That glance gave birth to a hope so delicious that a thrill of joy ran through my whole being; but I dared not dwell upon that thought. I should be too happy if I had guessed aright.

Armantine pa.s.sed the whole evening with her friend. She worked, while we played and sang. Frederique asked me to sing a ballad; I complied, and apparently acquitted myself creditably, for I saw that Armantine listened to me with amazement; and when I had finished, Frederique said:

"That was very good, Charles; you were more successful than at Armantine's reception."

I laughed at the remembrance of my false note; but Madame Sordeville lowered her eyes and did not laugh.

She came the next day and the next; nor was there an evening that she did not pay her friend a visit. Frederique received her with formal rather than affectionate courtesy; she had altogether lost the playfulness and spirit that made our tete-a-tetes so delightful. When I was alone with her, she said little; when Armantine was there, she said nothing at all. But Armantine pretended to pay no heed to the melancholy or capricious humor of her friend; she was fond of talking, and she often sustained practically the whole burden of what could hardly be called conversation.

Very often she bestowed a melting glance on me, but I pretended not to notice. She always seated herself near me. If we walked in the garden, she walked by my side and talked to me in undertones, as if she had something to say to me that she did not wish Frederique to hear.

Frederique observed all her manoeuvring, and sometimes I saw her expression change two or three times in a minute. At such times, my heart beat violently, and I was tempted to throw myself at her feet and say:

"It is you, you alone, whom I love!"

But suppose that all that was nothing more than what she called the selfishness of friendship! She was such a peculiar creature! I should be so confused if I had misinterpreted her feelings! What would she think of me? That my self-esteem led me to see on all sides women who adored me!

One morning, after pa.s.sing an hour with us, Armantine remembered that she had something to do at home, and left us. I rejoiced to be left alone with Frederique, which had come to be a rare occurrence of late. I proposed a walk in the fields, but she refused on the ground of indisposition, a sick headache, and left me abruptly, to go to her room.

Why that ill temper with me? If her friend's constant presence irritated her, was I responsible for it? Had I sought Madame Sordeville's company?

On the contrary, she must have seen that in my intercourse with that lady I kept strictly within the limits of the most rigid courtesy. As I said this to myself, I left the salon and the house, hoping to find a solution of my conjectures while walking.

I paid no attention to the direction I took. What did it matter, as I had no definite goal in view? But chance willed that I should turn to the right instead of the left; and to reach the woods I had to pa.s.s Armantine's house.

I did not notice it, but was walking on, musing deeply, when suddenly I heard my name called. I raised my eyes and found myself in front of Madame Sordeville's house. She was at a window on the ground floor; it was she who had called me, and, as I looked up, she bowed affably to me.

I returned her salutation, and was going on; but she called out:

"Won't you do me the favor to come in a moment, Monsieur Rochebrune? I have long wanted to have a moment's conversation with you; but at Madame Dauberny's it is impossible; for she doesn't leave you for an instant.

As chance has brought you to my door, will you not grant me this favor?"

To refuse would have been discourteous and in wretched taste. Although one has ceased to be in love with a woman, one must still be polite to her, unless one is a wild Indian; and I had no desire to be looked upon as such.

So I went into Madame Sordeville's house; I continued to give her that name in my mind. She came to meet me, ushered me into the room, sat down, and pointed to a chair near hers. I took it and waited to hear what she had to say to me. She hesitated and seemed embarra.s.sed; but she looked at me often, and her flashing eyes seemed to try to force me to speak first. Despite the fire of her glance, despite the dangerous play of her eyes, I remained dumb. At last, Armantine decided to begin the interview:

"When I went to call upon Frederique, monsieur, I did not expect, I confess, to find you there, and especially to find you established there as if you were at home."

"What do you mean by that, madame?"

