"Mesdames Falourdin, Riflot, Piquette, Dumarteau, Lumignon, Chamouillet, and Cavalos have the honor to announce the marriage of their niece, Mademoiselle Rosette Gribiche, to Monsieur Jules-César-Octave Freluchon, dealer in sponges."
Ah! it was very amiable on Rosette's part to send me an announcement of her wedding. But something was written at the foot of the sheet:
"You are requested to attend the ball, which will take place at Chapart's, Rue d'Angoulême; I rely on you for the polka."
Ah! there I recognized my saucy grisette. She was quite capable of insisting on dancing all night with me; and I was not at all certain that she would not demand something else. But I would not accept her invitation, I would not go to her wedding feast. I would be more sensible than she was. I would not swear that, later on, I might not do myself the pleasure of buying a sponge of her. Meanwhile, I wished Monsieur Freluchon all happiness, and I was convinced beforehand that it would be his.
One evening, when I went home, Pomponne said to me, rubbing his hands gleefully:
"Monsieur had another visitor to-day. Mon Dieu! monsieur had only just gone out, when Madame Dauberny came."
"Madame Dauberny? Oh! how sorry I am that I didn't see her!"
"She came in; in fact, she waited for monsieur quite a long time, talking with your seamstress."
"What do you mean by my seamstress? In heaven's name, can't you say Madame Landernoy?"
"As that lady sews for monsieur, I thought she was his seamstress."
"No matter! what did Frédérique say when she went away? Will she come again to-morrow?"
"Oh! no, monsieur; she won't come again to-morrow nor any other day; for she said to me when she went away: 'You will tell your master that I shan't come again.'"
"She said that she wouldn't come again! That's impossible, Pomponne; you are mistaken; Frédérique could not have said that."
"Beg pardon, monsieur; I'm sure she said it, because it surprised me; and I said to her: 'Why! is madame angry with monsieur?'"
"Oh! I recognize you there! Always inquisitive and chattering! Well, what did she say to that?"
"She said: 'That's none of your business!'—I didn't say any more."
I could not understand why Frédérique should have said what Pomponne had reported to me. If she had come often to see me without finding me, it might be conceivable; but, on the contrary, I had been more than ten times to inquire for her while she was in the country.
"No matter!" I thought; "I will go to see her to-morrow, and obtain an explanation of all this, I hope."
The next day, as soon as I had finished breakfast, I hastened to Madame Dauberny's. At last, she was at home! Her maid ushered me into her room.
I found Frédérique enveloped in a morning gown. Her lovely hair, falling in long curls on each side of her face, was without ornament. She was very pale, and her manner was cold and constrained; she greeted me with a smile that was not sincere, and said:
"Ah! is it you, Charles?"
"Yes, it is I. You came to see me yesterday, and I am extremely sorry that I was absent. But that fact does not seem to me a sufficient explanation of your saying to my servant that you would not come again. What did that mean? I have been here ten or fifteen times to see you since you went into the country, where it never once occurred to you to write me, to tell me where you were. I could not write to you, for I had no idea in what direction you had gone. But I came, nevertheless, again and again; for I could not tire of coming, when I hoped to see you!—Tell me, what is the matter? what have I done? Why are you offended? for you are offended, I can see by the cold way in which you receive me."
Frédérique listened to me attentively. She forced herself to smile and offered me her hand, saying in a faltering tone:
"All that you say is true—I have no right to be angry—and I am not any longer."
"But you are!"
"No, I am not."
"Why did you tell Pomponne that you would not come again?"
"Why—because—as you have a woman installed in your rooms now—I thought that my visits could only——"
"Upon my word, I can't understand you! Because a person comes to my rooms, a person who looks after my linen, takes it away and brings it back!—What has that to do with our friendship?"
"Is she the—the young woman in whom you took such a deep interest?"
"Yes, madame. She has lost her child, her little girl, who was her only joy! It seems to me that that is an additional reason for trying to lighten her sorrow."
"Oh! most assuredly! It seems, too, that you have done wonders for her, for she says everything good of you! she extols you to the skies! Never fear, my friend, she is truly grateful!"
"But that ought not to seem extraordinary to you, who maintain that ingratitude is the most shocking of vices."
"No, no! I see nothing at all unusual in all that."
"Mon Dieu! Frédérique, you drive me mad! Do you know that, to hear you, one would think you were unkind and unfeeling, and yet I know that you are not."
"She is very pretty, that young woman!"
"I told you that before. And because she is pretty—is that a reason for not doing anything for her?"
"Oh! quite the contrary! That is a reason for being deeply interested in her, for having her come to work in one's own rooms, and pass her days there.—Ha! ha! ha! Really, Rosette wasn't so foolish as I: she guessed the truth at once."
"What do you mean by that, Frédérique?"
"I mean that you love that young woman, that you are in love with her, that you mean to make her your mistress! Oh! mon Dieu! it's all simple and natural enough, and I don't blame you. You are free, and so is she; you are perfectly entitled to—to live with her, if it suits you to do so! But what I don't like, what pains me, is that you always make a mystery to me of your sentiments and your intrigues; that I never learn your secrets except from others; that you haven't confidence enough in me to tell me of your new amours. That is what angers me. For, you see, being neither your mistress nor your friend, I am nothing at all to you! So I cannot see the necessity of continuing our acquaintance."
My heart sank; I felt, not anger, but sorrow, genuine sorrow, to find that I was unjustly judged by a woman to whom I would have been glad to lay bare my whole heart, to whom I longed to tell my most secret thoughts, hoping to read her heart as she would read mine. That reproach of a lack of confidence in her touched and wounded me; as I was not guilty, I would not even try to justify myself.
I took my hat and prepared to go.
"Are you going already?" exclaimed Frédérique.
"Yes, madame. I consider it useless to remain longer with a person who believes neither in my words nor in my affection. I thought that you were able to judge me fairly, to appreciate my feelings. I was mistaken. Some day, I doubt not, you will realize your error. Then, madame, perhaps you will come to me and offer me again that friendship of which you now think me unworthy; and you will find me, as always, happy to deserve such a favor."
Frédérique looked at me; I believe that she was on the point of rushing toward me; but she repressed that impulse, which came from her heart, and I went away, determined to make no attempt to see her again. I had learned that one can no more rely on a woman's friendship than on her love; that there must inevitably be a strain of inconstancy or caprice in all their affections.
On the day following my visit to Madame Dauberny, Mignonne came as usual to bring back my linen; but, contrary to her custom, she took another package and prepared to go away again at once.
