"Suppose he no longer loves me!" Constance would say sometimes; and the dumb girl would take her hand and lead her before a mirror, as if to say:
"Look at yourself; can anyone help loving you?"
"Alas!" Constance would reply; "someone forgot you very quickly, and you are as pretty as I am!"
The Comte de Montreville, who had promised to pass a few days in the country, was detained by the gout. Dubourg was not sorry; he preferred that he should not be a witness of the recognition he dreaded; he had no idea that the count knew Sister Anne.
At last, Constance received a letter from her husband: he wrote her that unforeseen circumstances had delayed his return, but that he hoped to arrange everything soon. His letter was affectionate and expansive; he seemed to be as much in love as ever. Nevertheless, Constance was not satisfied: to stay away from her so long seemed in itself to indicate less warmth. Frédéric was not there, so she was at liberty to weep; before him, she concealed her tears. As always, it was to Sister Anne that she confided her troubles; on her bosom she poured out her tears and found consolation.
Dubourg saw in this delay so much time gained.
"Let us try to make use of it to prevent an interview between the lovers," he said to Ménard.
"Let's prevent it; I agree with you."
"But I've been trying for ten days to think up some expedient, and I can't find anything."
"Faith! then I'm luckier than you, for I found something the day before yesterday."