"Good-day, monsieur."
"Good-bye, ma chère; we've both made a mistake—good-bye."
I did not want to talk with my diplomatic friend; I did not want to talk with any one. I left him, and walked towards the Boulevard des Capucines, the words ringing in my ears, "We've both made a mistake." I hated myself, I hated diplomats, and I wondered if I was so wretched because Gaspard was false to France or because he had been false to me.
Then as I strolled, a little scene came back to my mind that I had witnessed that morning upon the platform of the Gare du Nord. The Countess Renazé was departing for London. I could see her now as she leaned from the carriage window. So it could not be she who had called upon Gaspard, and Monsieur Roché's reasoning was at fault in that particular. Why not in more than that; why not in all?
But my next thought condemned Gaspard almost beyond appeal, for I remembered that, as the train started, the Countess dropped her lace handkerchief from between her fingers, and, too late to hand it back, her friend, Mlle. Desormes, the daughter of Monsieur Roché's enemy, picked it up. It was she who had called upon Gaspard immediately afterwards, and had coaxed or tricked him into delivering the paper to her; and I, who would have given all to prove Gaspard's innocence, had found evidence to condemn him even more strongly.
I stopped in sudden surprise, for the man whom I would have avoided stood before me.
"You have heard I am ruined and disgraced," he said, for he could not but perceive the constraint in my manner.
"I have just left Monsieur Roché. How could you be so mad?"
His lips twitched even as though my words came as a shock to him.
"I thought one woman would believe me. I was on my way to ask for your assistance."