“Really,” said Mademoiselle Goujet one evening, “I don’t know which of all the lovers loves the most.”
Adrien, who happened to be alone in the salon with the four card-players, raised his eyes and turned pale. For the last few days his only hold on life had been the pleasure of seeing Laurence and of listening to her.
“I think,” said the abbe, “that the countess, being a woman, loves with the greater abandonment to love.”
Laurence, the twins, and Robert entered the room soon after. The newspapers had just arrived. England, seeing the failure of all conspiracies attempted within the borders of France, was now arming all Europe against their common enemy. The disaster at Trafalgar had overthrown one of the most amazing plans which human genius ever conceived; by which, if it had succeeded, the Emperor would have paid the nation for his election by the ruin of the British power. The camp at Boulogne had just been raised. Napoleon, whose solders were, as always, inferior in numbers to the enemy, was about to carry the war into parts of Europe where he had not before waged it. The whole world was breathless, awaiting the results of the campaign.
“He’ll surely be defeated this time,” said Robert, laying down the paper.
“The armies of Austria and of Russia are before him,” said Marie-Paul.
“He has never fought in Germany,” added Paul-Marie.
“Of whom are you speaking?” asked Laurence.
“The Emperor,” answered the three gentlemen.
The jealous girl threw a disdainful look at her twin lovers, which humiliated them while it rejoiced the heart of Adrien, who made a gesture of admiration and gave her one proud look, which said plainly that he thought only of her,—of Laurence.