She knelt upon the prie-dieu as her father kissed her fair forehead, and then retired.
As soon as he had gone, and the sound of his departing footsteps was no longer audible, Marie took the heavy candelabrum which was on the table, and drawing aside a curtain of rustling and faded serge, placed the light in the window. Then, watching the sulky beat of a faded pendule, rich in shepherds and shepherdesses of blackened gilding that was on a slab opposite the hearth, she remained lost in thought, starting, however, at the least noise without, although but the clatter of a falling leaf against the window.
An hour wore away. And then she became restless, pacing the room with impatience, and constantly walking towards the window, in the vain endeavour to penetrate the gloom without, unenlivened by the presence of even a single star. Yet suspense was not the only feeling expressed by her countenance. Her eyes sparkled, a breathing glow of warmth and excitement flushed her face, and a slight tremor pervaded her whole frame, extending also to her very respiration. Suddenly these emotions ceased. A footstep was plainly heard without upon the terrace of the parterre: it came nearer, and then there was a light tap against the window. She rose slowly, and opened the casement: in another moment Gaudin de Sainte-Croix entered the apartment.
There was no spring—no eager rush into each other’s arms. Despite the intense passion which had the instant previous filled her silence and her thoughts, she now remained fixed, and mute as the grave. Neither did Gaudin speak a word, as he found himself before his mistress for the first time since his long and dreary immurement. But the looks on either side were those which wrapped each other in passion; and by degrees, yet still in silence and trembling, a hand or foot stole forward, until the two forms which contained those attached, but sinful souls, met in one long and clinging embrace.
‘Gaudin! my adored one!’ exclaimed Marie. But the concluding accents were hushed by the lips of her lover.
At length they broke from their waking dream with the start and unwelcome sense of reality that follows slumber. And then a sigh rose to Marie’s lips far different from the acted sorrow and penitence of the last hour. Passion stamped sincerity and truth upon it.
‘And can you mix grief, Marie, with the rapture of this moment?’ asked Sainte-Croix in tones of deprecation.
‘Gaudin!’ replied the Marchioness; ‘this must be henceforth the only manner in which we can meet—this stealthy, miserable game at hide-and-seek, the only way in which I can show my love, or repay you for your suffering.’
The habitual distrust of Sainte-Croix’s mind led him to turn one searching look upon Marie’s face. But all there was real and confiding. All natures have their minutes of truth, however drilled they may be into daily lying. He was satisfied.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Do you remain here for ever?’