"Won't you do me the favor to come in a moment, Monsieur Rochebrune? I have long wanted to have a moment's conversation with you; but at Madame Dauberny's it is impossible; for she doesn't leave you for an instant. As chance has brought you to my door, will you not grant me this favor?" To refuse would have been discourteous and in wretched taste. Although one has ceased to be in love with a woman, one must still be polite to her, unless one is a wild Indian; and I had no desire to be looked upon as such. So I went into Madame Sordeville's house; I continued to give her that name in my mind. She came to meet me, ushered me into the room, sat down, and pointed to a chair near hers. I took it and waited to hear what she had to say to me. She hesitated and seemed embarrassed; but she looked at me often, and her flashing eyes seemed to try to force me to speak first. Despite the fire of her glance, despite the dangerous play of her eyes, I remained dumb. At last, Armantine decided to begin the interview: "When I went to call upon Frédérique, monsieur, I did not expect, I confess, to find you there, and especially to find you established there as if you were at home." "What do you mean by that, madame?" "You must understand me. The familiarity now existing between you and my friend is evident enough; indeed, she makes no attempt to hide it! But, I repeat, I did not expect that--not that I presume to reproach you, for I have no right to do so. You love--you do not love--that happens every day. As for my friend"--Armantine dwelt significantly on the last word--"as for my friend, it seems to me that I might be a little offended with her without laying myself too much open to blame. Her conduct toward me is hardly that of a really sincere friend. In leading you on to make love to her, to become her--her lover, in short, she has not acted with delicacy, and----" At this point, I interrupted her. "I don't quite know what you mean, madame," I said; "I begin by informing you that I am not Madame Dauberny's lover, that I am simply her friend. But even if I were in love with that lady, and she should do me the honor to reciprocate my feeling for her, wherein, I pray to know, could it offend you, or even interest you in the least, madame?" Armantine was silent for a moment; she sighed, and murmured at last: "I see that you have not forgotten the way I left you one day on the Champs-Élysées. I was wrong, monsieur, very wrong; I have often regretted it since. But do you not know that women sometimes have caprices, moments of irritation, which they themselves cannot understand? It may be that I am more subject than other women to such freaks. But, when I confess my sins, will you continue to bear malice?"