"Why, it is perfectly lovely here! I am delighted that I came; I am immensely pleased already!"
Frédérique said nothing, or replied only by a few curt phrases. I carried on the conversation with Madame Sordeville, who constantly asked me for information about the region, and was never at a loss for questions which enabled her to talk with me. I fancied that I could see that Frédérique was irritated by it; but I could not be discourteous to the other, who talked to me incessantly.
Our walk was gloomy enough. Frédérique was the first to suggest returning. Thereupon Armantine complained of being tired. It was impossible to avoid offering her my arm, which she eagerly accepted. I offered the other to Frédérique, but she refused it. I wondered what the matter was.
Armantine left us at her door, having informed her friend that she would pass the evening with her.
Frédérique was pale and excited; I asked her the cause of her anger, and why she had refused my arm.
"In order to leave you alone with the object of your love!" she replied, with a piercing glance that seemed to seek to read my inmost thoughts. That glance gave birth to a hope so delicious that a thrill of joy ran through my whole being; but I dared not dwell upon that thought. I should be too happy if I had guessed aright.
Armantine passed the whole evening with her friend. She worked, while we played and sang. Frédérique asked me to sing a ballad; I complied, and apparently acquitted myself creditably, for I saw that Armantine listened to me with amazement; and when I had finished, Frédérique said:
"That was very good, Charles; you were more successful than at Armantine's reception."
I laughed at the remembrance of my false note; but Madame Sordeville lowered her eyes and did not laugh.
She came the next day and the next; nor was there an evening that she did not pay her friend a visit. Frédérique received her with formal rather than affectionate courtesy; she had altogether lost the playfulness and spirit that made our tête-à-têtes so delightful. When I was alone with her, she said little; when Armantine was there, she said nothing at all. But Armantine pretended to pay no heed to the melancholy or capricious humor of her friend; she was fond of talking, and she often sustained practically the whole burden of what could hardly be called conversation.