousin the attentions he might have paid a queen; but she always seemed as indifferent to them as she was to the opposite course of her involuntary benefactress.  Her position at Campvallon was very odd.  After Camors’s arrival, she was more taciturn than ever; absorbed, estranged, as if meditating some deep design, she would suddenly raise the long lashes of her blue eyes, dart a rapid glance here and there, and finally fix it on Camors, who would feel himself tremble under it.

One afternoon, when he was seated in the library, he heard a gentle tap at the door, and Mademoiselle entered, looking very pale.  Somewhat astonished, he rose and saluted her.

“I wish to speak with you, cousin,” she said.  The accent was pure and grave, but slightly touched with evident emotion.  Camors stared at her, showed her to a divan, and took a chair facing her.

“You know very little of me, cousin,” she continued, “but I am frank and courageous.  I will come at once to the object that brings me here.  Is it true that you are ruined?”

“Why do you ask, Mademoiselle?”