The crack of the postilion's whip sounded outside in the silent old
grass-grown courtyard. Victor embraced his aunt once more, and rushed
out.

"Good-bye, dear," he said, kissing his wife, who had followed him down
to the carriage.

"Oh! Victor, let me come still further with you," she pleaded
coaxingly. "I do not want to leave you----"

"Can you seriously mean it?"

"Very well," said Julie, "since you wish it." The carriage
disappeared.

"So you are very fond of my poor Victor?" said the Marquise,
interrogating her niece with one of those sagacious glances which
dowagers give younger women.

"Alas, madame!" said Julie, "must one not love a man well indeed to
marry him?"

The words were spoken with an artless accent which revealed either a
pure heart or inscrutable depths. How could a woman, who had been the
friend of Duclos and the Marechal de Richelieu, refrain from trying to
read the riddle of this marriage? Aunt and niece were standing on the
steps, gazing after the fast vanishing caleche. The look in the young
Countess' eyes did not mean love as the Marquise understood it. The
good lady was a Provencale, and her passions had been lively.