"Don't you propose to stay and work a while to-day?" I asked her. She seemed embarrassed, and hesitated before replying; at last she faltered, lowering her eyes:
"Monsieur—it is—I am—I am afraid that staying here so often to work—I am afraid I am in your way."
"What is the source of that fear to-day? Haven't I told you that I could receive in my bedroom anybody with whom I wished to be alone?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Why this fear, then? What new idea have you got into your head?"
"It didn't come into my head."
"Monsieur—the fact is—that—it was day before yesterday that a lady came to see you. Didn't your servant tell you?"
"Certainly he did."
"That lady sat down; she stayed a long time with me, and examined me very closely. She had a strange way about her. When she mentioned you, she said just Rochebrune, or Charles. She is very intimate with you, it seems."
"Well! what then?"
"After looking at me so hard that I didn't know which way to turn, she began to talk to me. She asked a lot of questions about the beginning of our acquaintance. She asked me how long I'd known you, and—and—oh! a lot of things I don't dare tell you. I just told her the truth—all you had done for me, and all I had to be grateful to you for. You are not angry, are you, monsieur, because I told her all that?"
"Why should it make me angry?"
"The strange part of it was that the lady didn't seem pleased to hear me say all—all the good of you that you deserve! She kept shrugging her shoulders—I saw it plainly enough! And at last she cried: 'This is all very noble, it's magnificent; but it's easy to see what the end of it will be. When a young woman installs herself in a young man's bachelor apartment, there must be in the bottom of her heart a sentiment stronger than her care for her reputation; it must be that she isn't afraid to be looked upon by the world as that young man's mistress.'"
"She said that?"
"Yes, and then she went away, saying: 'I don't want to make you unhappy, mademoiselle; I simply mean to give you a little advice.'—Oh! but she did make me awfully unhappy!"
"And is that the reason why you don't propose to work here to-day?"
"Oh! it isn't on my own account, monsieur; it's on yours. That lady says it will keep all your friends from coming to see you. I wouldn't for the world have you quarrel with anyone."
"You cannot believe anything so absurd, Mignonne! Say, rather, that you are afraid to be looked upon as my mistress—that it has occurred to you that——"
"O monsieur! for heaven's sake, do not finish! After all you have done for me, the memory of my daughter alone would be enough to make me worship you. What do I care for anything the world can say? Do I know the world? Have I any reputation to preserve? Would life have any charm for me, were it not for you, who attached me to it by giving my daughter a last resting place? You, and the memory of Marie, that is all the world means to me! What do I care for all the rest? Oh! if it does not displease you to have me stay, tell me so again, monsieur, and I swear to you that I will obey you with happiness and joy."
"In that case, stay, Mignonne."
The young woman hastily unrolled the work she was about to take away; she took her needle and set to work in her usual seat, after looking at me with a smile.
She at least showed undiminished confidence in me.
Mignonne continued to come to my rooms. I found already that my living expenses had diminished materially. I asked her to have an eye to a thousand and one details of housekeeping, to which I never paid any attention; she did it with a zeal and an intelligence that astonished me. I was like Ballangier, I was becoming too rich; and yet, nothing was ever lacking; on the contrary, I was as comfortable as I could wish. I discovered that a woman is very useful in a house.
Mignonne's health was fully restored, and she had recovered her fresh color; she never laughed, but a sweet smile sometimes played about her lips. I was delighted with the change and congratulated her on it.
"It is your work," she said.
When we talked together, she always spoke of her daughter; she went to see her almost every day, and I often saw in her belt a flower which she constantly covered with kisses. I guessed where she had plucked that flower.
Ballangier came to see me, and did not find me; but he found Mignonne, and Monsieur Pomponne told me that he sat in front of her more than an hour, without opening his mouth.
"How do you know that?" I demanded, pulling Pomponne's ear; "did you listen at the door?"
"I couldn't listen, monsieur, as they didn't say anything."
Oh! these servants! Is there no way of finding one who is neither inquisitive, talkative, a liar, nor a gossip? When they are not all of these together, they are phœnixes!
"You received a visitor for me, did you?" I asked Mignonne.
"Yes, monsieur, that young mechanic; for he seems to be a mechanic."
"Yes; he's a cabinetmaker. What did he say to you?"
"He talks very little. But he told me enough for me to understand that you are his benefactor, too; that he owes you a great deal."
"No, I am in no sense his benefactor. What I did for him was a duty. But he behaved very badly at one time; for a long while he led a life of idleness and dissipation. He was deaf to my entreaties and remonstrances. In those days, his presence was as distasteful to me as it is agreeable now. He has turned over a new leaf, become a respectable man once more, and a good workman; I have given him all my friendship again, and some day I hope—I hope that he will make a good husband. Then, if Ballangier could fall in with a woman like you, Mignonne, gentle and virtuous and hard-working, and if he could win her love, he would be altogether happy."
Mignonne had become serious. She looked at the floor, murmuring:
"Oh! as for me, monsieur, you know very well that I can never think of marriage! You know that I have been a mother!"
"If you concealed nothing from the man who loved you, you would still be worthy of an honest man's love and esteem. Ought anyone to be so severe as that, Mignonne? Who has not sinned—more or less?"
"However, monsieur, I shall never have any occasion to tell my story, for I shall never marry."
"We cannot foresee the future."
"Oh! I can safely take my oath to that!"
I insisted no further, for it seemed to be a painful subject to the young woman. Probably, engrossed as she was by her daughter's memory, she did not choose to admit that anyone could divert her thoughts from her, even in the future.
Nothing from Frédérique. She did not come to see me, and I certainly should not go again to her. So it was all over; we had quarrelled—and for what? More than once, unconsciously perhaps, I had walked in the direction of her house and found myself in front of it; but at such times I made haste to retrace my steps. I would have been glad, however, to know if she were in Paris, or if she had gone away again. If chance should bring us together, surely we could not pass on the street without speaking. But I did not meet her.
By way of compensation, I did meet Ballangier near my own house. He was on his way to see me; but as he had met me, he said that he would not go upstairs. Something made me think that he would have preferred to go up. I noticed a certain constraint in his manner. He asked about Mignonne, but he did it with the air of one who dared not reveal all of the interest he took in that young woman. Poor Ballangier! it was not difficult to divine what was going on in his heart; he was not an expert dissembler.
Another day, I met him again near my abode, and he made haste to tell me that he had not come out without the permission of his employer, who was still content with him, because he always worked two hours later at night when he left his work in the morning. I looked him squarely in the eye, and said:
"You don't tell me everything, my friend. You are concealing something from me at this moment!"
He blushed, became confused, and stammered:
"Concealing something? I? Why, I don't think so!"
"You are not very sure, are you? But I'll tell you straight away what it is: you're in love!"
