And two tears, two real tears, coursed down Madame Plumet’s cheeks. I should have liked to catch them. They were the only tears that had been shed for me by a living soul since my mother died.
I had to tell her all, every word, down to my rival’s name. When she heard that it was Baron Dufilleul, her indignation knew no bounds. She exclaimed that the Baron was an awful man; that she knew all sorts of things about him! Know him? she should think so! That such a union was impossible, that it could never take place, that Plumet, she knew, would agree with her:
“Madame Plumet,” I said, “we have strayed some distance from the business which brought you here. Let us return to your affairs; mine are hopeless, and you can not remedy them.”
She got up trembling, her eyes red and her feelings a little hurt.
“My action? Oh, no! I can’t attend to it to-day. I’ve no heart to talk about my business. What you’ve told me has made me too unhappy. Another day, Monsieur Mouillard, another day.”
She left me with a look of mystery, and a pressure of the hand which seemed to say: “Rely on me!”
Poor woman!