Unless by keeping my eyes constantly lowered, I could not avoid looking often at FrÉdÉrique; and as I had no reason to lower my eyes, and, moreover, as I had always taken pleasure in looking at her, I was able at that moment to enjoy that pleasure to the full.

Madame Dauberny was always dressed in good taste; that morning she wore a gray silk gown, cut very high, which was wonderfully becoming to her. But, after all, is it not rather the wearer who embellishes the gown? For example: I had often noticed that FrÉdÉrique's waists fitted her to perfection, and I had rarely noticed that fact in other women. Was it not because FrÉdÉrique had a beautiful figure?

I was overjoyed to see that Madame Dauberny's face no longer wore that cold, stern expression which she had formerly adopted with me. Her face was entirely different; I could not say what it expressed, because, although she looked at me often, she never fixed her eyes on mine; but they shone with a brilliancy I had never before seen in them; they were at once softer and merrier than of old; they no longer had, for the moment at least, that ironical or severe expression to which I had once become accustomed.

The baron, who seemed enchanted at first to be at FrÉdÉrique's side, soon began, I think, to be sorry that he was not where I was. He constantly leaned forward, trying to see FrÉdÉrique's face; but she wore a broad-brimmed gray felt hat, and when the baron leaned forward to speak to her she always turned her head, apparently in a spirit of mischief, so that he could not have the pleasure of looking at her.

"I am very glad to have met you, messieurs," said FrÉdÉrique; "in the first place, because it gives me the greatest pleasure to see you—both."

That both she said in a curious tone, and accompanied it with a glance in my direction. I had sufficient conceit to believe, after all, that she still preferred my company to the baron's.

"In the second place, messieurs, I owe you an explanation for the letters I wrote you on the subject of Monsieur Sordeville; for I referred to him solely, and not to his wife, when I urged you to break off your relations with that household. Monsieur Rochebrune paid little heed to my advice.—I do not blame you, monsieur; besides, Armantine is my friend, and, as I have told you before, I have no desire to injure her in your esteem. If her husband is a scoundrel, I believe you to be just enough not to include his wife in the contempt which that man must inspire."

"Go on, madame; what is his business?"

"Haf he made ein pankrupt?"

"Oh! if it were no worse than that! But, in the first place, Monsieur Sordeville was neither banker, nor merchant, nor solicitor; he was nothing, and pretended to be everything. That strange state of affairs aroused my curiosity more than once, especially as he gave parties, lived handsomely, made a good deal of show, and yet he was not known to have any fortune, and Armantine's dowry was very, very small. There is one point upon which I have always liked to be well posted, and that is, the means of existence of the people with whom I associate. Indeed, how much confidence can one have in those who spend a great deal and earn nothing?

"I had several times been tempted to say a word of warning to Armantine on that subject; but she did not trouble herself in the least about her husband's business, and had unbounded faith in what he told her. She led such a life as she liked; for her husband left her entirely at liberty to do just what she chose, and seemed happy to be the husband of a charming woman, only because she attracted numerous guests to his house. You will agree that it would have been horrible to disturb Armantine's peace of mind by giving her a hint of my suspicions; she would have spurned them with horror. Poor woman! More than once, I said to myself that I was a fool, that my ideas were an insult to Monsieur Sordeville; and not until I had learned of several facts that confirmed my suspicions, did I feel absolutely certain of the truth."

"Not yet do I know vat is te trut," muttered the baron, craning his neck in an attempt to see his neighbor's lovely eyes.

"Ah! Monsieur de Brunzbrack, there are some things that are so hard, so painful, to say! Listen: about a year ago, a young man attached to the Dutch legation was suddenly dismissed, without the slightest explanation of his disgrace. He had been an habituÉ of Monsieur Sordeville's salon for two months. A clerk in the War Department lost his place—no reason assigned. But he, too, had attended Monsieur Sordeville's receptions. And you yourself, baron—did not your ambassador thank you and request you never to set foot in his offices again?"

"Ja! Te ambassador, he haf say to me: 'You talk too much! You haf divulzhe te secrets of te cabinet.'—I haf not untershtand, but id vas all one to me; I haf not care for my blace."

"How is it with you, Monsieur Rochebrune? do you begin to understand?"

"In truth, madame, I fear that I do; but I dare not say as yet."

