"Yes, three weeks, perhaps, and perhaps never."
"I shall be dead by that time, dead with impatience and worry."
"That will entirely upset my plans."
"Your plans?"
But they had reached the door. A carriage had just drawn up, but in the darkness it was impossible to distinguish either its color or its coat of arms. A black servant was holding the door open.
"May I not at least cherish the hope that you will be sorry for my sufferings?"
"Indeed, I fancy you are going to occupy my mind considerably."
As she finished speaking, she sprang lightly into the carriage, and the horses dashed rapidly off.
Léon stood and gazed after that coach which was carrying away from him his new conquest, and, caring no more for the ball, he made his way homeward, his brain in confusion, his heart a little troubled; his mind ran upon his adventure, and he reproached himself bitterly for not having found some means of carrying it a little farther.
"Who can she be," he said to himself, "so attractive and so odd? She cannot be a demi-mondaine, with that noble bearing, at once modest and proud, and with such unmistakable ease of manner. What can she want? And why should she alternately encourage and repel me? She talked of her plans, and wanted to know all sorts of details about me; our meeting might prove a happy thing for her—yet I am never to see her again, and must never know who she is—Was she only playing with me? If I thought that, what a revenge I would take! But pray, how and on whom? She may not come to the next ball; I may have lost all trace of her forever. I should be sorry, for I am convinced that she is charming. What a soft sensuousness there is in her pretty, flexible figure! What beautiful eyes she has, and what an expressive voice! And such a graceful, witty way of talking! These three weeks are going to be endless. I had better spend them in looking for and finding her. It might be as well to get some sleep in the first place!"