“She is perfectly well, and she is overjoyed that you are in such a fine position in Paris,” replied the tutor, lying with imperturbable coolness; for he had not been to the village since Louise left it.
“And Monsieur Chérubin?” continued Louise, “is he pleased to know that I am in Paris as he wished? Hasn’t he any desire to see me? Doesn’t he ever speak to you about me? Did he send you here to-day?”
The tutor scratched his nose, coughed, spat, wiped his forehead, all of which operations required much time with him, during which he considered what he should say. Having made up his mind at last, he said to Louise:
“My dear child, it rarely happens that childish loves come to a good end. I might cite Paul and Virginie and a thousand other examples ad hoc; I prefer to tell you ex abrupto—which means, without preamble—that you are making a mistake to give any further thought to Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain, because that young man never gives a thought to you. In the first place, when you came to see him at his house—when you came to Paris with Nicole——”
“Well, monsieur?”
“Well, the young marquis was at home; but as he didn’t want to see you, he gave his concierge orders to tell you that he was away.”
“O mon Dieu! is it possible?”
“Amid the debauchery in which he is plunged, how do you expect him to remember a young country girl with whom he used to play puss-in-the-corner, and other more or less innocent games? He has become a great rake, has my pupil; he has a lot of mistresses. It isn’t my fault. He receives so many billets-doux that it’s perfectly scandalous, and I should have left his house before this if my financial interests did not oblige me to close my eyes,—which however, does not prevent my seeing whatever happens.”
Louise put her handkerchief to her eyes and faltered:
“So it’s all over—he doesn’t love me at all! Who would have believed it of Chérubin?”