He walked for a quarter of an hour, but neither saw her nor anyone resembling her. At last, he gave up the chase in despair. "I must have construed wrongly," he said to himself, "perhaps the person who was standing near the entrance to the cemetery was right, it was her ghost." He mournfully retraced his steps.
It was really Adèle Rougeant that he had seen. She was returning from town, when, instead of going straight home by St. Martin's mill, she went up the Grange, took a peep at her former home, then proceeded by the Rocquettes down the Rohais. Why; the lady readers will easily guess.
She espied Frank, just as he was turning down Foulon Vale.
He was so intent on his mission that he did not notice her.
As soon as she saw his eager look and the bunch of flowers which he carried in his hands, a feeling of exasperating jealousy seized her. Where was he going with those flowers? "Alas!" she thought bitterly, "he has a rendezvous with some pretty lass. I will follow him and ascertain, if possible, the truth."
She walked after him, and when he turned round to look at her, she hastily looked the other way. Fearing lest he might recognise her, she retraced her steps and continued her journey homewards down the Rohais, muttering: "A fine place for a rendezvous."
Something within her tried to reason: "He is nothing to you, you have no claims upon him." But what of her future, what of her projected plans, her ideas, her sweet dreams; they were mown down in this huge and single sweep. Life seemed very dark. Up to this, hope had kept her radiant and cheerful, and now, hope was gone, and in its stead, there was a blank.
Arrived home, she fetched her violin and poured forth all her feelings.
She commenced in a plaintive tone, then this changed to reproach, and the conclusion was a wail of despair.