“Pardon me for quitting you, my dear Madame Bonacieux,” said he; “but, not knowing you would come to see me, I had made an engagement with a friend. I shall soon return; and if you will wait only a few minutes for me, as soon as I have concluded my business with that friend, as it is growing late, I will come back and reconduct you to the Louvre.”
“Thank you, Monsieur, you are not brave enough to be of any use to me whatever,” replied Madame Bonacieux. “I shall return very safely to the Louvre all alone.”
“As you please, Madame Bonacieux,” said the ex-mercer. “Shall I see you again soon?”
“Next week I hope my duties will afford me a little liberty, and I will take advantage of it to come and put things in order here, as they must necessarily be much deranged.”
“Very well; I shall expect you. You are not angry with me?”
“Not the least in the world.”
“Till then, then?”
“Till then.”
Bonacieux kissed his wife’s hand, and set off at a quick pace.
“Well,” said Madame Bonacieux, when her husband had shut the street door and she found herself alone; “that imbecile lacked but one thing: to become a cardinalist. And I, who have answered for him to the queen—I, who have promised my poor mistress—ah, my God, my God! She will take me for one of those wretches with whom the palace swarms and who are placed about her as spies! Ah, M. Bonacieux, I never did love you much, but now it is worse than ever. I hate you, and on my word you shall pay for this!”