"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 Frederique 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 Frederique 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."

Frederique 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 a.s.suredly! 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 ingrat.i.tude is the most shocking of vices."

"No, no! I see nothing at all unusual in all that."

"Mon Dieu! Frederique, 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 pa.s.s 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, Frederique?"

"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 ent.i.tled 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 Frederique.

"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."

Frederique 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 embarra.s.sed, 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."

"Whose, then, pray?"

"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 n.o.ble, 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?"