"No, I don't allow you."

"And why not? great heavens!"

"In the first place, I don't think I am going back to Paris myself."

"That's a good reason. And where do you expect to go, madam?"

"I don't know. Let us make a pedestrian tour somewhere, you and I
together; will you?"

"I should like nothing better. When shall we start?"

_Et cetera_. I shall not tire you, my friend, with the particulars of some
dozen similar conversations, every occasion of which for four days Madame
de Palme evidently sought. There was on her part a constantly growing
effort to leave aside all commonplace topics, and impart to our interviews
a character of greater intimacy; there was on mine an equal amount of
obstinacy in confining them within the strictest limits of social jargon,
and remaining resolutely on the ground of worldly futility.

I now come to the scene that was to bring this painful struggle to a
close, and unfortunately prove all its vanity to me.

Monsieur and Madame de Malouet were giving last night a grand farewell
ball to their daughter, whose husband has been recalled to his post of
duty, and the whole neighborhood within a circuit of ten leagues had been
summoned to the feast. Toward ten o'clock an immense crowd was overflowing
the vast ground floor of the chateau, in which the elegant dresses, the
lights, and the flowers were mingled in dazzling confusion. As I was