“Please yourself; I don’t care.”
Really I was very much annoyed, and I was rather cool with Lampron when we parted on the platform.
What has come to the fellow? To refuse to show me a sketch he had made before my eyes, and a sketch of Jeanne, too!
April 28th, 9 A.M.
Hide your sketches, Sylvestre; stuff them away in your portfolios, or your pockets; I care little, for I bear Jeanne’s image in my heart, and can see it when I will, and I love her, I love her, I love her!
What is to become of her and of me I can not tell. I hope without knowing what or why, or when, and hope alone is comforting.
9 P.M.
This afternoon, at two o’clock, I met Lampron in the Boulevard St. Michel. He was walking fast with a portfolio under his arm. I went up to him. He looked annoyed, and hardly seemed pleased when I offered to accompany him. I grew red and angry.
“Oh, very well,” I said; “good-by, then, since you don’t care to be seen with me.”
He pondered a moment.