She made no answer, only her face appeared to grow a shade paler. With her eyes on the clock, she seemed to listen. “Nothing,” she replied at last. “You—you must go.”
“So soon?”
“Yes,” she said, with a choking sob. “You ought not to have come here, and—and you must forgive me, Théophile, we women are so weak when memories are painful.”
She wished to aid me in my preparations for departure, handed me my hat and buttoned my coat. We said nothing, but she lingered over the buttoning as though it were something very difficult.
Suddenly, with a bitter burst of tears, she flung her head down against my arm. She seemed such a frail little creature as I held her tightly and stroked away the tendril curls that strayed across her face.
I longed to console her, but could not give utterance to my thoughts.
“Mariette. Poor little Mariette,” was all I could say.
“Good-bye, Théophile, good-bye,” she whispered brokenly. “A great gulf separates us; you have gaiety and happiness, I only misery and despair. My husband—”
Just as suddenly as they commenced, her tears ceased. Clasping her hands, she lifted her agitated face to mine.
“Promise me—promise you will never return here again!”