I had not seen Frédérique since the day she played for us to dance. She had not called upon me again. I had been several times to see her, but had not found her. Could it be that her friendship was really jealous of my love for a grisette? That would be absurd. Friendship should be indulgent to our weaknesses, and, after all, I had not promised Frédérique to be virtuous.
I could not understand her conduct in the least, but I was deeply grieved by it. I missed her; my follies with Rosette were simply transitory gleams of pleasure, while my delightful interviews with Frédérique filled my heart with a joy which had a morrow.
I was sitting one day, absorbed in serious reflections, when Frédérique entered my room. I cannot describe my sensation of pleasure. I ran to meet her, took her hands, and cried:
"Ah! here you are at last! I am very glad! I thought that you had forgotten me altogether."
She looked at me and smiled, as she rejoined:
"So you are glad to see me?"
"Unkind Frédérique! can you ask such a question? Why, I have been to see you several times!"
"I know it; my people told me."
"But you are never at home! What sort of life are you leading, pray, madame?"
"I go out a good deal, it is true."