"Don't feel bound to stay with me," she said; "remember that we are not in Paris."
"Unless it is disagreeable to you," Frédéric replied, "I prefer to stay with you."
Constance smiled, and it was easy to see that it was not disagreeable to her. In the country, especially under the general's roof, the most delightful liberty of action was the rule. During the day, everyone did whatever he chose; the count and his friend made frequent excursions in the neighborhood, while Frédéric remained with Constance; they passed a part of every day together in the garden.
"We must make the most of the last fine days," said Constance; "the winter is at hand, and I must say good-bye to my trees and my flowers and my birds. But I shall see them again; it is not an eternal farewell."
"Don't you expect to return to your uncle's estate in the provinces?"
"Oh, no! I like this house much better; he bought it for me, and he is willing that I should spend seven months of the year here. We shall return to Paris for the winter. Uncle is so kind to me! He does whatever I want, for he is very fond of me."
"Who could fail to——"
Frédéric did not finish his question; he checked himself, as if he regretted what he had said, and Constance, taken by surprise, lowered her eyes and said nothing. But she was beginning to become accustomed to the young man's eccentricities. Sometimes, when he sat by her for a long while without speaking, and seemed to be sad and distressed, she was tempted to ask him what was troubling him; but she dared not; so she held her peace, and sighed with him, although she did not quite know why. Melancholy is a disease readily transmitted between two young people of different sexes. Often the hours of silence are more dangerous than a conversation devoted to love making.
Meanwhile, the intimacy between Frédéric and Constance was growing closer day by day: hardly a week had passed, and they had abandoned that reserve, that tone of gallantry and of formality, which is never the tone of friendship or of love. The count talked of returning to Paris, and Frédéric was surprised to find that he himself had not thought of it; the week had passed so quickly!—Upon reflection, he was almost angry with himself; he was remorseful because he had enjoyed himself. But remorse never comes until after the fact.
"No," he said to himself, "I have not forgotten Sister Anne. I always see her when I look at Constance. I always think of her when I have Constance's lovely features before my eyes; I fancy that I am with her, when, sitting beside Constance, I quiver with delicious emotion."