"Well, monsieur, the young attachÉ of the Dutch legation had been lured on by Monsieur Sordeville to talk foolishly about certain plans of his government.—You did the same, baron, unwittingly perhaps; that man was so clever at making people talk about what he wanted to find out! As for the young clerk, he had tattled about certain peculiarities of his superiors, and Monsieur Sordeville took care that they were informed. In a word, Monsieur Sordeville was connected with the secret police. That is what I dared not believe at first, what I was determined to have the proof of, if it were true. I never hesitate when the honor of a friend, the safety and the future of people I love, are at stake. I had once rendered a slight service to a person who is employed in the police bureau to-day, but in a position which he can afford to avow; that person had begged me to give him an opportunity to show his gratitude, and I said to him: 'The opportunity has come; find out for me what Monsieur Sordeville's position is.' I speedily received a reply containing these words only: 'Connected with the secret police.'"

"Sapremann!" cried the baron; "I am sorry tat I haf talk mit him! Vat! tat so bolite monsir—he vas ein shpy! Ach! I am shtubefied!"

I shared the baron's stupefaction; FrÉdÉrique's revelation appalled me; and yet, I knew that in society the most disgusting vices lie hidden beneath the most brilliant exteriors.

"And—his wife," I said at last; "does she know now what her husband does?"

"She knows all, and I was spared the melancholy duty of telling her. There were some scandalous scenes at Monsieur Sordeville's not long ago. It seems that a certain man—one of the victims of that wretch's denunciations—had succeeded, by unwearying perseverance, in learning the source of the report that ruined him. He also learned the truth with respect to Monsieur Sordeville. Then what did he do? Accompanied by several friends, to whom he had told the facts, he went to the house on a certain evening at home—for they continued to receive, notwithstanding what was told you to the contrary."

This was said to me, and proved that FrÉdÉrique knew all.

"He went to Monsieur Sordeville's," she continued, "and there, in the middle of the salon, before all the guests, he called him a spy and struck him! Imagine the uproar, the amazement, the confusion, of all those people, who were thoroughly ashamed to be there; for Monsieur Sordeville turned pale, and did not say a word or return the blow. Poor Armantine fainted, and they carried her to her room. Thereupon the guests all took their hats and fled, assuring the master of the house that they didn't believe a word of what had been said, but fully determined never to go there again. On the next day, Armantine took refuge with me. I dictated the following plainly worded letter, which she sent to her husband:

"'You have deceived me shamefully, monsieur. I leave you, and I lay aside your name. You will never hear of me again, and I trust that I may never hear of you.'

"That is what Armantine wrote to him. You must agree, Rochebrune, that we are not very fortunate in our husbands, either of us!"

Poor FrÉdÉrique! She did not know how truly she spoke.

"Now, messieurs, it's all over. The Sordeville family has ceased to exist. Nobody knows what has become of the man, and nobody cares very much. Probably he is still carrying on his profession, on his own account. As to Armantine, luckily she has about eighteen hundred francs a year which her husband cannot touch. She will live on that, in the retreat she has chosen; she will cut less of a figure and not change her gown so often; but perhaps she will be happier."

As she said that, FrÉdÉrique fixed her eyes on me for a moment, then continued:

"I hope, messieurs, that you will forgive me now for advising you both to stay away from Monsieur Sordeville's?"

"That is to say, madame, that we owe you our warmest thanks."

"Ach! ja! and I haf te note in your hand; id is alvays here—on my heart."

"You do me too much honor, baron," said Madame Dauberny, with a smile; "and I am quite sure that everybody doesn't do as you have done."

I would have been glad to be rid of the baron, for I had many questions to ask FrÉdÉrique. I do not know whether she divined my thought, but she ordered her coachman to drive back to Paris.

"I will not abuse your good nature any longer, messieurs," she said. "I carried you both away rather unceremoniously; and perhaps somebody is impatiently awaiting you."

"No; I am not avaited at all," said the baron; "I am te master of my time."

"Where were you going, baron?" FrÉdÉrique asked, as if she had not heard what he said.

"Montame—I vas going—I know not—I vas going novere."

"But as I am going somewhere, I will set you down at your hotel, then I will take Monsieur Rochebrune home."

I was well pleased that she proposed to set down the baron first. To no purpose did he say again and again that no one was expecting him, that he was not sure that he wanted to go home; Madame Dauberny replied simply:

"I am very sorry; but I can't drive you about all day."

Before long, she ordered the coachman to stop; the carriage door was opened and she offered the baron her hand, saying:

"Adieu! until I have the pleasure of seeing you again."

