She turned upon him her astonished eyes.
“Because I love it,” he added.
The noise of a step made them both turn. It was Madame de Campvallon, who was crossing the conservatory on the arm of a foreign diplomat.
“Pardon me,” she said, smiling; “I have disturbed you! How awkward of me!” and she passed out.
Madame de Camors suddenly grew very red, and her husband very pale. The diplomat alone did not change color, for he comprehended nothing. The young Countess, under pretext of a headache, which her face did not belie, returned home immediately, promising her husband to send back the carriage for him. Shortly after, the Marquise de Campvallon, obeying a secret sign from M. de Camors, rejoined him in the retired boudoir, which recalled to them both the most culpable incident of their lives. She sat down beside him on the divan with a haughty nonchalance.
“What is it?” she said.
“Why do you watch me?” asked Camors. “It is unworthy of you!”
“Ah! an explanation? a disagreeable thing. It is the first between us—at least let us be quick and complete.”
She spoke in a voice of restrained passion—her eyes fixed on her foot, which she twisted in her satin shoe.
“Well, tell the truth,” she said. “You are in love with your wife.”