“What do you mean?” exclaimed Thérèse, with a sharp cry of disappointment.
“My poor mademoiselle,” said madame, taking hold of her hand, “you must not be angry with him, he is but a child; he has the heart of an angel, but he talks like a boy without knowing what he is about. Do you not suppose that I should have flown to tell you, had only Monsieur Saint-Martin—whom we so desire—arrived?”
“And it is not so? Oh, madame, are you sure?”
All the radiancy had gone; her eyes filled with tears. Madame, who was not yet sure what a day might bring forth, made her sit down, even kept her hand. Thérèse let her hold it, she was too stunned to be altogether conscious; a dull weight of disappointment had fallen upon her, from which she could not at once rally.
“I will tell you, my child. Ignace, some one is waiting to see you,” said madame, significantly; for the little man was still standing under the yellow light, looking from Thérèse to the door, as if another person might yet enter. “Now he is gone, and I will tell you all about it. There has been a letter from some foolish person—my husband would assure you that such idle jesters are never wanting—to hint that there was news to be heard of M. Saint-Martin. Poor Ignace! He has a good heart; he started off at once. ‘One should neglect nothing,’ he said to me, and he went away, deserting his business, and spending the day in leaving not a stone unturned. He has come back so weary! I must go and give him his soup.”
“And he heard nothing?” asked Thérèse, faintly.
“Absolutely nothing. I guessed how it would be, but I would not discourage him. You should not have had this disappointment, chère mademoiselle, but who could have expected that little droll to have put two and two together so cleverly?” said madame, smiling. “You find him almost too quick, do you not? and he has not Octavie’s admirable discretion. He is impetuous, like me.” Thérèse started up from her seat. “I will go to my room, since it is all a delusion,” she said, in a harsh, changed voice.
“You must not think too much of this Monsieur Saint-Martin,” said madame, with a little assumption of motherliness. “Men come and go, like the clouds; one can put no dependence upon them. And you shall not lose your home, let Monsieur Deshoulières say what he will. Allons, I have a heart!”
The girl made no answer. She stood motionless until madame had finished, then turned away, walked heavily out of the apartment, up the stairs, and into her own little room. There, with a low, bitter cry, which would no longer be repressed, she flung herself down by her bed. The cry, which at first was inarticulate, shaped itself into words: “Fabien, Fabien, I can bear this life no longer! Oh, why, why do you not come? It is so hard. Why have I all this to endure?”