To Mademoiselle de Verneuil's
eyes all seemed changed. Death was gliding beside her love. Perhaps it
was only fancy, but, to a woman who loves, fancy is as vivid as
reality. Francine, who had clearly understood from Marche-a-Terre's
glance that Mademoiselle de Verneuil's fate, over which she had
commanded him to watch, was in other hands than his, looked pale and
haggard, and could scarcely restrain her tears when her mistress spoke
to her. To her eyes Madame du Gua's female malignancy was scarcely
concealed by her treacherous smiles, and the sudden changes which her
obsequious attentions to Mademoiselle de Verneuil made in her manners,
voice, and expression was of a nature to frighten a watchful observer.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil herself shuddered instinctively, asking
herself, "Why should I fear? She is his mother." Then she trembled in
every limb as the thought crossed her mind, "Is she really his
mother?" An abyss suddenly opened before her, and she cast a look upon
the mother and son, which finally enlightened her. "That woman loves
him!" she thought. "But why has she begun these attentions after
showing me such coolness? Am I lost? or--is she afraid of me?"
As for the young man, he was flushed and pale by turns; but he kept a
quiet attitude and lowered his eyes to conceal the emotions which
agitated him. The graceful curve of his lips was lost in their close
compression, and his skin turned yellow under the struggle of his
stormy thoughts.
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