Alfred made no other response than pressing his friend’s hand, and they soon resumed their walk; but they did not notice that the man with the knotted stick, who had stopped a short distance away, was now dogging their footsteps, taking pains to keep constantly in the shadow.
"Let us go first to her house; we will find out if she is still at home," said Edouard.
They walked silently, trying to make as little noise as possible, and soon reached the cottage; they saw a light in the room on the first floor, the window was open, and from a distance they saw Isaure in that room.
"She is there!" said Edouard in a low voice.
"Yes," replied Alfred, "and she is alone."
"She is doing nothing, she seems lost in thought; see how lovely she is still, Alfred!"
"Why, my dear friend, women are not less pretty for being unfaithful. Sometimes they seem even prettier."
"She rises, she walks to Vaillant and pats him; look,—one would say that she was weeping. Ah! my friend, if I did not hold myself back, I should rush in and throw myself at her feet."
"Wait, she is coming to the window; let us hide behind these trees."
Isaure came to the window, and looked at the White House.