“Yes, monsieur, pretty near; he don’t hardly ever miss a night now.”
“That’s enough.”
I strode away from the messenger; the poor fellow had unsuspectingly torn my heart; at the very moment that I proposed to abandon myself without reserve to my love for Nicette; to turn my back on society of which I was weary, so that I might live with her and for her—at that moment, I lost her thus! She loved another, and I believed myself to be sure of her love! With that sweet delusion vanished the blissful future of my waking dreams that morning.
I was still in the street; I could not go away. At last the shop opened; Nicette appeared; she was pale and downcast; but I had never seen her when she was so pretty, I had never been so deeply in love with her.
The little traitor—with that innocent air! Alas! had I the right to complain? had she given me her troth? had I told her that I loved her?—But was it necessary to tell her so? It seemed to me that we understood each other so perfectly. We had both been deceived!
Should I speak to her? Of what use was it now? what could I say to her that would interest her? No; I would not see her or speak to her again; I would forget her!
I do not know how it happened; but, with the firm intention to avoid her, I had walked toward her; and I found myself in front of her shop, where I stopped, in spite of myself.
She came to meet me with an air of constraint; her eyes were red, as if she had wept much; what could be the cause of her distress? I did not know what to say, and I stood mute in front of her; she too was thoughtful.—And this was the interview in which the confidence and unreserve of love were to reign supreme!—Poor mortals! our plans are drawn on the sand.
“I came last night,” I said at last, in a tone which I strove to render cold.
“Last night—yes, I saw you, with—with that lady.”