This time he turned pale.
"In love? with whom, pray?"
"With whom? Why, with that young woman whom you have seen several times at my rooms, and whom I call Madame Landernoy—or Mignonne."
"Oh! nonsense, Charles! you are mistaken. I consider her very good-looking, to be sure; and then, her manner is so sweet and so modest! But I certainly shouldn't presume to fall in love with her, especially as—as you might not like it! For, you see, you have a right to love her, you have done so much for her, and you give her work to do."
"My friend, if that is all that prevents you, you may fall in love with Mignonne at your pleasure; for, so far as I am concerned, I look upon her as a sister; I have never dreamed of loving her in any other way; and for the very reason that I have been of some service to her and that she has enough confidence in me to come to my rooms to work, I should feel bound in honor not to love her otherwise than as a sister."
Ballangier's face became radiant. He seized both my hands and squeezed them hard; he would have cut capers in the street, if I had not prevented him.
"Is it possible?" he cried. "You don't love her! you don't think of loving her! Oh! if you knew what a weight you have taken off my breast!—For I do love her, Charles; yes, I do love that young woman! love her, do I say? why, I idolize her, I am mad over her! It took me all of a sudden when I first saw her, it struck me here! Since then, it's impossible for me to think of anything else. But I wouldn't ever have told you; I wouldn't ever have told her, either. You'll forgive me; for I thought that, with her always in your rooms—I thought you couldn't help loving her—but nothing of the sort! You see, I've never been in love before; I've known a lot of street walkers—but as to love, not a bit of it! And now, what a difference! And how proud I am to be a decent, hard-working man again! Perhaps I might take her fancy. Do you think she'll ever love me, Charles? Oh! if she could love me!"
I strove to calm him; then I began by telling him Mignonne's whole story. He listened attentively, muttering from time to time:
"Poor girl! the villains!"
When he knew all, I asked him if he still deemed Mignonne worthy to be his wife.
"Do I think her worthy? Yes, indeed, poor girl! The least she's entitled to is to find a man who'll make up for all the injury others have done her. But suppose I should begin by killing this Fouvenard? by smashing this Rambertin?"
"No, no, Ballangier; we must forget those wretches. If an opportunity should offer, I don't say——"
"Ah! how quickly we'd seize it! how we'd trounce those fellows!"
"Now, all that you have to do is to try to please Mignonne; but even in that you must act with great circumspection, and, above all, with patience! That young woman, engrossed as she is with thoughts of her daughter, would take fright at a single word of love. You will need time to touch her heart. You must gain her confidence. In short, I cannot undertake to say that you will win her love; that is your affair; for you understand that I cannot intervene. I know enough of Mignonne's temperament to be sure that that would be no way to succeed with her."
"Oh! never fear, Charles; I am very reserved, very shy. I will wait, I will wait as long as it's necessary. The hope of winning her some day will give me courage. I am going to read a lot; to try to educate myself, and to be less awkward in my talk; for she talks mighty well, and she has a very distinguished air. You'll see, Charles, you'll see! You will be better satisfied than ever with me!"
Ballangier left me, drunk with joy. I prayed that he might be happy in his love, and determined that I would do all that lay in my power to help him.
I had just left him, and was walking along, musing upon what he had said to me, when someone halted in front of me. It was Dumouton, the debt-ridden man of letters. He had no umbrellas this time, but he carried under his left arm an oval box, of bronzed tin, which seemed to be carefully fastened.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Rochebrune! I recognized you at a distance. You didn't see me, for you were lost in thought. Are you pretty well?"
"Very well, thanks, Monsieur Dumouton."
"Were you thinking out the plot of a play? You seemed very much preoccupied."
"Oh, no! I don't write plays, myself."
"You are very wise! It's a wretched trade since so many people have begun to dabble in it."
I attempted to salute Monsieur Dumouton and leave him; but he detained me, saying with an embarrassed air:
"I beg pardon! I would like to say another word to you, as I have happened to meet you. It's like this. First of all, you must know that one of my children is sick; he's been—out of sorts for a week. And then, we were without a certain household utensil—mon Dieu! why not say it at once—a syringe! We needn't be more prudish than Molière, need we?"
"Surely not; you are perfectly justified in saying a syringe."
"So I said to my wife: 'We must have a syringe!'—'Buy one,' said she. Very good! that's what I did this morning. I bought a clyso-pompe with a constant flow—a new invention. It's exceedingly convenient; it comes in a box; this is it that I have under my arm. Who'd ever suspect there was a syringe in it? It might be lace, or prunes."
"Or even a pie."
"You are right; there are pies of this shape. And it's so easy to use; no one has any idea what it is. Why, you can even use it at the theatre, in a box. I know a lady who made a bet that she'd do it at the opera, during a ballet; she won her bet."
"Did she have witnesses?"
"Probably."
"I must confess that I should have cried off."
"In a word, I bought this delightful clyso-pompe. Well! Monsieur Rochebrune, would you believe that our child, whom his grandmother had accustomed to the old method, positively refused to adopt the new? Impossible to make him try the clyso-pompe! Children are so obstinate! And as my wife spoils him, she bought him an old-fashioned syringe. The dealer who sold me this box refuses to take it back, and I am trying to dispose of it—at a loss, of course. If you happened to want such a thing——"
"No, Monsieur Dumouton, I am sorry that I cannot oblige you as I did in the matter of the umbrella, but I won't buy your clyso-pompe."
"You are making a mistake. It's always useful."
"It is of no use for you to insist. But go and see our mutual friend, Monsieur Rouffignard. Who knows? perhaps he will be very glad to relieve you of this instrument."
At the name Rouffignard, Dumouton's face lengthened, and, without another word, he bowed and disappeared. I was sure that he would not try to sell me anything more.
It was three days after I had received Ballangier's confidence, and in the morning when I was still alone, that Pomponne announced Madame Dauberny.
I could not believe my ears; but at the same instant Frédérique hurried into the room, with the amiable, fascinating expression, the proud yet sweet glance, that always attracted and vanquished me; and, before I had recovered from my surprise, she ran to me, took my hand, then threw her arms about me and kissed me two or three times.
I began by letting her do as she chose, because I found it very pleasant; but I gazed into her face, my eyes questioned her. She met them fearlessly and said:
"Yes, Charles, I was wrong! Reproach me all you choose, overwhelm me with the harshest words—I deserve it, yes, I deserve it! you could not say too much. But here I am! I have come back to you, to ask your forgiveness, to swear to you that hereafter I will have no more caprices, that I will believe all that you say—all, do you hear? That I will approve of everything you do, that my friendship will no longer be selfish or exacting, and that it will be unchangeable! Indeed, do you suppose that it really ceased even for a moment? Oh! no, you never thought so, did you, Charles? You hadn't such a bad opinion of me, had you?"
