e might have said to me quite crudely, with the hideous frankness of
certain women, that she had to see a lover; and, instead of believing
her letter, instead of going to any street in Paris except the Rue
d'Antin, instead of spending the evening with my friends, and presenting
myself next day at the appointed hour, I was acting the Othello, spying
upon her, and thinking to punish her by seeing her no more. But, on the
contrary, she ought to be enchanted at this separation. She ought to
find me supremely foolish, and her silence was not even that of rancour;
it was contempt.

I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt as to
my generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, as of a
kept woman, but I should have felt that I was offending by the least
appearance of trafficking, if not the love which she had for me, at all
events the love which I had for her, and since this love was so pure
that it could admit no division, it could not pay by a present, however
generous, the happiness that it had received, however short that
happiness had been.

That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was every
moment prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day dawned I
was still sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of nothing but
Marguerite.

As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and finish
either with the woman or with one's scruples, if, that is, she would
still be willing to see me. But you know well, one is always slow in
taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within doors and not daring
to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in her direction, an attempt
that I could always look upon as a mere chance if it succeeded.

It was nine o'clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, who asked
to what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her frankly what
brought me. I replied that I had gone out early in order to reserve a
place in the diligence for C., where my father lived.

"You are fortunate," she said, "in being able to get away from Paris in
this fine weather."

I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at me, but
her face was quite serious.

"Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?" she continued, as
seriously as before.

"No."

"You are quite right."

"You think so?"

"Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see her
again?"

"You know it is broken off?"

"She showed me your lett