“She cannot see any company, for I have been everywhere.”
“She does not see any company at her own house, but she goes everywhere.”
“It’s very strange. I must have seen her, and yet I do not think I could have passed her by unrecognized. You have been with her ten years?”
“Yes, sir, as I had the honour of informing you.”
“Has she changed? Has she had any sickness? Has she aged?”
“Not at all. She has become rather stout, but I assure you you would take her for a woman of thirty.”
“I must be blind, or I cannot have seen her. I am going to write to her now.”
The woman went out, leaving me in astonishment, at the extraordinary situation in which I was placed.
“Ought I to return to Aix immediately?” I asked myself. She has a town house, but does not see company, but she might surely see me: She loves me still. She cared for me all through my illness, and she would not have done so if she had become indifferent to me. She will be hurt at my not recognizing her. She must know that I have left Aix, and will no doubt guess that I am here now. Shall I go to her or shall I write? I resolved to write, and I told her in my letter that I should await her reply at Marseilles. I gave the letter to my late nurse, with some money to insure its being dispatched at once, and drove on to Marseilles where I alighted at an obscure inn, not wishing to be recognized. I had scarcely got out of my carriage when I saw Madame Schizza, Nina’s sister. She had left Barcelona with her husband. They had been at Marseilles three or four days and were going to Leghorn.
Madame Schizza was alone at the moment, her husband having gone out; and as I was full of curiosity I begged her to come up to my room while my dinner was getting ready.