The marquis and his wife had just left the table; the scene passed in the little saloon of which we have spoken; the expression of Clemence d'Harville was affectionate and kind; D'Harville seemed less sad than usual. He had not yet received the now infamous letter from Sarah.
"What are you going to do to-night?" said he, mechanically, to his wife.
"I shall not go out; pray what are your plans?"
"I do not know," answered he, with a sigh. "Society is insupportable to me. I will pass this evening, like so many other evenings, alone."
"Why alone, since I am not going out?"
M. d'Harville looked at his wife with surprise. "Doubtless, but—"
"Well?"
"I know that you often prefer solitude when you do not go out."
"Yes; but as I am very capricious," said Clemence, smiling, "at present I prefer to partake my solitude with you, if it is agreeable to you."
"Really," cried D'Harville, with emotion, "how kind you are to anticipate what I dared not express."