midnight couch, d'Aiglemont introduced Lord Grenville. Julie gave the
guest a stiffly polite reception, which did credit to her powers of
dissimulation. Resolutely she silenced her heart, veiled her eyes,
steadied her voice, and she kept her future in her own hands. Then,
when by these devices, this innate woman-craft, as it may be called,
she had discovered the full extent of the love which she inspired,
Mme. d'Aiglemont welcomed the hope of a speedy cure, and no longer
opposed her husband, who pressed her to accept the young doctor's
offer. Yet she declined to trust herself with Lord Grenville until
after some further study of his words and manner, she could feel
certain that he had sufficient generosity to endure his pain in
silence. She had absolute power over him, and she had begun to abuse
that power already. Was she not a woman?

Montcontour is an old manor-house build upon the sandy cliffs above
the Loire, not far from the bridge where Julie's journey was
interrupted in 1814. It is a picturesque, white chateau, with turrets
covered with fine stone carving like Mechlin lace; a chateau such as
you often see in Touraine, spick and span, ivy clad, standing among
its groves of mulberry trees and vineyards, with its hollow walks, its
stone balustrades, and cellars mined in the rock escarpments mirrored
in the Loire. The roofs of Montcontour gleam in the sun; the whole
land glows in the burning heat. Traces of the romantic charm of Spain
and the south hover about the enchanting spot. The breeze brings the
scent of bell flowers and golden broom, the air is soft, all about you
lies a sunny land, a land which casts its dreamy spell over your soul,
a land of languor and of soft desire, a fair, sweet-scented country,
where pain is lulled to sleep and passion wakes. No heart is cold for
long beneath its clear sky, beside its sparkling waters. One ambition
dies after another, and you sink into serene content and repose, as