“Of whom do you speak?” she exclaimed.
Then he declared to her how M. Langis had effected the descent into the den, without telling her what had resulted therefrom.
“Ah! that was kind, very kind,” she said. “I never doubted that Camille was a true friend.”
“A friend? Are you very sure that it is only friendship that he feels for you?”
Whereupon M. Moriaz told her all the rest. She grew pensive and sank into a reverie. Suddenly the door of the salon opened, and Camille entered. After inquiring after her health, he informed her that in consequence of a cold he, too, had been sick; and, as he was now free from business engagements, his physician was sending him to pass the winter in Sorrento.
She replied: “That is a journey that I would like to make. Will you take me with you?”
She gazed fixedly at him; there was everything in her gaze. He bent his knee before her, and for some moments they remained hand-in-hand, and eye to eye. In the midst of this, Mlle. Moiseney appeared, who, at sight of this tableau vivant, stood perfectly confounded.
“You are very much astonished, mademoiselle,” said M. Moriaz to her.
“Not so much as you fancy, monsieur,” replied she, recovering herself. “I did not dare to say it, but in my heart I always believed, always thought—Yes, I always was sure that it would end thus.”
“God bless Pope Joan!” he cried; “I shall cease to correct her.”