"What? what did you say, madame?" demanded the Marquis de Santoval, turning to his wife.
"I said that it was very late, monsieur."
"You are right, madame; it is time to leave this function, which, in truth, offers little in the way of recreation."
The marquis took Valentine away; and Léodgard, as soon as he was certain that they had left the party, made haste to follow their example.
But Valentine knew that he loved her, and the words that she had let fall were not calculated to discourage him, even if they had not been accompanied by a soft glance.
A few days later, a ball was given by one of the king's favorites. Léodgard did not fail to attend, but in vain did he wander through the salons looking for her whom he burned to see again. The Marquis de Santoval and his wife did not appear; they had been invited, however; for the noble duke who gave the fête expressed more than once his disappointment that the lovely marchioness was not among his guests.
Several parties, several large receptions followed, and Léodgard did not miss one; but she whom he always hoped to meet did not appear.
The time passed; and love, which is intensified by separation, so long as it has not been rewarded, became every day more violent in Léodgard's heart.
It was evident that the Marquis de Santoval was jealous, that he had noticed the impassioned glances which the Comte de Marvejols had bestowed on his wife and, above all, a certain expression of satisfaction, of triumph, that shone in Valentine's eyes while Léodgard made himself drunk with love by gazing at her.
To prevent a repetition of that pantomime, the husband could devise no better means than to cease taking his wife into society.