"Come in!"
Madame Arnoux had her elbow on the counter, and was twisting about a pen between her fingers quietly when the book-keeper threw aside the portière.
Frederick started up, as if on the point of leaving.
"Madame, I have the honour to salute you. The set will be ready—will it not? I may count on this?"
She made no reply. But by thus silently becoming his accomplice in the deception, she made his face flush with the crimson glow of adultery.
On the following day he paid her another visit. She received him; and, in order to follow up the advantage he had gained, Frederick immediately, without any preamble, attempted to offer some justification for the accidental meeting in the Champ de Mars. It was the merest chance that led to his being in that woman's company. While admitting that she was pretty—which really was not the case—how could she for even a moment absorb his thoughts, seeing that he loved another woman?
"You know it well—I told you it was so!"
Madame Arnoux hung down her head.
"I am sorry you said such a thing."
"Why?"