fist and turned away without a word.

For three weeks I suffered terribly. Three times a day I called at
Madame Pierson's and each time was refused admittance. I received one
letter from her; she said that my assiduity was causing talk in the
village, and begged me to call less frequently. Not a word about
Mercanson or her illness.

This precaution on her part was so unnatural, and contrasted so strongly
with her former proud indifference in matters of this kind, that at first
I could hardly believe it. Not knowing what else to say, I replied that
there was no desire in my heart but obedience to her wishes. But in
spite of me, the words I used did not conceal the bitterness I felt.

I purposely delayed going to see her even when permitted to do so, and no
longer sent to inquire about her condition, as I wished to have her know
that I did not believe in her illness. I did not know why she kept me at
a distance; but I was so miserably unhappy that, at times, I thought
seriously of putting an end to a life that had become insupportable.
I was accustomed to spend entire days in the woods, and one day I
happened to encounter her there.

I hardly had the courage to ask for an explanation; she did not reply
frankly, and I did not recur to the subject; I could only count the days
I was obliged to pass without seeing her, and live in the hope of a
visit. All the time I was sorely tempted to throw myself at her feet,
and tell her of my despair. I knew that she would not be insensible to
it, and that she would at least express her pity; but her severity and
the abrupt manner of her departure recalled me to my senses; I trembled
lest I should lose her, and I would rather die than expose myself to that