I was bewildered by what I heard. I would have liked to ask her why she had been angry, and why she was so no longer, but she put her hand over my mouth, crying:
"No reproaches, my friend, since I agree that I was wrong and beg your pardon! Are you not willing now to throw a veil over the past?"
"Oh, yes! I am, indeed! Besides, you have come back, and I am so happy to find you once more as you used to be, that I don't care to seek for the explanation of my good fortune. But we, or rather you, are no longer angry, are you, Frédérique?"
"I have sworn it, my friend. Tell me, what are you going to do to-day? Would you like to pass the day with me?"
"Would I like it! You anticipate my dearest wish."
"The weather is magnificent; what do you say to a ride? We can go and hire some horses at the riding school, where I usually hire; they have some very good ones."
"A ride? delightful!"
"Then get ready quickly, monsieur. I will wait for you in your salon."
She left the room. I hastily finished dressing, and joined her in the salon.
"Your young seamstress doesn't seem to be here to-day," said Frédérique, with a smile.
"No, she came yesterday. She doesn't come regularly, every day, but just when she pleases."
"My friend, I was most unjust to that young woman. Such things as I said to her! Really, I don't know what had got into my head that day!"
"As you're sorry for it, you mustn't think any more about it."
"Oh! I shall try to make my peace with her, all the same. Let us go and have our ride, my friend."
We were soon in the saddle, and started off at a gallop. Frédérique rode with all the grace, assurance, and fearlessness of a circus rider. We went in the direction of the forest of Meudon, and Fleury. In that region one is more alone than in the Bois de Boulogne; the country is more rural, the landscape more diversified, and you can draw rein from time to time and indulge in pleasant converse.
We passed a delightful day. At night we dined together at a restaurant, like two bachelors—that is to say, we dined in the main dining-room. And when we parted, Frédérique said:
"Not for long!"
The next day, when I returned home after doing several errands, I found Mignonne in her usual place.
She bade me good-morning as usual, but her glance seemed less frank than it usually was. We all have days when we are inclined to melancholy; perhaps she had just come from her child's grave.
I chatted with Mignonne as usual. I fancied that I could see that she was waiting for Pomponne to leave us alone. But when I had company, that servant of mine always found some excuse for constantly going in and out and appearing every minute or two in the room where we were. I have known him to leave a pin on the mantel, as a pretext for returning, and, when he came for it, to leave another in its place. I had to call to him sternly: "When will you have done with that nonsense?"—He realized that I was losing patience, and he came no more to fetch his pins.
At last, Mignonne decided to speak.
"Has that lady who was here the other day been to see you again, monsieur?" she asked hesitatingly.
"Yes, Mignonne, she has. We had had a little dispute, but we are reconciled now. She has a hot head, but an excellent heart."
"Did she tell you that it was wrong of you to let me work here?"
"On the contrary, she said several times that she was very sorry that she had said things to you that might have hurt you, and that she hoped to make her peace with you."
"Oh! mon Dieu! that isn't worth while, monsieur."
Mignonne said that in a peculiar tone; then she returned to her work and did not utter another word. Soon the door opened and Frédérique appeared, as affable, smiling, and fascinating as on the day before. She shook hands with me and nodded pleasantly to Mignonne, who returned her salutation much less graciously.
I was sitting at the piano, jotting down an air that had come into my head. Frédérique insisted that she would not disturb me; and while I was trying to pick out an accompaniment for my air, I saw that she went to Mignonne and tried to talk with her.
I played a little for Frédérique, who sang very well when she chose to take the trouble. Mignonne, perhaps because she was not fond of music, seemed to take little pleasure in listening to us.
Frédérique passed a large part of the day with me, and Mignonne went away earlier than usual.
A fortnight passed. Frédérique continued to come frequently to see me. Her mood with me never changed, her glance was always sweet; the most perfect harmony reigned between us.
As for Mignonne, I was disturbed to see that her features had resumed their expression of gloomy melancholy, that the roses which had reappeared for a time on her cheeks had again given place to pallor. And I was distressed by that change, of which I could not guess the cause.
Ballangier came twice. I urged him to remain, and gave him a seat near the pretty seamstress. Then I easily made an excuse for leaving them together, in the hope that they would become better acquainted. But both times Ballangier said to me, when he went away:
"It will be a long job; she's still just as sad as ever, and she doesn't look at me at all; in fact, I'm not sure that she listens when I am talking to her. But, never mind, I'll be patient, and I'll have love enough for two, if necessary."
One evening, when Frédérique had come during the day, and, not finding me, had passed several hours with Mignonne, I was much surprised to receive a note from her containing these words only:
"I have something to say to you, my friend, something important. I shall expect you."
What could she have to say to me, of such urgency? However, I knew Frédérique well enough to know that when she had anything to say, it was perfect torture to her to have to wait till the next day; so I went to her at once.
My friend was in a very dainty négligé, which reminded me of the night I had supped with her. She smiled sweetly, as I entered the room, and gave me her hand, saying:
"I was sure that you would come at once. You realized that I don't like to wait! Come, sit here by my side, and we will talk like two good friends."
I did as she bade me. She began by putting her hand on mine.
"My friend," she said, "it is rather embarrassing for me to tell you what I have to tell. I trust that you will not take my words in ill part, that you will not be angry, as I was. But, above all things, be persuaded that I am perfectly sure that I am not mistaken."
"What a preamble! I thought that you and I could afford to go straight to the point; I have never liked the circumlocutions with which advocates confuse their arguments instead of stating them simply."
"You are right; I will come to the point. To-day, my friend, I went to your rooms; you were absent, but that young woman, Mignonne, was there, working hard as usual."
"Ah! so Mignonne is your subject, eh?"
"Yes, Mignonne. I sat down beside her, although my presence was by no means agreeable to her. It did not require much discernment to see that. Haven't you noticed it, too, Charles? Haven't you noticed that when I appear her face changes and her eyes become sad? that she hardly replies to what I say to her?"
"Yes, I have noticed all that. But I have seen nothing more in it than a bit of spite because of what you said to her one day."
"Oh! there's something besides her remembrance of that. To-day, I determined to have it out with her. I succeeded, by several adroit questions, in making her betray the secret of her heart, which, by the way, had been no secret to me for a long time."
"Well! what is this secret?"
"You won't be angry, Charles? At all events, you are not in the least to blame for it. So I begin by telling you that I am not offended with you for it."
"Oh! how cruel you are with your reflections, Frédérique!"
