Madame Dauberny withdrew her hand from mine, her features contracted, her brow grew dark; but she said nothing. I too was silent; for, not knowing whether she had heard what Saint-Bergame said, I was careful not to tell her. But I had a feeling of embarrassment and of wrath, which banished all the pleasurable sensations of a moment before. We drove a considerable distance without speaking; and when she turned so that I could see her face, which she had kept averted for a long while, I detected tears in her eyes. I quickly grasped her hand again, saying: "What is the matter?" Thereupon she at once resumed her usual manner, as if she were ashamed that I had observed her emotion, and answered, with a smile: "Nothing, nothing at all! Mon Dieu! my friend, can one always tell what the matter is? It all depends on one's frame of mind. We are sometimes deeply moved by a remark that isn't worth the labor of listening to.--Take us home, _cocher_.--I can properly say _home_, for, thank heaven! I am alone, and mistress of the house for the present." "Your husband is----?" "He is not in Paris; he has gone on a little trip, according to the word he sent to me; and you can imagine that I did not detain him. It is true that Monsieur Dauberny doesn't interfere with me in any way, that he doesn't prevent me from doing whatever I please; but, for all that, I feel happier when I know that he isn't under the same roof. Oh! if only he could travel forever!" I was certain that the man had fled after the ill-fated Annette's death; perhaps he was afraid that she would make damaging disclosures before she died. I was persuaded that fear alone had driven him from Paris, and that he proposed to wait until that affair was forgotten before he returned. "How long has your husband been absent?" I asked Frédérique. "About three weeks." "When is he coming back?" "I have no idea; you may be sure that I didn't ask him. But, my friend, you seem to take a great deal of interest in my husband's movements: can it be that his absence distresses you?" I tried to smile, as I answered: "Oh! not in the least, I beg you to believe. I asked you the question--I don't quite know why." Frédérique looked earnestly at me and squeezed my hand hard, murmuring: "So it is true that even sincere friends can't tell each other everything." The calèche stopped on the boulevard, and I left Madame Dauberny. "We shall meet again soon," I said. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [A] That is, a leader in revelry or merrymaking. [B] When you're asked to take a walk, Look well to the weather, Lisa! If it blows, say that you're ill, Or else he'll make the most of it, To work his wicked will on you. Nay, I joke not, on my soul! On windy days, I've oft been caught! My love, for us poor, helpless girls, There's naught so trait'rous as the wind. [C]