"Are you going to leave me? Won't you come to walk with me?"
"No! I have something to do, I am going home."
"I am going home, too."
"No; continue your walk, I beg you. It would annoy me if you should go home with me. You see that my nerves are all on edge, that a trifle upsets me. Leave me, my friend; au revoir!"
She hurried away; I feared to vex her by following her. She was there in the road, watching for me; she wanted to see if I was with Armantine. And that sadness that I read in her eyes, and that she tried in vain to dissemble—was not that jealousy? If she had no warmer feeling than friendship for me, would she be jealous of Armantine? Even though I were mistaken, even though the result were to break off our relations again, I determined that I would no longer make a secret of my sentiments, of my consuming love for her. I resolved that I would tell her all, that very day. It was no longer possible for me to be content with the rôle of a friend.
I wandered about the country a long while, recalling every trivial circumstance in Frédérique's conduct that could possibly encourage my hope that she had something more than friendship for me. The dinner hour had arrived, when I returned to the house.
I found nobody in the salon. I went into the garden, but Frédérique was not there. I called Pomponne, who came with a letter in his hand.
"Monsieur called me, and I was looking for monsieur; what a coincidence!"
"Where is Madame Dauberny?"
"She has gone, monsieur."