He ceased, and remained with his eyes fixed on the young woman with a burning anxiety. As he went on speaking her air became more grave; she listened to him, her head a little inclined toward him in an attitude of overpowering interest, throwing upon him at intervals a glance full of gloomy fire. A slight but rapid palpitation of the bosom, a scarcely perceptible quivering of the nostrils, alone betrayed the storm raging within her.
“This,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “becomes really interesting; but you do not intend to leave this evening, I suppose?”
“No,” said Camors.
“Very well,” she replied, inclining her head in sign of dismissal, without offering her hand; “we shall see each other again.”
“But when?”
“At an early day.”
He thought she required time for reflection, a little terrified doubtless by the monster she had evoked; he saluted her gravely and departed.
The next day, and on the two succeeding days, he vainly presented himself at her door.
The Marquise was either dining out or dressing.
It was for Camors a whole century of torment. One thought which often disquieted him revisited him with double poignancy. The Marquise did not love him. She only wished to revenge herself for the past, and after disgracing him would laugh at him. She had made him sign the contract, and then had escaped him. In the midst of these tortures of his pride, his passion, instead of weakening, increased.