I further found at the old lady’s house another kind of distraction. Habit gives an interest to every kind of work. To prevent Mlle. de Porhoët from suspecting the final loss of her case, I regularly continued the exploration of the family archives. Among the confused mass I occasionally came across traditions, legends, and traces of old-world customs which awakened my curiosity and carried back my thoughts to far-off days remote from the crushing reality of life. My perseverance maintained Mlle. de Porhoët in her illusions, and she was grateful to me beyond my deserts. For I had come to take an interest in this work—-now practically useless—which repaid me for all my trouble, and gave me a wholesome distraction from my grief. As the fateful day approached, Mlle. Marguerite lost the feverish vivacity which had seemed to inspire her since the date of the marriage had been fixed, and relapsed at times into the fits of indolence and sombre reverie formerly habitual to her. Once or twice I surprised her watching me in wondering perplexity. Mme. Laroque, too, often looked at me with an anxious and hesitating air, as if she wished and yet feared to discuss some painful subject with me. The day before yesterday I found myself by chance alone with her in the _salon_, which Mlle. Hélouin had just left to give some order. The trivial conversation in which we had been engaged ceased suddenly, as by common consent. After a short silence, Mme. Laroque said, in a voice full of emotion: "M. Odiot, you are not wise in your choice of confidants." "Confidants, madame? I do not follow you. Except Mlle. de Porhoët, I have had no confidant in this place." "Alas!" she replied, "I wish to believe you ... I _do_ believe you ... but that is not enough——" At this moment Mlle. Hélouin came in, and no more could be said. The day after—yesterday—I had ridden over in the morning to superintend some wood-cutting in the neighbourhood. I was returning to the château about four in the afternoon, when, at a sharp turn of the road, I found myself face to face with Mlle. Marguerite. She was alone. I prepared to pass her with a bow, but she stopped her horse. "What a fine autumn day!" she said. "Yes, mademoiselle. You are going for a ride?" "As you see. I am making the best of my moments of independence, and, in fact, I have been rather abusing my liberty, for I am somewhat tired of solitude. But Alain is wanted at the house.... Poor Mervyn is lame.... You would not care to take his place?" "With pleasure. Where are you going?" "Well ... I thought of riding as far as the tower of Elven." With her whip she indicated the misty summit of a hill which rose on the right of the road. "I think," she went on, "you’ve never made that pilgrimage?" "I have not. I have often meant to, but until now I have always put it off. I don’t know why." "Well, that is fortunate; but it is getting late; we must make haste, if you don’t mind."