o conceal
himself that he had formerly to show himself. He has not suffered from
his decline. He exists in a sort of living death."

And Therese, recalling the amiable old man who had wished to finish
gloriously with her his life of gallantry, turned her head and looked at
the Guerric lifting its four towers above the gray summits of oaks.

On their return she said she had a headache and that she would not take
dinner. She locked herself in her room and drew from her jewel casket the
lamentable letter. She read over the last page.

"The thought that you belong to another burns me. And then, I did not
wish that man to be the one."

It was a fixed idea. He had written three times on the same leaf these
words: "I did not wish that man to be the one."

She, too, had only one idea: not to lose him. Not to lose him, she would
have said anything, she would have done anything. She went to her table
and wrote, under the spur of a tender, and plaintive violence, a letter
wherein she repeated like a groan: "I love you, I love you! I never have
loved any one but you. You are alone, alone--do you hear?--in my mind, in
me. Do not think of what that wretched man said. Listen to me! I never
loved any one, I swear, any one, before you."

As she was writing, the soft sigh of the sea accompanied her own sigh.
She wished to say, she believed she was saying, real things; and all that
she was saying was true of the truth of her love. She heard the heavy
step of her father on the stairway. She hid her letter and opened the
door. Montessuy asked her whether she felt better.

"I came," he said, "to say good-night to you, and to ask you something.
It is probable that I shall meet Le Menil at the races. He goes there
every year. If I meet him, darling, would you have any objection to my
inviting him to come here for a few days? Your husband thinks he would be
agreeable company for you. We might give him the blue room."

"As you wish. But I should prefer that you keep the blue room for Paul
Vence, who wishes to come. It is possible, too, that Choulette may come
without warning. It is his habit. We shall see him some morning ringing
like a beggar at the gate. You know my husband is mistaken when he thinks
Le Menil pleases me. And then I must go to Paris next week for two or
three days."

CHAPTER XXIX

JEALOUSY

Twenty-four hours after writing her letter, Therese went from Dinard to
the little house in the Ternes. It had not been