This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
By OCTAVE FEUILLET
To M. de Camors, in principle it was a matter of perfect indifferencewhether France was centralized or decentralized. But his Parisianinstinct induced him to prefer the former. In spite of this preference,he would not have scrupled to adopt the opinions of M. des Rameures, hadnot his own fine tact shown him that the proud old gentleman was not tobe won by submission.
He therefore reserved for him the triumph of his gradual conversion.Be that as it might, it was neither of centralization nor ofdecentralization that the young Count proposed to speak to Madame deTecle, when, at the appointed hour, he presented himself before her.He found her in the garden, which, like the house, was of an ancient,severe, and monastic style. A terrace planted with limetrees extended onone side of the garden. It was at this spot that Madame de Tecle wasseated under a group of lime-trees, forming a rustic bower.
She was fond of this place, because it recalled to her that evening whenher unexpected apparition had suddenly inspired with a celestial joy thepale, disfigured face of her betrothed.
She was seated on a low chair beside a small rustic table, covered withpieces of wool and silk; her feet rested on a stool, and she worked on apiece of tapestry, apparently with great tranquillity.
M. de Camors, an expert in all the niceties and exquisite devices of thefeminine mind, smiled to himself at this audience in the open air. Hethought he fathomed its meaning. Madame de Tecle desired to deprive thisinterview of the confidential character which closed doors would havegiven it.
It was the simple truth. This young woman, who was one of the noblest ofher sex, was not at all simple. She had not passed ten years of heryouth, her beauty, and her widowhood without receiving, under forms moreor less direct, dozens of declarations that had inspired her withimpressions, which, although just, were not always too flattering to thedelicacy and discretion of the opposite sex. Like all women of her age,she knew her danger, and, unlike most of them, she did not love it.She had invariably turned into the broad road of friendship all those shehad surprised rambling within the prohibited limits of love. The requestof M. de Camors for a private interview had seriously preoccupied hersince the previous evening. What could be the object of this mysteriousinterview? She puzzled her brain to imagine, but could not divine.
It was not probable that M. de Camors, at the beginning of theiracquaintance, would feel himself entitled to declare a passion. Howevervividly the famed gallantry of the young Count rose to her memory, shethought so noted a ladykiller as he might adopt unusual methods, andmight think himself entitled to dispense with much ceremony in dealingwith an humble provincial.
Animated by these ideas, she resolved to receive him in the garden,having remarked, during her short experience, that open air and a wide,open space were not favorable to bold wooers.
M. de Camors bowed to Madame de Tecle as an Englishman would have bowedto his queen; then seating himself, drew his chair nearer to hers,mischiev