He saw her sometimes at a distance, like an exhausted comedienne, retiring to some isolated bench in the garden, and fairly panting with her hand pressing upon her bosom, as if to keep down her rebellious heart.

He felt then, in spite of all, overcome with immense pity in presence of so much beauty and so much misery.
Was it only pity?
The attitude, the words, the looks of Clotilde and of Julia's husband were at the same time, for Monsieur de Lucan, the objects of constant and uneasy observation.

Clotilde had evidently not conceived the slightest alarm.

The gentle serenity of her features remained unaltered.

A few oddities, more or less, in Julia's ways did not constitute a sufficient novelty to attract her particular attention.