“Well, you must try again to-morrow.”
“I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I have done all that can be expected of me.”
“No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father again, and you must call to-morrow.”
“Why to-morrow rather than any other day?”
“Because,” said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed slightly at this question, “because it will show that you are the more keen about it, and he will forgive us the sooner.”
For the remainder of the day Marguerite was sad and preoccupied. I had to repeat twice over everything I said to her to obtain an answer. She ascribed this preoccupation to her anxiety in regard to the events which had happened during the last two days. I spent the night in reassuring her, and she sent me away in the morning with an insistent disquietude that I could not explain to myself.
Again my father was absent, but he had left this letter for me:
“If you call again to-day, wait for me till four. If I am not in by four, come and dine with me to-morrow. I must see you.”
I waited till the hour he had named, but he did not appear. I returned to Bougival.
The night before I had found Marguerite sad; that night I found her feverish and agitated. On seeing me, she flung her arms around my neck, but she cried for a long time in my arms. I questioned her as to this sudden distress, which alarmed me by its violence. She gave me no positive reason, but put me off with those evasions which a woman resorts to when she will not tell the truth.