"You must understand me. The familiarity now existing between you and my friend is evident enough; indeed, she makes no attempt to hide it! But, I repeat, I did not expect that--not that I presume to reproach you, for I have no right to do so. You love--you do not love--that happens every day. As for my friend"--Armantine dwelt significantly on the last word--"as for my friend, it seems to me that I might be a little offended with her without laying myself too much open to blame. Her conduct toward me is hardly that of a really sincere friend. In leading you on to make love to her, to become her--her lover, in short, she has not acted with delicacy, and----"

At this point, I interrupted her.

"I don't quite know what you mean, madame," I said; "I begin by informing you that I am not Madame Dauberny's lover, that I am simply her friend. But even if I were in love with that lady, and she should do me the honor to reciprocate my feeling for her, wherein, I pray to know, could it offend you, or even interest you in the least, madame?"

Armantine was silent for a moment; she sighed, and murmured at last:

"I see that you have not forgotten the way I left you one day on the Champs-elysees. I was wrong, monsieur, very wrong; I have often regretted it since. But do you not know that women sometimes have caprices, moments of irritation, which they themselves cannot understand? It may be that I am more subject than other women to such freaks. But, when I confess my sins, will you continue to bear malice?"

Armantine was really very fascinating; while "confessing her sins," she indulged in a thousand coquettish little manoeuvres which would have turned many a man's head. But I was in love with another woman, and that love must have been most sincere, for Armantine's tender glances had no effect whatever on my heart.

"I bear you no ill will at all, madame," I said, with a smile. "That episode faded from my memory long ago, and I supposed that it was the same with you. You owe me no apology; indeed, as you know, time changes the aspect of many things. To-day, it seems to me that that old story does not deserve a moment's thought from either of us. Au revoir, madame! With your permission, I will continue my walk."

I rose and bowed. Armantine was speechless, utterly crushed; she did not look at me, she did not even respond to my salutation.

I had just left the house, and was about to resume my walk, when I saw Frederique standing a few steps away, with her eyes fixed upon me. I walked hastily toward her. Her pallor terrified me; the fixed stare of her eyes cut me to the heart. I tried to take her hand; she s.n.a.t.c.hed it away.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"What were you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you come out of her house. I was certain that you were there."

"At Madame Sordeville's? It was the merest chance, my going in. I was pa.s.sing, and----"

"You have no need to apologize, or to try to invent excuses. I have told you a hundred times that you were your own master, that you might have ten mistresses if you chose, that I did not claim any right to interfere with your affections. But I do not like to have people lie to me, deceive me, disguise their thoughts."

"I have done none of those things, Frederique; and if you will listen to me----"

"Later--not now. Adieu!"

"Are you going to leave me? Won't you come to walk with me?"

"No! I have something to do, I am going home."

"I am going home, too."

"No; continue your walk, I beg you. It would annoy me if you should go home with me. You see that my nerves are all on edge, that a trifle upsets me. Leave me, my friend; au revoir!"

She hurried away; I feared to vex her by following her. She was there in the road, watching for me; she wanted to see if I was with Armantine.

And that sadness that I read in her eyes, and that she tried in vain to dissemble--was not that jealousy? If she had no warmer feeling than friendship for me, would she be jealous of Armantine? Even though I were mistaken, even though the result were to break off our relations again, I determined that I would no longer make a secret of my sentiments, of my consuming love for her. I resolved that I would tell her all, that very day. It was no longer possible for me to be content with the role of a friend.

I wandered about the country a long while, recalling every trivial circ.u.mstance in Frederique's conduct that could possibly encourage my hope that she had something more than friendship for me. The dinner hour had arrived, when I returned to the house.

I found n.o.body in the salon. I went into the garden, but Frederique was not there. I called Pomponne, who came with a letter in his hand.

"Monsieur called me, and I was looking for monsieur; what a coincidence!"

"Where is Madame Dauberny?"

"She has gone, monsieur."

"Gone! What do you say, idiot?"

"I say, monsieur, that we're the masters of the house. Madame Dauberny has gone away with Adele, and here's a letter she left for monsieur."

I took the letter, hastily tore it open, and read what follows: