The presence of that woman, with whom I had been deeply in love, had caused some disturbance in my mind, I admit; but it was of very brief duration; it was surprise, the emotion due to the evocation of the past, and there was nothing in my heart that at all resembled love for her. Armantine was still very pretty, there was no denying that; but her eyes, sometimes so expressive, and her seductive smile, could not efface from my memory the disdainful, insolent air with which she left me that day on the Champs-Élysées.
I remained in my room all day. When I returned to the salon, Frédérique was alone. I sat down beside her.
"Has your friend left you?"
"Yes. Did you hope to find her here?"
"I? Why do you ask me that?"
"You answer my question with another; that is very convenient. But do you think that I should regard it as a crime if it gave you great pleasure to meet a woman whom—whom you once adored—whom you still love, probably?"
"Oho! so you think that I still love her, do you?"
"What would there be extraordinary in that? When a passion has not been—satisfied—there is no reason why it should end."
"And you think, do you, that it should end as soon as it is satisfied?"
"I think—that I am only your friend, whereas Armantine——"