"Oho! so it's a question of women, is it? I begin to feel less alarmed."
"With such an honest face, such lovely eyes, to conceal such perfidy! for it is perfidy! she ought to have told me that she loved another. To welcome me so cordially! to seem so pleased to see me! Oh! it's horrible!"
"There's no doubt of that. Whom are you talking about?"
"Mademoiselle de Valmont—Constance. She is so lovely! so sweet!"
"Oh, yes! and she looks so much like Sister Anne!"
"Would you believe, my friend, that she is going to be married—to a young colonel whom I don't know, but whom she loves—that goes without saying; whom I have never seen, and who is coming to Paris very soon to marry her?"
"Mademoiselle de Valmont is going to be married?"
"Yes, Dubourg."
"Well, what difference does that make to you? you don't love her; you're not in love with her; no word of love has ever passed your lips; you are her brother, her friend, nothing more. You told me this yourself, within a month."
"No, I certainly do not love her; but one owes some regard, some mark of confidence, to a friend; and when you see a person every day——"