The young man had
taken his seat facing Marie, and as soon as Francine was in hers the
heavy vehicle started at a good pace.
The sun had swept away the gray autumnal mists, and its rays were
brightening the gloomy landscape with a look of youth and holiday.
Many lovers fancy that such chance accidents of the sky are
premonitions. Francine was surprised at the strange silence which fell
upon the travellers. Mademoiselle de Verneuil had recovered her cold
manner, and sat with her eyes lowered, her head slightly inclined, and
her hands hidden under a sort of mantle in which she had wrapped
herself. If she raised her eyes it was only to look at the passing
scenery. Certain of being admired, she rejected admiration; but her
apparent indifference was evidently more coquettish than natural.
Purity, which gives such harmony to the diverse expressions by which a
simple soul reveals itself, could lend no charm to a being whose every
instinct predestined her to the storms of passion. Yielding himself up
to the pleasures of this dawning intrigue, the young man did not try
to explain the contradictions which were obvious between the coquetry
and the enthusiasm of this singular young girl. Her assumed
indifference allowed him to examine at his ease a face which was now
as beautiful in its calmness as it had been when agitated.
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