Mathilde's life became more lonely and more isolated; she wasted away. Her cough increased, and she was consumed with fever. She passed entire days with her music endeavouring to forget her wearisome life. This distraction weakened her strength, but she refused to submit to any treatment. At night she read, creating thus an artificial imaginary world. Her only consolation, her only joy, was to talk with Jacob, in whom alone she had confidence; but he liked to come only when Henri and some of his new friends were amusing themselves. Then Jacob hastened to make a rapid examination of the progress of the malady which seemed to be consuming the young woman, and she looked attentively at him to discover if his brow was more gloomy, more care-worn. Afterward they pressed each other's hands, and separated.
It happened one evening at tea that no one was near Mathilde when Jacob arrived but the old English governess, who had become a friend of the house. He found Madame Segel very much changed.
"How rarely you come," cried Mathilde. "I know it is not indifference on your part, but if I had not perfect confidence in you, I should accuse Muse of depriving me of your society."
"Why do you speak of her?"
"Because it is evident that she has given entertainments in your honour."
"In my honour and in honour of a dozen others; Colonel Sofronof, and also Henri, your lord and master."
"I am not surprised that her fresh and blooming beauty pleases Henri more than my pallor and fatigue. There he finds smiles and songs, here sighs and tears. I do not wonder that he prefers her."
"Well, I do," said Jacob.
"If he were more devoted, I should reproach myself for not loving him. He is just as I wish him to be, polite, cold, and he leaves me entirely alone. It is some time now since Muse captivated him, but why should we care? What matters it to us?"
"Henri's conduct is indelicate"--