"Could I not see her?"
No. She had gone to the country to see her mother, who was ill.
He did not venture to ask any questions as to the length of time that she would be away. He merely enquired what was Madame Arnoux's native place.
"Chartres. Does this astonish you?"
"Astonish me? Oh, no! Why should it! Not in the least!"
After that, they could find absolutely nothing to talk about. Arnoux, having made a cigarette for himself, kept walking round the table, puffing. Frederick, standing near the stove, stared at the walls, the whatnot, and the floor; and delightful pictures flitted through his memory, or, rather, before his eyes. Then he left the apartment.
A piece of a newspaper, rolled up into a ball, lay on the floor in the anteroom. Arnoux snatched it up, and, raising himself on the tips of his toes, he stuck it into the bell, in order, as he said, that he might be able to go and finish his interrupted siesta. Then, as he grasped Frederick's hand:
"Kindly tell the porter that I am not in."
And he shut the door after him with a bang.
Frederick descended the staircase step by step. The ill-success of this first attempt discouraged him as to the possible results of those that might follow. Then began three months of absolute boredom. As he had nothing to do, his melancholy was aggravated by the want of occupation.