He would certainly see her alone on the following day and then she would most likely broach the subject and they could agree what to do--for that Henry must know some day was an incontestable fact.

He, Michael, would make some excuse and leave Heronac by the next evening, it was impossible to go on playing such a part, and not fair to any one, least of all to his friend.
"I will give her to-night to declare her hand," he thought, as his valet, no longer the dignified Johnson, handed him his coat, "and then if she will not put the cards down--I must." But when he opened his door and saw her exquisite slender figure tripping forward from the dark passage, a fierce pain gripped his heart, and he said between his teeth: "My God! if it had not been too late!" The Dame d'Heronac was in wild spirits at dinner--and her cheeks burned like glowing roses.

Monsieur le Cure watched her with his wise, black eye.
"The child is not herself," he thought.

"It is possible that this Englishman may mean a great deal to her--but he is of the gentle type, not of the sort one would believe to make strong passions--no--now if it had been the other one--the friend--that one could have seen some light through--a young man well able to fill the heart of any woman--a fine young man, a splendid young man--but yes." Madame Imogen made no reflections, she was too delighted with their gay repast, and helped with her jolly wit to keep the ball rolling.
Henry felt slightly intoxicated with happiness--while in Michael, passions of various sorts were rising, against his will.
A devil was in Sabine--never had she been so alluring, so feminine, so completely removed from her usual grave, indifferent self.
She did not look at Michael once or vouchsafe him any conversation beyond what cordial politeness compelled.

It was to Pere Anselme that she almost made love, with shy sallies at Henry, and merry replies to Madame Imogen.