"How old are you?"
"I am eighteen and a half, monsieur; I shall be nineteen in three months, I believe."
"That is strange!"
"Is Georget very happy at your place in the country, monsieur? Does he never come to Paris, he who formerly could not pass a day without walking on the boulevard? To be sure, in those days he used to speak to me, he used to talk with me, and I had to scold him very often, to make him go to work; and now he never looks at me, or else he has such a contemptuous expression, and all because someone told him something about me—as if he should have believed it! Ah! if anyone told me that Georget had stolen, or that he had done anything mean, would I believe it?—I beg your pardon, monsieur, but does he ever speak to you of me? Do you think he has forgotten me altogether?"
For several moments the count had not been listening to the flower girl; he was preoccupied, absorbed by his memories, and he did not hear what she said to him. At last, abruptly driving away the thoughts that beset him, he exclaimed:
"I am a madman! just because of a resemblance, such as nature often produces, I must needs imagine—Adieu, mademoiselle, adieu! once more, pray excuse my curiosity."
And the count hastened away, without answering the last questions of the pretty flower girl, who was more depressed than ever, as she looked after him, saying to herself:
"He wouldn't answer what I asked him about Georget; perhaps he told him not to. To be despised, when one has nothing to blame oneself for! that is horrible! and yet, I feel in the bottom of my heart that the main thing is to have one's conscience clear. I have nothing to reproach myself for, and some day they will reproach themselves for having made me so wretchedly unhappy."
The count entered his carriage and started for Nogent. But on the way, his mind was full of that extraordinary resemblance, and the young flower girl's face constantly returned to his thoughts.
In vain did Georget make all possible haste, he did not reach Nogent until fully two hours after the count. Chicotin left his comrade on the outskirts of Vincennes, panting for breath, exhausted and dying with thirst, because his friend would not consent to enter a wine-shop for refreshment, as that would have delayed them. He shook hands with Georget, saying to him: