"My dear M. Doublet," said M. d'Harville, with a smile, "your congratulations are always so peculiarly apropos." "That is their only merit, M. le Marquis; and they possess that merit, perhaps, because they proceed from the heart. I will run to the jeweller." As soon as he was alone, M. d'Harville began to pace up and down his cabinet, with his arms folded, and his eye fixed and meditative. His features suddenly changed, and no longer expressed that somewhat feverish contentment of which the steward and his old servant had been the dupes, but assumed a calm, sad, and chilling resolution. Afterwards, having paced up and down for a short time, he sunk into a chair heavily, and, as though weighed down with sorrow, placed his elbows on his desk, and hid his face in his hands. After a moment he rose suddenly, wiped a tear which moistened his red eyelid, and said with effort: "Come, come! Courage, courage!" He then wrote to several persons on very trifling matters, and postponed various meetings for some days. The marquis had concluded this correspondence when Joseph again entered, so gay, and so forgetful of himself, as to hum a tune in his turn. "M. Joseph, what a charming voice you have!" said his master, jestingly. "_Ma foi!_ so much the worse, M. le Marquis, for I don't care about it. I am singing so merrily within, that my music must be heard without." "Send these letters to the post." "Yes, M. le Marquis; but where will you receive the gentlemen who are expected this morning?" "Here, in my cabinet; they will smoke after breakfast, and then the smell of the tobacco will not reach Madame d'Harville." At this moment the noise of carriage wheels was heard in the courtyard of the hotel. "It is Madame la Marquise going out; she ordered her carriage very early this morning," said Joseph. "Run and request her to be so kind and come here before she goes out." "Yes, M. le Marquis." The domestic had scarcely left the room when M. d'Harville approached a mirror, and looked at himself attentively. "Well, well," said he, in a hoarse voice, "it is there,--the flushed cheeks--the bright look--joy or fever, it is little consequence which, so that they are deceived; now, then, for the smile on the lips,--there are so many sorts of smiles! But who can distinguish the false from the true? Who can peep beneath the false mask, and say, 'That laugh hides a dark despair, that noisy gaiety conceals a thought of death?' Who could guess that? No one,--fortunately, no one,--no one! Ah, yes, love would never be mistaken; his instinct would enlighten him. But I hear my wife,--my wife! Now, then, sinister actor, play thy part." Clemence entered M. d'Harville's apartment. "Good morrow, dear brother Albert," she said, in a tone full of sweetness. Then, observing the smiling expression of her husband's countenance, "But what is it, my dear, that gives you such a smiling air?"