"Oh! nothing's the matter, mademoiselle; what could be the matter?"
"I am sure I don't know; you are not in the habit of telling me your troubles."
There was a faint tinge of reproach in the tone in which Constance made this remark. Frédéric sat down beside her, and seemed to try to read in her eyes; never before had he looked at her with such an expression, and Constance, in her surprise, felt that she was blushing, and averted her lovely eyes.
"You are afraid that I shall guess what is taking place in your heart," said Frédéric, affecting an ironical tone to dissemble his suffering.
"I, monsieur! on my word, I don't know what you mean; I don't understand you. Why should I fear to allow my thoughts to be read? I am conscious of no guilt; and if it were otherwise, you are not the one to reprove me."
"Oh! certainly not! you are entirely free as to your feelings, mademoiselle; I know that I have no claim to your heart."
"Mon Dieu! what is the matter, Monsieur Frédéric? really, you alarm me; your agitation is not natural."
"What is the matter! Ah! Constance, you love another, and you ask me that question!"
Mademoiselle de Valmont was speechless with surprise; Frédéric had never called her by that name before, and are not the words: "You love another" equivalent to: "You should love no one but me"? A wave of blissful emotion surged in Constance's heart, which beat faster and with greater force; joy and happiness shone in her eyes, and her voice was softer than ever, as she said:
"I, love another! Mon Dieu! what does he mean? Explain yourself, Frédéric: I don't understand."