“It's useless to ask how you are. You are as fresh as a rose.”
“Oh! I'm almost too well,” replied she. “Besides, I might have died; you would have known nothing about it.”
She was examining him also, and thought him looking tired and nervous, his eyes heavy, his complexion livid.
“Well,” she resumed, in a tone which she endeavoured to render agreeable, “I cannot return the compliment; you don't look at all well to-day.”
“Overwork!” remarked De Vallagnosc.
Mouret shrugged his shoulders, without replying. He had just perceived Bouthemont, and nodded to him in a friendly way. During the time of their close intimacy he used to take him away direct from the department, bringing him to Henriette's during the busiest moments of the afternoon. But times had changed; he said to him in a half whisper: “You went away rather early. They noticed your departure, and are furious about it.”
He referred to Bourdoncle and the other persons who had an interest in the business, as if he were not himself the master.
“Ah!” murmured Bouthemont, rather anxious.
“Yes, I want to talk to you. Wait for me, we'll leave together.”
Meanwhile, Henriette had sat down again; and while listening to De Vallagnosc, who was announcing that Madame de Boves would probably pay her a visit, she did not take her eyes off Mouret. The latter, silent again, gazed at the furniture, seemed to be looking for something on the ceiling. Then as she laughingly complained that she had only gentlemen at her four o'clock tea, he so far forgot himself as to blurt out: