CHAPTER XXXIII.
NEW ENGLAND IN FRENCH EYES.
We owe our readers a digression at this point, while we return for a
few moments to say a little more of the fortunes of Madame de
Frontignac, whom we left waiting with impatience for the termination of
the conversation between Mary and Burr. "_Enfin, chere Sybille_," said
Madame de Frontignac, when Mary came out of the room, with her cheeks
glowing and her eye flashing with a still unsubdued light, "_te voila
encore_! What did he say, _mimi_?--did he ask for me?"
"Yes," said Mary, "he asked for you."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that you wished me to excuse you."
"How did he look then?--did he look surprised?"
"A good deal so, I thought," said Mary.
"_Allons, mimi_,--tell me all you said, and all he said." "Oh," said
Mary, "I am the worst person in the world; in fact, I cannot remember
anything that I have said; but I told him that he must leave you, and
never see you any more."
"Oh, _mimi_, never!"
Madame de Frontignac sat down on the side of the bed with such a look
of utter despair as went to Mary's heart.
"You know that it is best, Virginie; do you not?"
"Oh, yes, I know it; _mais pourtant, c'est dur comme la mort_. Ah,
well, what shall Virginie do now?"
"You have your husband," said Mary.
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