"Well! Mignonne loves you dearly. That is the secret that makes her melancholy and embarrassed—especially when I am there; because she has imagined, foolishly of course, but still she has imagined that you love me, that I am—your mistress! If she had heard Mademoiselle Rosette repeat your remark—that you would never love me—she wouldn't entertain that absurd idea."
"Ah! Frédérique, you know very well that——"
"Don't interrupt me, my friend; besides, we are not talking about that, but about Mignonne. When she sees me come in, when I am with you, her eyes fill with tears, and she looks at the floor so that we may not see them. Yes, my friend, you can believe my extensive experience, believe my heart, which is never mistaken—that young woman has a profound affection for you. That which was only gratitude at first has become love! She is accustomed to see you almost every day. Perhaps she does not herself realize the strength of the sentiment that draws her toward you; but she yields to the fascination she feels; and that love will acquire greater force in her heart, if you yourself do not try to uproot it."
Mignonne in love with me! It seemed improbable to me at first; but as I recalled a multitude of trivial circumstances, I became less incredulous.
"Why, I have never lisped a word of love to her; nothing in my conduct can have given her any reason to think that I was in love with her."
"I know that, my friend; oh! I am certain of that!" cried Frédérique, pressing my hand. "But probably that is just why she loves you! Women are made that way; it's a congenital defect in them. If you had spoken of love to Mignonne, it is very probable that she would have taken offence at it, and would have ceased to come to your rooms. But when she found that you always treated her like a sister, confidence returned—she reproached herself for her distrust; well, at all events, she loves you, that is certain! We all know that that sentiment is not governed by reason."
"Well, Frédérique, if you have guessed right, if that young woman does love me—which would distress me greatly, I confess—what do you advise me to do? Of course, you do not want me to cease to help the unfortunate creature, to abandon her?"
"If I tell her not to come to my rooms any more—she is very sensitive, like all unfortunate people, and she will go away forever."
"Are you willing to rely on me, my friend?"
"I ask nothing better."
"I will tell you what, it seems to me, would cure the whole trouble—but I am afraid you will not like my plan."
"Oh! how terrible you are to-day with your reticences!"
"Listen! While I was absent from Paris, you didn't know where I was, did you?"
"No; you didn't tell me."
"As you didn't ask me, I thought that you were not interested. Well, monsieur, I was at a charming country house that I had hired—and it is still mine, because I took it for a year, all furnished and equipped. I had nothing to do but to go there, and that was not much trouble; for the house is at Fontenay-sous-Bois, close to Vincennes—only two leagues and a half from Paris. I was not very far away, monsieur, as you see. So that I came often to Paris, and knew everything that happened here."
"And you propose to send Mignonne to your country house?"
"No, not that. In the first place, she would probably refuse to go to any house of mine. You must do the opposite of that—you must—that is, if it won't be too much of a bore to you—pass some time yourself in that retreat. It is only the last of July, and the weather is fine. But perhaps country life is tedious to you?"
"Not at all! But you will go with me, of course; you will keep me company?"
"Most assuredly! Must I not do the honors of my house?"
"Your plan is delightful, Frédérique, and I accept with the greatest pleasure!"
"Really! you are really willing to go into the country with me? The prospect doesn't alarm you—you're not afraid of being bored?"
"Is that possible, with you?"
"Oh! how good you are, and how happy I am! But, never fear, my friend; I will try to arrange it so that the time won't seem too long to you. In the first place, it is a lovely spot, the whole neighborhood is charming; you would think that you were a hundred leagues from the capital. However, it is no desert, for there are several pretty estates in the neighborhood; but I don't care much for visiting neighbors, myself, especially in the country; for when you have once allowed your neighbors to call, they are always at your door, and that gets to be horribly tiresome. But wait till you see my house—it's an immense place, like a little château. The garden is very large and well shaded; there's a lake in which I have the right to fish—only there are no fish in it. There's a billiard room, and all sorts of games. And then, when you are bored beyond endurance, or when you have any business in Paris, we are so near—you can be here in an hour."
"I am at your orders, Frédérique. Let us start! let us start as soon as possible! I look forward with delight to living in the country with you."
Madame Dauberny pressed my hand with all her strength and kissed me on the forehead.
"Listen! listen!—Oh! mon Dieu! here I am beginning to address you familiarly again, as I used to."
"Oh! I am very willing."
"No, no! I won't do it! Listen, my friend: you must tell Mignonne that you are going to pass some time in the country; that is a perfectly natural thing for you to do; ask her to continue to come to your rooms as usual, to superintend your household; you might even give her to understand that you rely on her friendship to look carefully after your interests. She will be flattered by that mark of confidence. You need not tell her how long you expect to be away—nor whom you are going to visit. You are not accountable to her, after all. But, my friend, you mustn't come to Paris too often to see her; for that would destroy the effect of your sojourn in the country."
"I understand that perfectly."
"Then we must hope that absence—common sense—— That young woman will realize sooner or later that she does wrong to love you with love."
"Surely she will! And then, if another man calls to see her, now and then——"
"Ah, yes! That's the very thing! Perhaps he will succeed in winning her love!"
I stared at Frédérique in amazement, for I had never mentioned Ballangier's passion for Mignonne to her. She blushed and began to arrange her hair; that was her usual resource when she did not want to be examined.
"Who do you think may succeed in winning Mignonne's love, pray?"
"Why, the man who is paying court to her—that young man who comes to see you sometimes."
"How do you know that, Frédérique?"
"Wonderful cleverness on my part! Did I not meet him one day when he was going to see you?"
"And you guessed that he was in love with Mignonne, simply from seeing him come to my rooms?"
"He has changed greatly, and to his advantage, that young man."
"Ah! you recognized him, did you?"
I watched Frédérique closely, for a multitude of ideas had suddenly rushed into my mind; something told me that Madame Dauberny knew more about Ballangier than she chose to tell me. I think that she must have divined my thoughts, for she rose hastily and said:
"It is getting late, my friend. We start to-morrow—is that settled?"
"I ask nothing better."
"Bring your servant; we have room enough for him. I have only a gardener and my maid there. Will Mignonne come to you to-morrow?"
"I think so, as she didn't come to-day."
"Wait for her and tell her that you are going to the country; then come to me, and we will start together."
"Very good. I will go home to make my preparations, and to-morrow I will call for you. O rus! quando te aspiciam?"
"I can guess what that means. You will see the fields to-morrow, my friend."
On reaching home, I gave orders to Pomponne to prepare for our departure. I might take very few things to Fontenay, and send him to Paris whenever I needed anything. But that was just what I wanted to avoid, because I was acquainted with Monsieur Pomponne's loquacity.
