“That is enough: since you will not tell me, I will find it out before I am a week older.”
This alarmed Rose terribly, and drove her to extremities. She decided to quarrel.
“Sir,” said she, “I thank you for playing the tyrant a little prematurely; it has put me on my guard. Let us part; you and I are not suited to each other, Edouard Riviere.”
He took this more humbly than she expected. “Part!” said he, in consternation; “that is a terrible word to pass between you and me. Forgive me! I suppose I am jealous.”
“You are; you are actually jealous of my sister. Well, I tell you plainly I love you, but I love my sister better. I never could love any man as I do her; it is ridiculous to expect such a thing.”
“And do you think I could bear to play second fiddle to her all my life?”
“I don’t ask you. Go and play first trumpet to some other lady.”
“You speak your wishes so plainly now, I have nothing to do but to obey.”
He kissed her hand and went away disconsolately.
Rose, instead of going to Josephine, her determination to do which had mainly caused the quarrel, sat sadly down, and leaned her head on her hand. “I am cruel. I am ungrateful. He has gone away broken-hearted. And what shall I do without him?—little fool! I love him better than he loves me. He will never forgive me. I have wounded his vanity; and they are vainer than we are. If we meet at dinner I will be so kind to him, he will forget it all. No! Edouard will not come to dinner. He is not a spaniel that you can beat, and then whistle back again. Something tells me I have lost him, and if I have, what shall I do? I will write him a note. I will ask him to forgive me.”