"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. Frederique rode with all the grace, a.s.surance, 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 pa.s.sed 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, Frederique 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 Frederique 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. Frederique 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 Frederique, 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.

Frederique pa.s.sed a large part of the day with me, and Mignonne went away earlier than usual.

A fortnight pa.s.sed. Frederique 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 Frederique had come during the day, and, not finding me, had pa.s.sed 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 Frederique 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 neglige, 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 embarra.s.sing 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 circ.u.mlocutions 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, Frederique!"

"Well! Mignonne loves you dearly. That is the secret that makes her melancholy and embarra.s.sed--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! Frederique, 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 grat.i.tude 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 mult.i.tude of trivial circ.u.mstances, 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 Frederique, 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, Frederique, 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?"

"Why, no; of course not!"

"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."