a little and cover yourself with this rug? It is not foggy in Chantilly
and the street is very full."

"I will," she said, "I'll kneel down."

Something about his face distressed her. How came it that Julien trusted
this new man? Perhaps he was some old and private friend of his who felt
antagonistic to her, who disbelieved in her, who would hurt them both
with his cynical impassivity.

"I'm fanciful!" she thought. "This is only some friend of his from
Paris." Paris sending forth obstacles already!

In Chantilly she crouched beneath the rug--her expectations closing,
unwandering, against her breast. Beams might pierce the glass of the car
and light nothing unusual; what burnt beneath was not a fire that man
could see. Generals in the street walked indifferently to the Hotel of
the Grand Conde. It was their dinner hour, and who cared that an empty
car should move towards a little inn beyond? Now, she held armfuls of
the rug about her, buried from the light, now held her breath, too, as
the car stopped.

"Now mademoiselle!"

And there stood Julien, at the end of the passage, he whom she had left,
sombre and distracted, a long twenty-four hours ago in Chantilly. She
saw the change even while she flew to him. He was gay, he was excited,
he was exciting. He was beautiful, admirable, he admired her.

"Fanny, is it true? You have come?" and "Que vous etes en beaute!"