At last the marchioness left her seat, to walk through the salons on her husband's arm. Seizing a moment when they were surrounded by people, Léodgard approached Valentine and said in her ear: "I am dying with love for you, madame!" "It is very late!" murmured the young woman, with a glance of flame at him who had addressed her. "What? what did you say, madame?" demanded the Marquis de Santoval, turning to his wife. "I said that it was very late, monsieur." "You are right, madame; it is time to leave this function, which, in truth, offers little in the way of recreation." The marquis took Valentine away; and Léodgard, as soon as he was certain that they had left the party, made haste to follow their example. But Valentine knew that he loved her, and the words that she had let fall were not calculated to discourage him, even if they had not been accompanied by a soft glance. A few days later, a ball was given by one of the king's favorites. Léodgard did not fail to attend, but in vain did he wander through the salons looking for her whom he burned to see again. The Marquis de Santoval and his wife did not appear; they had been invited, however; for the noble duke who gave the fête expressed more than once his disappointment that the lovely marchioness was not among his guests. Several parties, several large receptions followed, and Léodgard did not miss one; but she whom he always hoped to meet did not appear. The time passed; and love, which is intensified by separation, so long as it has not been rewarded, became every day more violent in Léodgard's heart. It was evident that the Marquis de Santoval was jealous, that he had noticed the impassioned glances which the Comte de Marvejols had bestowed on his wife and, above all, a certain expression of satisfaction, of triumph, that shone in Valentine's eyes while Léodgard made himself drunk with love by gazing at her. To prevent a repetition of that pantomime, the husband could devise no better means than to cease taking his wife into society. But Léodgard said to himself that Valentine was not the woman to allow herself to be sequestered, to live without the pleasures suited to her years. In that case, it must be she herself who did not choose to be thrown with him again. Was it because she detested him? Was it not rather because she was afraid that she might love him? "Her efforts will be vain; I will see her!" thought Léodgard; "I will find a way to approach her; indeed, her soft glances seemed to say that that would not displease her." Several more weeks passed. At last Léodgard, who continued to go into society, found himself one evening in the same room with the Marquis de Santoval and his wife. There was a melancholy, melting expression on Valentine's features, which was not habitual to them; but her beauty was far from being diminished by the soft languor that dimmed the brilliancy of her eyes; on the contrary, their power was increased thereby.