eived
him so dejected and pale beneath a doorway, he would have remained there
a few minutes, and then would have gone away never to return. But, as we
have said, in the first antechambers he had stopped, solely for the sake
of not mixing himself with all those happy existences which he felt were
moving around him in the adjacent salons. And as one of Monsieur's
servants, recognizing him, had asked him if he wished to see Monsieur or
Madame, Raoul had scarcely answered him, but had sunk down upon a bench
near the velvet doorway, looking at a clock, which had stood for nearly
an hour.

The servant had passed on, and another, better acquainted with him, had
come up and interrogated Raoul as to whether he should inform M. Guiche
of his being there. This name even did not rouse the recollections of
poor Raoul. The persistent servant went on to relate that Guiche had
just invented a new game of lottery, and was teaching it to the ladies.
Raoul, opening his large eyes, like the absent man in Theophrastus, had
made no answer, but his sadness had increased by it two shades. With his
head hanging down, his limbs relaxed, his mouth half open for the escape
of his sighs, Raoul remained, thus forgotten, in the antechamber, when
all at once a lady's robe passed, rubbing against the doors of a lateral
salon which opened upon the gallery. A lady, young, pretty, and gay,
scolding an officer of the household, entered by that way, and
expressed herself with much vivacity. The officer replied in calm but
firm sentences; it was rather a little love pet than a quarrel of
courtiers, and was terminated by a kiss on the fingers of the lady.
Suddenly, on perceiving Raoul, the lady became silent, and pushing away
the officer:

"Make your escape, Malicorne," said she; "I did not think there was any
one here. I shall curse you, if they have either heard or seen us!"

Malicorne hastened away. The young lady advanced behind Raoul, and
stretching her joyous face oven him as he lay:

"Monsieur is a gallant man," said she, "and no doubt--"

She here interrupted herself by uttering a cry: "Raoul!" said she,
blushing.

"Mademoiselle de Montalais!" said Raoul, more pale than death.

He rose unsteadily and tried to make his way across the slippery mosaic
of the floor; but she had comprehended that savage and cruel grief; she
felt that in the flight of Raoul there was an accusation, or at least a
suspicion against herself. A woman, ever vigilant, sh