CHAPTER VI.
A DISILLUSION.
After a few hours of painful sleep, Monsieur de Lucan rose the next day, his brain laden with cares.
The resumption of hostilities, which had been clearly signified to him foreboded surely fresh troubles for his peace and fresh anguish for Clotilde's happiness.

Was he, then, about returning to those odious agitations which had so long harassed his existence, and this time without any hopes of escape?
How, indeed, was it possible not to despair of that untamable nature which age and reason, which so much attention and affection had left unmoved in her prejudices and her hatred?
How was it possible to understand, and, above all, ever to overcome the quixotic sentiment, or rather the mania which had taken possession of that concentrated soul, and which was smoldering in it, ever ready to break forth in furious outbursts?
Clotilde and Julia had not yet made their appearance.

Lucan went to take a walk in the garden, to breathe once more the peace of his beloved solitude, pending the anticipated storms.

At the extremity of an alley of evergreens, he discovered the Count de Moras, his arm resting on the pedestal of an old statue, and his eyes fixed on the ground.
Monsieur de Moras had never been a dreamer, but since his arrival at the chateau, he had, on more than one occasion, manifested to Lucan a melancholy state of mind quite foreign to his natural disposition.

Lucan had felt alarmed; nevertheless, as he did not himself like any one to intrude upon his confidence, he had abstained from questioning him.
They shook hands as they met.
"You came home late last night ?" inquired the count.
"At about three o'clock." "Oh! _povero! Apropos_, thanks for your kindness to Julia.