“The matter is that those Rislers are certainly ingrates or egotists, and, beyond all question, exceedingly ill-bred.  Do you know what I just learned downstairs from the concierge, who glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, making sport of me?  Well, Frantz Risler has gone!  He left the house a short time ago, and has left Paris perhaps ere this, without so much as coming to shake my hand, to thank me for the welcome he has received here.  What do you think of that?  For he didn’t say good-by to you two either, did he?  And yet, only a month ago, he was always in our rooms, without any remonstrance from us.”

Mamma Delobelle uttered an exclamation of genuine surprise and grief.  Desiree, on the contrary, did not say a word or make a motion.  She was always the same little iceberg.

Oh! wretched mother, turn your eyes upon your daughter.  See that transparent pallor, those tearless eyes which gleam unwaveringly, as if their thoughts and their gaze were concentrated on some object visible to them alone.  Cause that poor suffering heart to open itself to you.  Question your child.  Make her speak, above all things make her weep, to rid her of the burden that is stifling her, so that her tear-dimmed eyes can no longer distinguish in space that horrible unknown thing upon which they are fixed in desperation now.

For nearly a month past, ever since the day when Sidonie came and took Frantz away in her coupe, Desiree had known that she was no longer loved, and she knew her rival’s name.  She bore them no ill-will, she pitied them rather.  But, why had he returned?  Why had he so heedlessly given her false hopes?  How many tears had she devoured in silence since those hours!  How many tales of woe had she told her little birds!  For once more it was work that had sustained her, desperate, incessant work, which, by its regularity and monotony, by the constant recurrence of the same duties and the same motions, served as a balance-wheel to her thoughts.

Lately Frantz was not altogether lost to her.  Although he came but rarely to see her, she knew that he was there, she could hear him go in and out, pace, the floor with restless step, and sometimes, through the half-open door, see his loved shadow hurry across the landing.  He did not seem happy.  Indeed, what happiness could be in store for him?  He loved his brother’s wife.  And at the thought that Frantz was not happy, the fond creature almost forgot her own sorrow to think only of the sorrow of the man she loved.

She was well aware that it was impossible that he could ever love her again.  But she thought that perhaps she would see him come in some day, wounded and dying, that he would sit down on the little low chair, lay his head on her knees, and with a great sob tell her of his suffering and say to her, “Comfort me.”

That forlorn hope kept her alive for three weeks.  She needed so little as that.

But no.  Even that was denied her.  Frantz had gone, gone without a glance for her, without a parting word.  The lover’s desertion was followed by the desertion of the friend.  It was horrible!