He dashed
through a well-known gap into the park, and went slowly along the
avenues, stopping now and again for a little to still the loud beating
of his heart. Smothered sounds as he came nearer the chateau told him
that the servants must be at supper, and he went straight to Mme. de
Beauseant's room.
Mme. de Beauseant never left her bedroom. M. de Nueil could gain the
doorway without making the slightest sound. There, by the light of two
wax candles, he saw the thin, white Marquise in a great armchair; her
head was bowed, her hands hung listlessly, her eyes gazing fixedly at
some object which she did not seem to see. Her whole attitude spoke of
hopeless pain. There was a vague something like hope in her bearing,
but it was impossible to say whither Claire de Bourgogne was looking
--forwards to the tomb or backwards into the past. Perhaps M. de
Nueil's tears glittered in the deep shadows; perhaps his breathing
sounded faintly; perhaps unconsciously he trembled, or again it may
have been impossible that he should stand there, his presence unfelt by
that quick sense which grows to be an instinct, the glory, the delight,
the proof of perfect love. However it was, Mme. de Beauseant slowly
turned her face towards the doorway, and beheld her lover of bygone
days. Then Gaston de Nueil came forward a few paces.
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