The words faithless, fickle, traitress, issued from his mouth, followed by long sighs. For more than half an hour he had been buried in his reflections. The candles had gone out, the music had ceased. Several people passed him without attracting his attention, nor was he, sitting in a dark corner, noticed by them. Some ladies came into the room to get their shawls, which they had left on a couch not far from Frédéric. But a familiar voice awoke the echoes in his heart: it was the voice of Madame Dernange, talking with one of her friends. They seemed in excellent spirits.
"What sport I have had!" said the notary's wife. "That colonel is really very attractive!"
"But, my dear, did you see the wry face Frédéric made?"
"Yes, indeed I did, and I was strongly tempted to laugh!"
"You drove him to despair."
"What a calamity! That young man is romantic and sentimental enough to give one the blues; he's an idiot!"
"Oh! he's a very pretty fellow, my dear; and when he has got rid of that schoolboy air, and has acquired the tone of fashionable gallantry, you'll see how popular he will be!"
"When I choose to amuse myself with him again, I have only to say a word, to glance at him, and he will be at my feet. But give me my shawl, which you have had in your hand an hour. The colonel is waiting to escort me to my carriage."
When the ladies had gone, Frédéric rose. He found it difficult to believe his ears. Shame, jealousy, anger, filled his heart, where love had already ceased to fill any space; for his self-esteem had been wounded, and wounded self-esteem soon triumphs over love.
In this frame of mind, Frédéric retired to his apartment; he slammed the door as he entered, and thereby woke Dubourg with a start.