Her mind, moreover, was too far away from the monstrous abysses yawning at her side; she might have stepped into them and been swallowed up, before she had suspected their existence.
The blonde, placid, and handsome countenance of the Count de Moras retained at all times, like Lucan's dark face, a sort of sculptural firmness.

It was, therefore, rather difficult to read upon it the impressions of a soul which was naturally strong and self-controlling.

On one point, however, that soul had become weak.

Monsieur de Lucan was not ignorant of the fact; he was aware of the count's ardent love for Julia, and of the sickly susceptibility of his passion.
It seemed unlikely that such a sentiment, if it were seriously set at defiance, should not betray itself in some violent or at least perceptible exterior sign.

Monsieur de Lucan, in reality, was unable to observe any of these dreaded symptoms.