"I wish," she said, "I had known you before I went to Paris."
At that I felt much consternation, and could not understand her.
"Why," I asked at last, "did you have so little companionship there?"
"No, no," she said, springing to her feet, "too much—far too much."
Before I had understood what she meant, the door opened and some of the girls entered. We therefore began to talk about indifferent matters, but I could see that my friend was not at her ease. Her cheeks were very pale, and her smile affected. A few days later I received a note from my mistress telling me that she was coming back in a week's time, and that she wanted me to leave the home. This was very bad news for my friend; she kept with me constantly, and declared that she would not know what to do when I had gone. On the day before my departure she was again strangely moved, and often began sentences without finishing them.
"Is there anything that troubles you?" I asked her.
"Yes."
"Then will you not tell me?" I said, caressing her hand.
"Yes," she replied, in a voice more agonized than any I had ever heard. Then she closed her large, bright eyes, and, as if afraid to hear her own words, she told me in a whisper something that was very sad.
After she had finished we both cried.