She recalled her disappointment of the last evening and the evening before and was on the point of accusing herself ... but of what? Had she lent a willing ear to the calumnies of the town? She said, simply:
“I am glad of what you have done for Mme. de la Vaudraye.”
“What have I done?”
“Was it not a sacrifice to be at her parties?”
He went up to Gilberte:
“A sacrifice? Not at all.... Ah, that’s because you don’t know what has happened during the last few days!... Why, I am prepared to do all that she wishes and to take an interest in all that interests her and to like everything that she likes!... If you only knew, Gilberte.... Listen ... or rather, no, I prefer that she should tell you....”
“Oh,” cried Gilberte, “if they are hopeful words, precious words, why not say them yourself, Guillaume? Will they not be sweeter if I hear them from your lips? Speak, Guillaume ... I want them to be associated in my memory with the sound of your voice ... please, please....”
She besought him with her gentle, loving smile. He at once said:
“Very well, Gilberte, I will.”
He was interrupted by Adèle, bringing in a letter on a tray. Gilberte took the letter and, while the servant was leaving the room, mechanically cast her eyes upon the postmark. A cry escaped her: