Nothing could be farther from truth, however, than this fancied arrangement of the worthy elders. Whatever were d'Arval's ultimate views and hopes, he had contented himself during his visit with playing the favourite lover _pro tempore_. Perhaps he was too honourable to take further advantage of his rival's absence--perhaps too delicate, too romantic, to owe his mistress's hand to any but her cool after-decision, unbiassed by his fascinating presence. In short, whatever was the reason, he was _au désespoir--accablé!--anéanti!_ But he departed, leaving la belle Adrienne very much in doubt whether his departure was desirable or otherwise. It certainly demolished a pretty little airy fabric she had amused herself with constructing at odd idle moments of tender reverie; such as a meeting of the rivals--jealousy--reproaches--an interesting dilemma--desperation on one side (she had not settled which)--rapture on the other--defiance to mortal combat--bloodshed, perhaps. But these feelings drew a veil over the imaginary picture, and passed on to the sweet anticipation of rewarding the survivor. If the marring of so ingenious a fancy sketch were somewhat vexatious, on the other hand it would be agreeable enough to be quite at liberty (for a time at least), after Walter's return, to resume her former relations with him. And as to the result, whatever was _his_ impatience, that might still be delayed, and the Marquis would return. She was sure of him, if after all she should decide in his favour; and then, who could tell--the fancy sketch might be completed at last. La petite Madelaine was not of course made the depositary of her fair cousin's private cogitations; but she had her own, as has been observed, and she saw, and thought, and drew her inferences--devoutly hated Le Marquis d'Arval--could not love her cousin--and pitied--Oh! how she pitied le bon Walter!