“O, in heaven’s name walk on! I shall betray myself.”
“Confess at once she is not happy, then.”
“There, I confess it. O, you have driven her mad!”
“Come on, Fanchette. Now, listen to me, and believe me. I had truly meant no more when I came than to see her, myself unsuspected—to comfort my eyes and my conscience with the assurance of her happiness—at least of her resignation—and then to go as silently as I had appeared. And what do I find?—a tragedy of unconquerable faith, that in its every look and gesture stabs me to the heart. Now you must tell me all—yes, all, all. She accepted my supposed desertion—how?”
“As you would have wished her to, no doubt.”
“She still believed in me?”
“Yes; and in your truth—even after she heard it reported you had gone to the wars.”
“God bless her—O, God bless her!”
“Will you not go away again now, monsieur?”
“Fanchette, are you not our friend—dear Fanchette?”