was very strong upon me.

Nine o'clock, and the arrival had not yet taken place. The fragrant
gloaming was giving way to night; there was promise of a bright moon,
and the golden stars were peeping one by one. The night-wind was laden
with odors, a thousand flowers seemed to have given their sweet breath
to fan it. It would have been profanation to have lighted a cigar, so I
went out on the Queen's Terrace and walked under the whispering lime
trees, thinking of all that had passed in those few days.

Slowly but surely the conviction gained upon me that I did not like
Coralie d'Aubergne. I ought, according to all authentic romances, to
have fallen in love with her on the spot, but I was far from doing so.
"Why?" I asked myself. She was very brilliant--very lovely; I had seen
no one like her, yet the vague suspicion grew and grew. It was not the
face of a woman who could be trusted; there was something insincere
beneath its beauty. I should have liked her better if she had shown more
sorrow for the awful event that had happened; as, it was, I could not
help thinking that her chief emotion had been a kind of half fear as to
what would become of herself.

Then I reproached myself for thinking so unkindly of her, and resolved
that I would not judge her; after that I forgot mademoiselle. I heard
the sound of carriage wheels in the distance, and, looking down the long
vista of trees, I saw a hearse slowly driven up, and then I knew that
the dead Trevelyans had been brought home.

The desolation and sadness of that scene I shall never forget--the
hearse, the dark, waving plumes, the sight of the two heavy laden
coffins, the servants all in mourning.