The widowed bride groaned deeply as she covered her face with her handkerchief and rocked to and fro on her seat.
"Madame," said St. Eustache, "I will no longer intrude upon your grief. When time has somewhat assuaged the poignancy of your affliction, I will again call on you to tender my respectful sympathies."
Time wore on, and with it brought those alleviations it affords to even the keenest sorrow. The assiduity of friends compelled Madame Lioncourt to lay aside her widow's weeds, and reappear in the great world of fashion. There, whatever may have been her secret sorrow, she learned to wear the mask of a smiling exterior, and even to appear gayest among the gay, as if she sought forgetfulness in the wildest excitement and most frivolous amusement.
During all this time, St. Eustache, who had got a military appointment at Paris, was ever at her side. It was impossible for her to avoid him. He escorted her to her carriage when she left a ball room; he was the first to claim her hand when she entered. He was so respectful, so sad, so humble, that it was impossible to take offence at his assiduities, and she even began to like him in spite of former prejudices. Though it was evident that the freedom of her hand had renewed his former hopes, still no words of his ever betrayed their revival; only sometimes a suppressed sigh, the trembling of his hand as it touched hers, gave evidence that could not be mistaken.
Affairs were in this condition, when a brother of Leonide, Alfred Lasalle, a young advocate from the provinces, came to establish himself in Paris. He at once became the protector and guardian of his sister, and, as such, conceived the same violent dislike to St. Eustache that Leonide had formerly entertained towards him. St. Eustache, after many fruitless attempts to conciliate the brother, gave it up in despair. Still, whenever Alfred's affairs called him away, he supplied his place with the young widow.
At this time, play sometimes ran very high in the salons of the capital; and Leonide rose from the écarté table one night, indebted to St. Eustache in the sum of a thousand crowns.
"Call on me to-morrow," said Leonide, with a flushed face, "and I will repay you."
St. Eustache was pretty well acquainted with the affairs of the young widow. He knew that she had been living on her capital for some time, and that she had reached the limit of her resources. He knew that it was utterly impossible for her to raise a thousand crowns in twenty-four hours. She must, therefore, he thought, cancel her debt by her hand. This was the alternative to which he had been manœuvring to bring her; therefore he entered her salon the next day with the air of a victor. He was no longer covetous of wealth; he had prospered in his own speculations, and was immensely rich; the hand of Leonide, even without her heart, was now all he sought.
Madame Lioncourt received him with the easy assurance of a woman of the world. He, on his part, advanced with the grace of a French courtier.
"You came to remind me, sir," said the lady, "that I was unfortunate at play last night."