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.

FrÉdÉrique was pale and excited; I asked her the cause of her anger, and why she had refused my arm.

"In order to leave you alone with the object of your love!" she replied, with a piercing glance that seemed to seek to read my inmost thoughts. 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 passed the whole evening with her friend. She worked, while we played and sang. FrÉdÉrique 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, FrÉdÉrique 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. FrÉdÉrique received her with formal rather than affectionate courtesy; she had altogether lost the playfulness and spirit that made our tÊte-À-tÊtes 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 FrÉdÉrique to hear. FrÉdÉrique 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 passing an hour with us, Armantine remembered that she had something to do at home, and left us. I rejoiced to be left alone with FrÉdÉrique, 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 pass 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 embarrassed; 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 FrÉdÉrique, 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-ÉlysÉes. 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 FrÉdÉrique 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 snatched 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 passing, 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, FrÉdÉrique; 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 rÔle of a friend.

I wandered about the country a long while, recalling every trivial circumstance in FrÉdÉrique'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 nobody in the salon. I went into the garden, but FrÉdÉrique 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 AdÈle, and here's a letter she left for monsieur."

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

I had hardly finished reading the letter, when I called my servant.

"Pack my valise, Pomponne, and your own things; we are going back to Paris."

"Going back to Paris! When, monsieur?"

"Instantly! make haste!"

"What about dinner, monsieur? We haven't dined, and I know it's all ready; AdÈle told me so when she went away."

"We will dine in Paris. I do not propose to remain another half-hour in this house. Come! you should have had everything ready before now."

Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to Paris in the first coucou I could find; for there are still coucous at Fontenay.