It was ten o'clock when Mignonne arrived. Since Frédérique had opened my eyes to the young woman's secret sentiments, I had dreaded that interview; I was deeply moved, and it grieved me to think of causing her pain. Poor child! from whom I was fleeing because she loved me! We run after so many women who do not love us!
Mignonne seemed to me even paler and more depressed than usual. However, she smiled when she saw me. I went to meet her and held out my hand.
"Mignonne, I was waiting to say good-bye to you."
She looked anxiously at me, did not take the hand I offered her, and faltered:
"What! to say good-bye? Are you going on a journey?"
"Oh, no! I am just going into the country—not very far away. I am not leaving you for long."
"Ah! you are going to the country? You have never said anything about it. Is it something you have just thought of?"
"I have been thinking of it for several days. I am in the habit of going into the country every year for a time; it does me good."
"If it's for your health, you are wise. I will go away, then, and come again when you return—when you send me word."
"No; on the contrary, if you wish to please me, to do me a favor, you will continue to come here. I am taking my servant with me, but I will leave you my keys, which you will hand to the concierge when you go away. I intrust the care of my establishment to you! There are many things to be done here. I would like to have my curtains renovated, and the furniture of my salon and bedroom covered. You will find money in the desk. Be good enough to attend to all these details. I take the liberty of looking upon you as if you were my sister; does that offend you?"
"Offend me! no, indeed! You are too kind to me! you always find pretexts for keeping me busy, for heaping kindnesses on me. Oh! I see it plainly enough!"
"Don't say that. On the contrary, it is due to you that my house has assumed an orderly, comfortable aspect that it never had before."
"Will it be long before you return to Paris?"
"I don't think so. But sometimes, when one has no business to attend to——"
"Of course, and when one is enjoying one's self. Are you going to visit—friends?"
"Yes, I am going to see several friends—to make a round of visits. By the way, Mignonne, I wanted to say—— That young man whom you have seen here several times—Ballangier—will probably come while I am away."
"I will tell the concierge not to let anyone come up, as you won't be here."
"That is all right, so far as most people are concerned; but I want Ballangier to be excepted from that prohibition. I take a very deep interest in that young man. He used to have none but evil acquaintances in Paris; he must not find a house closed to him where he can learn only profitable lessons. And then, too, my library is at his disposal; he may take whatever books he chooses. So you will please be kind enough to admit him. He's a fine fellow, and I am sure that he will do his utmost to deserve your esteem."
"Very good, monsieur," Mignonne replied, in a cold and constrained tone; "your orders shall be followed."
"But I am not giving you orders; I am simply expressing a wish, that's all!"
"And if any letters should come for you, monsieur, where shall I send them?"
"I don't expect any. At all events, my servant will call and get them from the concierge."
"Oh! you will send your servant to Paris, but you won't come yourself?"
She hastily lowered her eyes, but I saw that they were full of tears. I made haste to grasp her hand, which she did not withdraw, and pressed it affectionately.
"I shall see you soon, Mignonne," I said. "Keep a sharp eye on my house!"
And I hurried away, driving Monsieur Pomponne before me, for he seemed determined to return to the room where Mignonne was, probably to pick up a pin.
We arrived at Fontenay about three in the afternoon. Frédérique's country house was a little beyond the village; it was not isolated, for there were several pretty villas in the neighborhood; but it was far enough from the centre of population for us not to be annoyed by the singing of drunken men, the noise of children, and the barking of dogs. An iron fence surrounded a beautiful lawn bordered by flowers in front of the house. At the left was a small building, entirely separate from the main house, and Frédérique said to me as we passed it:
"That is where you are to sleep, my friend; there's a very nice little chamber over the billiard room, and you will be absolutely at home there, free to go in and out without disturbing anyone."
"But I didn't come here to live alone! And you?"
"I live in this huge structure. I will show you my apartments. But, never fear, my friend, I didn't bring you here to banish you from my presence. You will not be compelled to return to your own quarters except to sleep.—Adèle, take Pomponne to the pavilion at once, with his master's traps."
Adèle was the lady's-maid. She was an excellent girl, who deigned to assume the functions of cook in addition to her own, in the country. Monsieur Pomponne followed her, peering inquisitively into every clump of bushes.
Frédérique showed me the house, which consisted of two stories, with six sleeping-rooms. It was furnished with taste, and would easily accommodate a large family.
"What are you going to do with so much room, all alone as you are?" I inquired.
"In the country, my friend, I find that one needs plenty of space. I saw this house, and it took my fancy; the rent was not high, so I hired it. I could not make it smaller; besides, you see that I am not alone now."
"You will still be alone in your great caravansary, since you relegate me to a separate building!"
"Ah! my friend, what about the proprieties? Is it not a very bold step at the best for me, a married woman, to bring a young man to stay at my house in the country? The world doesn't know that we are only Orestes and Pylades, Damon and Pythias. But I don't care a snap of my finger for what people may say!"
"And your husband?"
"My husband! I fancy that he doesn't even know that I am in the country.—You have seen the house, now come and see the garden. But wait a minute! wait! my rustic cap! Oh! it is so nice to be comfortable!"
She substituted for her city bonnet a little straw cap with a visor, which she wore a little on one side; she was captivating so. I found in the hall several hats for the country, of different shapes.
"Take your choice," said my hostess.
"What! are these part of the furniture?"
"No, I brought them all for my own use—to try—you know, I dress like a man sometimes."
"So you told me; but I have never seen you in masculine costume."
"I'll put it on some morning, to stroll about the fields with you. Oh! I look like a scamp then, I tell you! Come, monsieur, choose a hat."
I donned a gray felt, with a pointed crown and a broad brim, in which I must have resembled an Italian bandit; all I needed was the ribbons. Frédérique escorted me to the garden. It contained nearly two acres, and was laid out in an original fashion. There were none of the customary, broad, straight paths; on the contrary, they wound and twisted about in all directions—a veritable labyrinth. Shade trees, shrubbery, and thickets combined to make the garden a fascinating spot, which appeared four times larger than it really was.
Our first day passed very quickly. I was installed in the small pavilion, and was very comfortable there; but it seemed to me that I should prefer to be in the main house, under the same roof with Frédérique. My friendship for her developed so rapidly that when I was fifteen minutes without seeing her I felt that something was missing: I had never loved a mistress as I loved that friend.
When I woke for the first time in that house to which I had come so unexpectedly, I was conscious of a feeling of contentment, of secret happiness, which I could not describe. Was it pleasure because I was in the country with a person who manifested such sincere friendship for me? Was it satisfaction because I had acted wisely in going away from Mignonne and being careful not to take an unfair advantage of the sentiment I had inspired? Or was it simply the change of air?
