Especially, every time that I found the way, without grieving Irene too deeply, to avoid the embarrassments which the child's strange affection for me brought about at every moment, Madame de Fersen would thank me by an enchanting glance.
One of Irene's chief delights was to take one of my hands, and, having placed it between her mother's, she would silently gaze at us.
This slight favour would have been precious to me had it been granted spontaneously by a tender sentiment on the part of Madame de Fersen; but, not wishing to obtain it otherwise, each time that Irene had this caprice I would carry her little fingers up to my lips without giving her a chance to place my hand in her mother's.
The day before reaching Paris, I was resolved to make another attempt at declaring my love, when a strange incident, which should perhaps have encouraged me to take this step, deterred me from it.
I had not yet been able to ascertain whether or no Madame de Fersen was jealous of her daughter's affection for me; sometimes she had spoken of it in a gaily bantering manner, at other times, on the contrary, she had alluded to it with sadness, almost with bitterness.
That day Irene, who occupied a place in her mother's carriage, asked her if I should have a handsome room in Paris.
I hastily answered the child that I would have a house of my own, and would not live with them.
At these words, Irene as usual silently wept.
Madame de Fersen, seeing her tears, exclaimed, with grieved impatience: "Mon Dieu! what is the matter with the child? Why does she love you thus? It is hateful!"
"She loves me, perhaps, for the same reason that she loved Ivan," said I.