Mademoiselle de Verneuil was unable to decide whether
any love for her remained in his evident anger. The road, flanked by
woods at this particular point, became darker and more gloomy, and the
obscurity prevented the eyes of the silent travellers from questioning
each other. The sighing of the wind, the rustling of the trees, the
measured step of the escort, gave that almost solemn character to the
scene which quickens the pulses. Mademoiselle de Verneuil could not
long try in vain to discover the reason of this change. The
recollection of Corentin came to her like a flash, and reminded her
suddenly of her real destiny. For the first time since the morning she
reflected seriously on her position. Until then she had yielded
herself up to the delight of loving, without a thought of the past or
of the future. Unable to bear the agony of her mind, she sought, with
the patience of love, to obtain a look from the young man's eyes, and
when she did so her paleness and the quiver in her face had so
penetrating an influence over him that he wavered; but the softening
was momentary.
"Are you ill, mademoiselle?" he said, but his voice had no gentleness;
the very question, the look, the gesture, all served to convince her
that the events of this day belonged to a mirage of the soul which was
fast disappearing like mists before the wind.
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