She lowered her eyes, remembering the moment to which I alluded, yet her glance turned to me beneath her eyelids, expressing the joy of a woman who finds the mere passing tones from her heart preferred to the delights of another love. The count was losing the game; he said he was tired, as an excuse to give it up, and we went to walk on the lawn while waiting for the carriage. When the count left us, such pleasure shone on my face that Madame de Mortsauf questioned me by a look of surprise and curiosity.
“Henriette does exist,” I said. “You love me still. You wound me with an evident intention to break my heart. I may yet be happy!”
“There was but a fragment of that poor woman left, and you have now destroyed even that,” she said. “God be praised; he gives me strength to bear my righteous martyrdom. Yes, I still love you, and I might have erred; the English woman shows me the abyss.”
We got into the carriage and the coachman asked for orders.
“Take the road to Chinon by the avenue, and come back by the Charlemagne moor and the road to Sache.”
“What day is it?” I asked, with too much eagerness.
“Saturday.”
“Then don’t go that way, madame, the road will be crowded with poultry-men and their carts returning from Tours.”
“Do as I told you,” she said to the coachman. We knew the tones of our voices too well to be able to hide from each other our least emotion. Henriette understood all.
“You did not think of the poultry-men when you appointed this evening,” she said with a tinge of irony. “Lady Dudley is at Tours, and she is coming here to meet you; do not deny it. ‘What day is it?—the poultry-men—their carts!’ Did you ever take notice of such things in our old drives?”