Diane understood this look, which was both melancholy and enraptured, and hastened to say, with a slight blush,—
"I have not come to talk of myself, nurse."
"Is it of him, then?" said Aloyse.
"Of whom else, pray? for to you I can lay bare my heart. How unfortunate that I did not find him! I came to console him and myself at the same time. How is he? Always dejected and despairing, is he not? Why has he not been once to the Louvre to see me? What does he say? What is he doing? Tell me, oh, pray tell me, nurse!"
"Alas! Madame," replied Aloyse, "you are quite right in thinking that he is dejected and despairing. Imagine—"
Diane interrupted her.
"Wait a moment, good Aloyse," said she; "before you begin I have a word to say. I could stay here till to-morrow listening to you, you know, without growing weary, or without noticing the flight of time. But I must return to the Louvre before my absence is noticed. So promise me one thing: when I have been here an hour, whether he has returned or not, tell me so, and send me away."
"But, Madame," said Aloyse, "I am quite capable of forgetting the hour myself, and I should not grow weary of talking to you any sooner than you would of listening to me, you see."
"What can we do, then?" asked Diane. "I dread the effect of our combined weakness."
"Let us intrust the difficult duty to some third person," said Aloyse.