We reached the shop; Nicette was at her door; she saw me, and by some inexplicable whim Madame de Marsan chose to stop to examine her flowers.
“Here’s a lovely orange tree,” she said; “for a long time I have wanted one in my boudoir; I like this one very much; don’t you think it pretty?”
“Yes, madame, very pretty.”
I was embarrassed; I kept my eyes on the ground, avoiding Nicette’s.
“I am afraid it’s too large, though,” continued Madame de Marsan. “Have you any others, my girl?—Well! why don’t you answer?”
Nicette did not hear her; she had her eyes fixed on me, and doubtless her expression was very eloquent, for Madame de Marsan, greatly surprised, scrutinized her closely; her pretty face, her confusion, my emotion, my embarrassed manner, aroused in Madame de Marsan’s mind suspicions, which undoubtedly went beyond the truth. Women divine very swiftly, and their imagination travels fast. Madame de Marsan no longer loved me, but she had the curiosity which no woman ever loses on that subject, and, in pure deviltry, she pretended to be very fond of me.
She entered the shop, leaning nonchalantly on my arm; she bestowed an amorous glance on me and addressed me in the familiar second person, which she had not done twenty times at the very outset of our liaison.
“What do you think of these trees, my dear fellow? tell me which you like, my dear Dorsan; I want to choose the one you like best.”
Vexation and anger were suffocating me; I was hardly able to stammer a few disjointed words. I glanced at Nicette; I saw her turn pale and stagger; her eyes filled with tears; they seemed to say to me:
“She loves you! do you love her?”