pposed the play concluded,
and cried from the distance, clapping her little hands, 'Bravo, Danjou,
the _denouement_ is delicious.'

That evening the great man had, or said he had, a bilious attack, and
very early next morning he left Mousseaux without seeing any one again.
Perhaps it was only the vexation of an author; perhaps he truly believed
that young Astier was going to succeed the Prince. However that may be,
a week after he had gone Paul had not got beyond an occasional whispered
word. The lady showed him the utmost kindness, treated him with the care
of a mother, asked after his health, whether he did not find the tower
looking south too hot, whether the shaking of the carriage tired him,
whether it was not too late for him to stay on the river. But the moment
he tried to mention the word 'love,' she was off without seeming to
understand. Still he found her a very different creature from the
proud Antonia of other years. Then, haughty and calm, she would show
impertinence his place by a mere frown. It was the serenity of a
majestic river flowing between its embankments. But now the embankment
was giving way; there seemed to be a crack somewhere, through which was
breaking the real nature of the woman. She had fits of rebellion
against custom and social convention, which hitherto she had respected
scrupulously, sudden desires to go somewhere else, and to tire herself
in some long excursion. She planned festivities, fireworks, great
coursing expeditions for the autumn, in which she would take the lead,
though it was years since she had been on horseback. Paul watched
carefully the vagaries of her excitement, and kept his sharp hawk's-eye
upon everything; he had quite made up his mind not to dangle for two
years, as he had round Colette de Rosen.

One night the party had broken up early, after a tiring day of driving
in the neighbourhood. Paul had gone up to his room, and having thrown
off his coat was sitting in his slippers smoking a cigar and writing
to his mother a carefully studied epistle. Mamma was staying at Clos
Jallanges, and wearing her eyes out with looking across the winding
river into the extreme distance for a glimpse of the four towers of
Mousseaux: and he had to convince her that there was no chance of a
reconciliation at present between her and her friend, and that they had
better not meet. (No, no! His good mother was much too fond of fishing
on her own hook to be a desirable associate!) He had