Three days after the night upon which the father and son had knocked at the door of No. 7 Rue de Menors, another scene occurred. It was ten o'clock. The Prince had not appeared at dinner. Confined by a slight indisposition to his room, he sent an excuse to his daughter-in-law. The Prince was respectful as far as possible to Aminta, looking on her as head of the family and mistress of the household. The Countess of Grandmesnil had embroidered away a portion of the day, contradicted her niece, admired her nephew, commented on the last sermon of the Abbe de Rozan on worldly pleasures, contriving therein to insert various bitter-sweet allusions to Aminta. Finally the Countess left the room. The Marquis and Marquise were then alone together. After her discovery of the nocturnal absence of Henri, and especially after the reading of the fatal note in which an appointment was made with the Marquis, Aminta felt a sadness which she could not overcome. Too proud to reproach him, or suffer him to discover her sorrow, divided between unextinguished love and deep mortification, Aminta lived in perpetual constraint, biding her grief and humiliation under a false tranquillity, the recompense for which she found in solitary tears. The Marquis seemed ill at ease. He had for some days been as moody as possible. His absence became every day more frequent, and the sudden departure of the Countess made his situation very annoying to both of them. Not a word was said for some moments. Henri sat with his eyes fixed on a paper, though he did not read, and Aminta convulsively twisted between her fingers a kind of work which just then was fashionable. Her eyes however occasionally strayed to her husband's face, on which they rested with anxiety. As she thus examined him, the features of Henri finally assumed such an expression of despair that Aminta could not repress her sorrow, and said, "What _is_ the matter? are you in pain?" "I? not at all! I am well--very well," said the Marquis. "I have something of importance to attend to," and he added, as he looked at the clock, "I am already rather late." Aminta, in a supplicating tone, said, "Henri, once the most important business of your life was to be with me." "The business which calls me out is by no means as pleasant as that would be." "I wish I thought so," said Aminta--"for the needle of jealousy had entered her heart. "Aminta," said Maulear, looking at her, "what is the matter? what do you mean?" "That I am afraid I have lost the greatest blessing of life in a marriage like ours, and that, when my confidence in you is lost, happiness is gone for ever." "And why have you lost it?" said Maulear.