CHAPTER XXI
THE AVOWAL
Madame de Pënâfiel remained very pensive for a few moments, and seemed gazing into vacancy; then, as though she had come to a sudden determination, she said with a familiarity that our three months of intimacy would excuse:
"I believe that you are my friend?"
"A most devoted one, and a very happy one to be able to tell you so, madame," I replied in a mocking way, to which she paid no attention.
"By the word friend I do not mean an acquaintance, a person who really cares nothing for us, a friend in the usual sense of the word; no, I think better of you than that. In the first place you have never uttered a word of gallantry to me, and for that I thank you sincerely; you have spared me that insulting species of courtship, which, I know not why, some persons think they have the right, or, perhaps, the permission, to honour me with." She said this with a sad smile. "You have enough tact, sense, and generosity to understand that a woman who has been the victim of odious calumnies finds nothing more offensive than such idle compliments, which only add fresh insult, because they are apparently authorised by the injurious reports that preceded them.
"I believe your mind is sadly precocious through bitter experiences. I know that, though you are much in the world, you have none of the world's petty hates and jealousies. I think you are neither conceited nor even vain, and that you are one of those honest men who never try to discover any hidden motive for a confession; also that you will take no thought of my behaviour should it seem strange. Besides," she continued, with an air of mournful dignity that impressed me deeply, "as to be taken into a woman's confidence is one of the ways in which an honest man is most honoured, I have no fear of speaking freely to you.
"You are kind and generous; I know that you have often defended me bravely and loyally, and, alas! I am unaccustomed to be so defended. I know how one evening at the Opéra— Oh, yes, I overheard what you said," she continued, as she saw how astonished I was. "That was the reason I took the initiative in having you presented to me, and your reserved manner of accepting my hospitality gave me a high opinion of your dignity. Thus I have every confidence in you, and will consider you a true friend; for I must speak,—I must tell some one," she said, with an accent of despair,—"I must tell you—yes, you—why I am the most unfortunate of women."
She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.
There was that in her words, and in the pitiful look that accompanied them, something so touching, that in spite of my ill temper I was moved to compassion. Instantly, though, returned the evil thought that this was only the rôle she was playing to force me to a declaration. I hastened to say, in a very supercilious manner, that I hoped I was worthy of her confidence, and if my devotion or my advice could be of the least use to her, I was entirely at her service, and other such commonplace and glacial speeches.