"Yes, madame. I consider it useless to remain longer with a person who believes neither in my words nor in my affection. I thought that you were able to judge me fairly, to appreciate my feelings. I was mistaken. Some day, I doubt not, you will realize your error. Then, madame, perhaps you will come to me and offer me again that friendship of which you now think me unworthy; and you will find me, as always, happy to deserve such a favor."
Frédérique looked at me; I believe that she was on the point of rushing toward me; but she repressed that impulse, which came from her heart, and I went away, determined to make no attempt to see her again. I had learned that one can no more rely on a woman's friendship than on her love; that there must inevitably be a strain of inconstancy or caprice in all their affections.
On the day following my visit to Madame Dauberny, Mignonne came as usual to bring back my linen; but, contrary to her custom, she took another package and prepared to go away again at once.
"Don't you propose to stay and work a while to-day?" I asked her. She seemed embarrassed, and hesitated before replying; at last she faltered, lowering her eyes:
"Monsieur—it is—I am—I am afraid that staying here so often to work—I am afraid I am in your way."
"What is the source of that fear to-day? Haven't I told you that I could receive in my bedroom anybody with whom I wished to be alone?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Why this fear, then? What new idea have you got into your head?"
"It didn't come into my head."