I went to a window that looked on the garden, and I heard a voice calling me a sluggard. Frédérique was already up. She wore a white dress, cut like a blouse, with a blue sash. I had noticed that blue was her favorite color. Her little straw cap was on her head, and her beautiful glossy black hair fell in dense curls on both sides of her face.
It seemed to me that I had never seen her so lovely, so alluring. Ah! it is a fact that in the country, amid the green fields and trees, everything that appeals to our senses moves and excites us more keenly than elsewhere.
Frédérique put her arm through mine and we strolled about the garden. For the first time, I was conscious of a peculiar sensation at the contact of her arm with mine. Was it really the first time that I had experienced that sensation? No. But that morning it seemed sweeter to me; and yet, for some unknown reason, I was no longer so light-hearted, so at my ease with her; I was almost afraid to look at her. What thoughts were these that came into my head? I dared not heed them.
Madame Dauberny had never been so amiable, so gay, so kind, so sparkling. I thought that I knew her; but to be able to appreciate fully all the resources of her wit, all the charm of her society, and all the seductiveness of her beauty, I found that it was necessary to be alone with her in that charming retreat.
The time passed with extraordinary rapidity; and yet there were but we two. We made frequent trips in the saddle or on foot about the surrounding country. The horses that we hired were very ugly—but what did we care? We did not go out to exhibit ourselves. When the weather was bad, we played and sang, or I drew some landscape that I had sketched, while she read aloud to me. Every morning she said:
"My friend, if you want to take a trip to Paris, don't hesitate; you can come back this evening; but don't go to your own rooms, if Mignonne is there. As we have undertaken to cure that young woman, we must not cause a relapse."
"Do you mean that you are tired of me?" I would say; "would you like to be rid of me for to-day?"
Her only reply was to give me a light tap on the cheek, and nothing more would be said about Paris.
A fortnight passed. Suppose that in seeking to cure Mignonne I had made myself ill? That is what I was beginning to ask myself; for the more I saw of Frédérique, the more strongly I felt that it would be impossible for me to renounce the pure and unalloyed happiness that I enjoyed with her. I was no longer the same man; in the midst of my pleasures, I had attacks of melancholy. When Frédérique fixed her eyes on me, I became embarrassed, almost timid; but when she was not looking at me, with what joy I gazed at her! with what bliss my eyes feasted themselves upon every detail of her person! Was it love that I felt for her? I dared not confess it positively to myself, but I was terribly afraid that it was. Yes, I was afraid; for if I loved her with love, and she loved me with friendship only, I must constantly endure the torments of Tantalus in her presence; if I loved her with love, I should not always be able to control myself; and my feelings since I had been with her in the country, the perturbation that I felt when she put her arm through mine, the flush that rose to my face when I happened to place my hand on her knee—everything warned me that a time would come—and perhaps soon—when I should forget respect and social conventions—when the friend would vanish and be succeeded by the lover! How many times, when we were walking together along a narrow path, had I been tempted to press her to my heart! to steal a kiss from her lips! But I remembered the night that I had supped with her, when we had agreed to be good friends, when she adopted the familiar form of address, and granted me the same privilege.—Excited by the fumes of wine,—or perhaps already assailed by the first flames of the passion that was destined later to consume me,—I had kissed her passionately. She had taken offence; that kiss was the signal for our rupture; she forbade me to enter her doors again. Suppose that she should do the same now! She manifested the utmost confidence in me, because she believed me to be simply her friend, because she was persuaded that I would never have any other feeling than friendship for her. Suppose that upon learning that I really loved her she should take offence anew, leave me, deprive me of her presence! That thought froze the blood in my veins, and was sufficient to recall me to my senses whenever Frédérique's lovely eyes were on the point of making me forget myself.
Two old bachelors who lived in the nearest house were the only guests she had received thus far; the brothers Ramonet were very pleasant, and played billiards or whist with us when the rain compelled us to stay indoors.
Several times I had had occasion to send Pomponne to Paris. I told him to say to Mignonne that I was visiting my friend Balloquet, at Fontenay; I did not know whether he had obeyed my orders strictly, but I doubted it.
One evening, when the bad weather compelled us to resort to cards,—which, by the way, I would have been glad to dispense with, but Frédérique, whether because she was afraid that I would be bored, or from pure coquetry, took care that our tête-à-têtes should not be too frequent,—the elder Monsieur Ramonet observed, as he was dealing:
"We have a new neighbor. The small house close by—on the right."
"With the terraces, in the Italian style?"
"Yes. It has been let."
"It must be very recently," said Frédérique, "for all the shutters have always been closed until now."
"It was only three days ago. A lady has hired it."
"Is she alone?"
"Alone, except for a maid. But it's a very small house, almost no room at all. It's very pretty, though; I went over it once?"
"Have you seen the new neighbor yet?"
"No, but my brother has.—Haven't you, Jules, seen the lady who has hired the little house?"
"Yes, when I passed there this morning, she was at the window on the ground floor; I bowed, and she returned my bow most affably. She's very pretty—a young woman, with an air of distinction."
"Ah! did you see all that at a glance, Monsieur Jules?"
"Why, yes, madame! Oh! one glance is all I need; however, I bestowed more than one on her."
"And, of course, you know already who she is, what she does, what her name is?"
"No, not yet; but I shall know all those things to-morrow. She must be a widow; for the house would be too small for a lady with a husband and family. Being neighbors, we will call on her one of these days—eh, brother?"
"To be sure."
"You have that privilege, messieurs. As for myself, as I pay very few visits, I think that I shall not make this lady's acquaintance."
After the brothers Ramonet had gone, Frédérique, who seemed more thoughtful than usual, suddenly said to me:
"You are not bored here, are you, my friend?"
"How many times must I tell you that I am enjoying myself immensely; that I have never known such happy days as those that have just passed?"
"And you don't regret Paris?"
"I regret nothing."
"And you don't care about making the acquaintance of new neighbors?"
"Certainly not; indeed, I think sometimes that the brothers Ramonet are in the way."
"Ah! how good you are to be so happy with your friend! Good-night, Charles; until to-morrow!"
She gave me her hand, and looked at me with such a charming expression that I was ready to cover her hand with kisses. Ah! if I dared confess what was taking place in my heart! But she would have had no choice but to be angry and order me to go. I preferred to hold my peace and remain with her.
On the following morning, Frédérique and I were in the salon on the ground floor; I was trying to extort some melody from a wretched piano, and she was laughing at my impatience, when her servant appeared and informed her that a lady desired to see her.
"A lady!" exclaimed Frédérique, in surprise; "but I don't expect any lady. Where does she come from?"
"It seems that she is the person who has hired the little house near by."
"And she thinks that, being a neighbor, she owes me a visit. Well, I will receive her, if it must be; but I propose to show her in short order that I don't choose to be intimate with my neighbors. Admit this lady who is in such a hurry to see me!"
The maid retired. I turned toward the door, curious to see the neighbor, who was said to be pretty; Frédérique continued to sit nonchalantly on the couch. A lady appeared; I made a gesture of surprise, and Madame Dauberny uttered a cry; we recognized Madame Sordeville.
Armantine seemed amazed to find me there; but she recovered herself at once and ran toward Frédérique, saying:
"It is I! You didn't expect to see me, did you? You had no idea that I had become your neighbor?"
"Why, no, surely not; I had not the slightest suspicion of it!" replied Frédérique, in a tone that was not precisely affectionate; "but who told you—how did you know that I lived in this house, where, by the way, I have been only a short time?"
"Mon Dieu! servants, you know, find out instantly who one's neighbors are, and, in the country especially, that is the first thing one thinks about."
"I promise you that I think very little about it."
"My maid said to me this morning: 'Madame, this fine house next to us is let to Madame Dauberny.'—I needn't tell you that, when I heard your name, I asked for other particulars; I soon concluded that it must be you, so I lost no time in coming to see you and embrace you. Did I do wrong?"
"No, indeed! certainly not!"
The ladies embraced. I was not fully persuaded that their kisses were sincere. Frédérique was much disturbed; she changed color every second. Madame Sordeville was still pretty and as great a coquette as ever; I saw that instantly. She soon turned to me and said:
"When I came to see my friend, I did not expect, I must say, to find Monsieur Rochebrune here. That is an additional pleasure!"
I contented myself with bowing coldly. Frédérique, who was watching me, said:
"Yes, Monsieur Rochebrune consented to pass some time with me here. I thought at first that he would not make a long visit, but he said to me lately that he did not regret Paris at all."
"That is the truth, madame; you have made me love the country."
Armantine bit her lips, and continued:
"You receive a great deal of company here, no doubt? It's so near Paris!"
"Why, no; on the contrary, I receive no one. Except for two gentlemen who live near,—and them we see only once or twice a week,—we are always alone, Charles and I."
Armantine frowned slightly with vexation, but instantly tried to change the frown into a smile. It was the first time that she had heard Frédérique call me Charles, and that evidence of familiarity did not seem to cause her the keenest pleasure.
"So you have left your place of retirement at Passy?" said Madame Dauberny, after a pause.
"Oh! a long while ago—I was bored to death there. One sees too many people in that region, and I prefer solitude now. I came here to take a house, because I thought it would be quieter, more like the country."
"But, still, if you are bored——"
"It is sometimes unwelcome visitors who bore one. One is happier alone with one's memories."
As she said this, Armantine cast a melancholy glance in my direction. Frédérique noticed it, and she at once rose, saying:
"Come, inspect my house and garden.—Will you come with us, Charles?"
"No, madame; I have some letters to write."
I bowed, and returned to my pavilion. I had an idea that Frédérique was quite willing that I should not attend them; besides, those two old friends might have innumerable things to say to each other after so long a separation, and I did not wish to intrude.
The presence of that woman, with whom I had been deeply in love, had caused some disturbance in my mind, I admit; but it was of very brief duration; it was surprise, the emotion due to the evocation of the past, and there was nothing in my heart that at all resembled love for her. Armantine was still very pretty, there was no denying that; but her eyes, sometimes so expressive, and her seductive smile, could not efface from my memory the disdainful, insolent air with which she left me that day on the Champs-Élysées.
I remained in my room all day. When I returned to the salon, Frédérique was alone. I sat down beside her.
"Has your friend left you?"
"Yes. Did you hope to find her here?"
"I? Why do you ask me that?"
"You answer my question with another; that is very convenient. But do you think that I should regard it as a crime if it gave you great pleasure to meet a woman whom—whom you once adored—whom you still love, probably?"
"Oho! so you think that I still love her, do you?"
"What would there be extraordinary in that? When a passion has not been—satisfied—there is no reason why it should end."
"And you think, do you, that it should end as soon as it is satisfied?"
"I think—that I am only your friend, whereas Armantine——"
"Well?"
"Mon Dieu! I don't know what I am saying! That unexpected visit, the idea of having her for a neighbor——"
"You must have been glad to see your friend again?"
"Oh, yes! of course, I am delighted! She will probably come every day; as she knows that you are here, she certainly won't miss a day."
"Ah! you think that she will come on my account?"
"On yours—or mine—I'm sure I don't know. However, we shall see."
Frédérique sighed. All the rest of the evening, she was sad and pensive; for my part, I too was preoccupied. We parted earlier than usual, and she did not look at me as she did the night before, when she said:
"Until to-morrow!"
On the following day, I proposed to Frédérique that we should take a long walk; she assented, and we started. We had not walked fifty yards, when we saw Armantine coming toward us. I noticed that she was dressed more coquettishly than on the day before. Frédérique could not restrain an angry gesture as she muttered:
"Ah! it seems that she was watching us! This bids fair to be amusing!"
"Are you going to walk?" asked Armantine, looking at me.
"It looks rather like it," replied Frédérique.
"Will you allow me to go with you? As I don't know the country at all, I am very glad to find guides."
"You have the right to come with us. But I warn you that I am a good walker, and Charles and I take very long walks."
"Oh! I can walk very well!—Besides, if I get tired, I fancy that monsieur will kindly give me his arm."
"It will be at your service, madame," I replied, with cold courtesy.
But Frédérique, who had my arm at that moment, instantly dropped it, saying:
"In the country, people walk singly; that's the most convenient way."
I looked at her in surprise, for we were not accustomed to walk so.
We started again. Armantine went into ecstasies over the scenery; she kept exclaiming every minute:
"Why, it is perfectly lovely here! I am delighted that I came; I am immensely pleased already!"
Frédérique said nothing, or replied only by a few curt phrases. I carried on the conversation with Madame Sordeville, who constantly asked me for information about the region, and was never at a loss for questions which enabled her to talk with me. I fancied that I could see that Frédérique was irritated by it; but I could not be discourteous to the other, who talked to me incessantly.
Our walk was gloomy enough. Frédérique was the first to suggest returning. Thereupon Armantine complained of being tired. It was impossible to avoid offering her my arm, which she eagerly accepted. I offered the other to Frédérique, but she refused it. I wondered what the matter was.
Armantine left us at her door, having informed her friend that she would pass the evening with her.