My painful astonishment was at its height; for a moment I deluded myself, and endeavoured to attribute to jealousy this reception so different from what I had anticipated, but I repeat, Madame de Fersen's countenance betrayed no sign of repressed or concealed emotion. I resolutely took my stand. I could not answer Madame de Fersen's question without reminding her of my noble and generous conduct towards her; and unwilling to lower myself by uttering reproaches, I was silent on that subject, and only said to her, endeavouring to conceal my emotion: "The object of the interview you requested is doubtless attained. May I ask, madame, if you have any further orders to give me?" "None, monsieur, but I again wish to express my grateful acknowledgments," said Madame de Fersen, rising. This harshness shocked me. I was about to answer with some bitterness, when I became aware of something which I had not yet remarked, and which renewed a faint hope. During our short interview, Madame de Fersen had not once raised her eyes from the embroidery upon which she was working. Wishing to assure myself of the correctness of my observation, I stayed on some moments without uttering a word. Catherine remained with her eyes lowered, instead of inquiring by a look the meaning of my silent presence. "Adieu, madame," I said. "Adieu, monsieur." And I left without her granting me one single look of compassion or sorrow. Her hand alone seemed to tremble slightly on her embroidery as she said adieu. I took my departure heartbroken. I had too great and too conscious a distrust of myself and my deserts to have the slightest hope of any success with Catherine. I could not yield to my customary suspicious impulse, for I had implicit faith in Madame de Fersen's sincerity, and I doubted of ever having aroused any sentiment in her heart. "She feels no tender affection for me, and her friendship even has vanished in the glare of brilliant worldly diversions." I had been away from her almost always, and the effects and results of absence are unbounded and varied. At times it strengthens a woman's secret sympathy, by concentrating her thoughts on the man who has attracted her, and whose charm is exaggerated by the distant mirage. A woman finds a proud, sad, and mysterious delight in the bitterness of her solitary regrets; she scorns the indifferent ones who occupy a place near her, which she so ardently wishes to see filled by one precious to her, and she detests those eager in their attentions because they are base enough to be there while the preferred one is far away. Often, however, absence is forgetfulness, for some hearts are like mirrors, and only reflect objects that are present. I therefore believed myself entirely forgotten by Madame de Fersen. I had anticipated the possibility of this cruel predicament, and, if it gave me deep sorrow, it did not occasion me great surprise.