“What! you do not know whether you have received a letter from your cousin?” continued Clemence, laughing affectedly.
“Ah! Alphonse—no, that is, yes; but it was a long time ago.”
“How cold and indifferent you are all of a sudden to this dear Alphonse! You do not remember, then, how you wept at his departure, a year ago, and how vexed you were with your brother who tried to tease you about this beautiful affection, and how you swore that you would never have any other husband than your cousin?”
“I was a simpleton, and Christian was right. Alphonse is only one year older than I! Think of it, what a fine couple we should make! I know that I am not very sensible, and so it is necessary that my husband should be wise enough for both. Christian is nine years older than you, is he not?”
“Do you think that is too much?” asked Madame de Bergenheim.
“Quite the contrary.”
“What age should you like your husband to be?”
“Oh!—thirty,” replied the young girl, after a slight hesitation.
“Monsieur de Gerfaut’s age?”
They gazed at each other in silence. Octave, who, from his place of concealment heard the whole of this conversation, noticed the sad expression which passed over Clemence’s face, and seemed to provoke entire confidence. The young girl allowed herself to be caught by this appearance of interest and affection.