"I know that, my friend; oh! I am certain of that!" cried Frédérique, pressing my hand. "But probably that is just why she loves you! Women are made that way; it's a congenital defect in them. If you had spoken of love to Mignonne, it is very probable that she would have taken offence at it, and would have ceased to come to your rooms. But when she found that you always treated her like a sister, confidence returned—she reproached herself for her distrust; well, at all events, she loves you, that is certain! We all know that that sentiment is not governed by reason."
"Well, Frédérique, if you have guessed right, if that young woman does love me—which would distress me greatly, I confess—what do you advise me to do? Of course, you do not want me to cease to help the unfortunate creature, to abandon her?"
"If I tell her not to come to my rooms any more—she is very sensitive, like all unfortunate people, and she will go away forever."
"Are you willing to rely on me, my friend?"
"I ask nothing better."
"I will tell you what, it seems to me, would cure the whole trouble—but I am afraid you will not like my plan."
"Oh! how terrible you are to-day with your reticences!"
"Listen! While I was absent from Paris, you didn't know where I was, did you?"
"No; you didn't tell me."