Herr von Brunzbrack decided at last, although with great reluctance, to alight; but when he was on the ground, he looked at me and beckoned:

"Vell! vhy haf not you come, too?"

"Because Monsieur Rochebrune is going in another direction, and I am going to drive him part of the way."

As she spoke, FrÉdÉrique motioned to the coachman to drive on, paying no heed to the baron, who declared that he wanted to stay with me. The poor Prussian stood on the same spot, and glared at me in a far from friendly fashion.

"I am not sorry to be rid of the baron," said FrÉdÉrique, "for I want to talk with you; if you are really in no hurry, suppose we take a turn in the Bois?"

"That will give me great pleasure, madame, for I too long to talk with you."

"Take us to the Bois de Boulogne, cocher.—Ah! if the poor baron knew this, he would be frantic!"

"Yes, for he's terribly jealous; he sees a rival in every man who has the privilege of knowing you."

"The man believes that everybody's in love with me! he is too stupid! But let us say no more of the baron and his love, which disturbs me very little. Let us come to what interests you. You want to know, of course, what has become of Armantine? Before a stranger, I would not betray her incognito; but to you, it seems to me that I may safely tell where she is, so that you can go there and condole with her. Armantine is living at Passy, on the Grande Rue, near the forest; she has taken the name of Madame Montfort. That is what I had to tell you."

"Is that all, madame?"

"Why, I should suppose that it was a great deal to you, to know what has become of the lady of your thoughts."

"FrÉdÉrique, are you willing that we should be friends again?"

As I spoke, I held out my hand. She turned her head away, and for some seconds seemed to hesitate; then she gave me her hand, and replied in a voice that was not quite steady:

"Well, yes, I am willing; sincere friends; all except the tutoiement; for I realize that that is impossible; anyone who heard us would form wrong conclusions."

"Very good. But no more mystery between us; absolute and mutual confidence. If you knew how deeply I have regretted having angered you! You were so severe with me! You spoke to me so frigidly, and sometimes with a touch of irony even."

"Let's forget all that. I am a little whimsical! But it's all over now. We are reconciled. As for—as for what made me angry, I am sure that you won't be guilty of the same offence again. You were a little bewildered that night—otherwise, it never would have occurred to you to kiss me."

I was at a loss what to reply; for there are offences for which it is a blunder to apologize. But FrÉdÉrique gave me no time, for she continued:

"Once more, let's say no more about it! The poet is right when he sings:

"'The past is but a dream!'

From this day forth, we are and will remain good friends. You will tell me all your secrets, make me the confidante of all your love affairs. How entertaining it will be to know everything!"

"And you, FrÉdÉrique, will you tell me all your thoughts, all the feelings that agitate your heart?"

"To be sure! But you will receive few confidences from me, for I have no intrigues now. I don't propose to form any more liaisons of that sort. In short, I am done with loving; I am happy as I am. I have resolved never to listen to any man again."

"At your age! Nonsense! That resolution won't last long."

"Very well; if I change—why, I'll let you know. But let us come to you, the man of the thousand and one passions! You ought to tell the story of them, as a supplement to the Thousand and One Nights."

"That may have been true once; but I've been getting rusty of late. It isn't virtue, I suppose; but I fancy that I am becoming hard to please."

"You will undoubtedly hasten to console Armantine, who may, perhaps, regret her former position in society, but surely doesn't regret her husband!"

"I, go to see Madame—Madame Montfort! Oh, no! no, indeed! Do you imagine that I still love her?"

"Of course! Weren't you mad over her?"

"Love is a form of madness that can be cured, and I am surprised that you think it possible for me to love that woman still—after the scene that you witnessed on the Champs-ÉlysÉes."

"What do you say? What scene?"

"Oh! my dear friend, let us not begin already to go back on the promise we made only a moment ago! You were on the Champs-ÉlysÉes, were you not, when an intoxicated man claimed acquaintance with me?"

"Yes; that is, I arrived just at the end. Armantine was running away; I saw that."

"It was you who paid the man who threatened to have the unfortunate fellow I had thrown down arrested."

FrÉdÉrique said nothing; she dared not deny it.

"How much did you give the man?"

"Twenty-nine francs, I believe."

"Here is the money, my dear friend; accept at the same time my thanks for your kind impulse, which did not occur to me, because I thought of nothing but that woman who was running away from me. Furthermore, I know that you also offered money to that poor devil, whom I left there."

"That is true; but he refused it."

"I know that too. Ah! FrÉdÉrique, you are kind-hearted; you have a generous heart, superior to the prejudices of society. You would not have run away from me, then closed your door to me, simply because a man in cap and blouse had called me his friend!"

FrÉdÉrique turned her face away, but her voice trembled as she replied:

"No, of course not! But you must forgive such foibles—the result of a false way of looking at things."

"Forgive jeers, sarcasm, insults, neglect, if you please; I can understand that; but contempt! never! Love must necessarily be destroyed where contempt shows its head."

"But suppose that she has repented of her treatment of you?"

"True; she may have done so, since she has learned that her husband is a spy!"

"Rochebrune! that was a very spiteful remark of yours!"

"I am entitled to say what I think of that lady."

"You are very angry with her, which proves that you still love her."

"When you mention her to me, I remember how she treated me; but for that, I should not think of her at all. In short, I no longer love her."

"You say that because she isn't here. But if you should find yourself looking into her lovely eyes——"

"I should remember the way they looked at me at our last interview on the Champs-ÉlysÉes; and I assure you that those eyes would no longer endanger my repose."

"Really? do you no longer love Armantine?"

FrÉdÉrique turned toward me as she asked the question, and I had never seen such an expression of satisfaction and pleasure in her eyes.

"If I still loved her, why should I conceal it from you? You know, we are to tell each other everything now."

"True; for we are friends now. We won't lose our tempers with each other any more, will we?"

"I wasn't the one who lost my temper."

"You will come to see me, I hope?"

"You will allow me to?"

"Of course, as the past is only a dream. And I will come to your rooms—as a friend. I am a man, you know. I don't see why I should not come to see you—unless, of course, it would displease you?"

"Never!"

"In any event, when you have company, or when you expect some fair one, you can tell me so, and I will leave you at liberty. It's agreed, isn't it? I shall not come to see you on any other condition."

"It's agreed."

I took FrÉdÉrique's hand again and pressed it warmly, nor did she think of withdrawing it. At that moment, we passed a riding party. The young dandies of whom it was composed glanced into our carriage as they passed. FrÉdÉrique suddenly turned pale. I looked up, and recognized one of the cavaliers as Monsieur Saint-Bergame. At the same moment I heard his voice, and distinguished this sentence, the last words coming very indistinctly as he receded:

"Ah! so it's that fellow now! Each in his turn!"

Madame Dauberny withdrew her hand from mine, her features contracted, her brow grew dark; but she said nothing. I too was silent; for, not knowing whether she had heard what Saint-Bergame said, I was careful not to tell her. But I had a feeling of embarrassment and of wrath, which banished all the pleasurable sensations of a moment before.

We drove a considerable distance without speaking; and when she turned so that I could see her face, which she had kept averted for a long while, I detected tears in her eyes.

I quickly grasped her hand again, saying:

"What is the matter?"

Thereupon she at once resumed her usual manner, as if she were ashamed that I had observed her emotion, and answered, with a smile:

"Nothing, nothing at all! Mon Dieu! my friend, can one always tell what the matter is? It all depends on one's frame of mind. We are sometimes deeply moved by a remark that isn't worth the labor of listening to.—Take us home, cocher.—I can properly say home, for, thank heaven! I am alone, and mistress of the house for the present."

"Your husband is——?"

"He is not in Paris; he has gone on a little trip, according to the word he sent to me; and you can imagine that I did not detain him. It is true that Monsieur Dauberny doesn't interfere with me in any way, that he doesn't prevent me from doing whatever I please; but, for all that, I feel happier when I know that he isn't under the same roof. Oh! if only he could travel forever!"

I was certain that the man had fled after the ill-fated Annette's death; perhaps he was afraid that she would make damaging disclosures before she died. I was persuaded that fear alone had driven him from Paris, and that he proposed to wait until that affair was forgotten before he returned.

"How long has your husband been absent?" I asked FrÉdÉrique.

"About three weeks."

"When is he coming back?"

"I have no idea; you may be sure that I didn't ask him. But, my friend, you seem to take a great deal of interest in my husband's movements: can it be that his absence distresses you?"

I tried to smile, as I answered:

"Oh! not in the least, I beg you to believe. I asked you the question—I don't quite know why."

FrÉdÉrique looked earnestly at me and squeezed my hand hard, murmuring:

"So it is true that even sincere friends can't tell each other everything."

The calÈche stopped on the boulevard, and I left Madame Dauberny.

"We shall meet again soon," I said.