Frederique - LightNovelsOnl.com
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"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 Frederique.
"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."
Frederique 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 caleche 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]
And then, what can a poor girl do?
She dons her good clothes, when 'tis fair: The wind springs up, she's in a mess, She cannot hold her hat in place And skirts and flounces all at once; Her eyes are quickly filled with dust, When in her face the sly wind blows; But 'tis more trait'rous far, my love, When she sees not the wind's approach.
[D]
If the rain is most unpleasant, And wets our poor skirts thro' and thro', The wind's as wanton as the deuce!
He draws in outline all our figure.
'Tis just as if we wore tight breeches; A man at such times is less careful, For it makes him sentimental!
And, my love, it's not our face He looks at while the wind is blowing.
[E] I, who once had the glory of singing for Mademoiselle Iris, propose, with your leave, to tell you the story of the young shepherd Paris, etc.
[F] _Tutoyer_; that is, to use the more familiar form of address, to "thee and thou" one; which, the reader will please understand, Frederique proceeds to do, and Rochebrune also, with some slips.
