a cup of sorrow scarcely to be guessed unless from the accent of some
chance exclamation in a voice always well under control. From that
moment Charles felt a keen interest in Mme. d'Aiglemont. And yet,
though his visits had come to be a recognized thing, and in some sort
a necessity to them both, and though the hour was kept free by tacit
agreement, Vandenesse still thought that this woman with whom he was
in love was more clever than sincere. "Decidedly, she is an uncommonly
clever woman," he used to say to himself as he went away.

When he came into the room, there was the Marquise in her favorite
attitude, melancholy expressed in her whole form. She made no movement
when he entered, only raised her eyes and looked full at him, but the
glance that she gave him was like a smile. Mme. d'Aiglemont's manner
meant confidence and sincere friendship, but of love there was no
trace. Charles sat down and found nothing to say. A sensation for
which no language exists troubled him.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked in a softened voice.

"Nothing. . . . Yes; I am thinking of something of which, as yet, you
have not thought at all."

"What is it?"

"Why--the Congress is over."

"Well," she said, "and ought you to have been at the Congress?"

A direct answer would have been the most eloquent and delicate
declaration of love; but Charles did not make it. Before the candid