But such thoughts as these were soon dispelled by the fever of anxiety with which he awaited the arrival of the next post. Suzanne must have had his letter that morning. If she had replied at once the answer would come by the next delivery. This idea, and the approach of the moment in which its correctness would be tested, at once cut short his pity for the girl he had cast off. Complex as are the subtle workings of the heart, love simplifies them wondrously. René was tortured by the suspense felt by all lovers, from the simple soldier who expects an ill-spelt letter from his sweetheart to the royal prince carrying on a sentimental correspondence with the brightest and most heartless Court beauty. The man wishes to go on with his usual occupations, but his mind is on the alert, counting the minutes and unable to endure the torment of waiting. He looks at the clock, and imagines all kinds of possibilities. If he dared he would go twenty times an hour to the person from whom he gets his letters, and ask whether there is nothing for him. Such is the agony of waiting, with all its intense anxiety, its mad conjectures, the burning fever of its illusions and disenchantments. Every other feeling of the soul is burnt up and, consumed in this fire of impatience. When Emilie came back, after having been gone an hour and a half, René seemed to have entirely forgotten on what errand he had sent her, but there was such a look of pain on his sister's face that it quite startled him. 'Well?' he ejaculated, in a tone of suspense. 'It is all over,' she replied, almost in a whisper. 'Oh, René, how I misjudged her!' 'What did she say?' 'Not a word of reproach. She only wept--but, oh, how bitterly! Her love for you is greater than I thought. Her mother had gone out with Angélique--how cruel it sounds!--to order the things for Saturday's dinner. I, for one, am not going to that dinner. When Rosalie opened the door, she turned so pale that I thought she was going to faint. She guessed everything before I said a word. She is like I am with you--it is a kind of second sight. She took me into her room. It is full of you--of your portraits, of trifles that remind her of places you've been to together, and of cuts from the illustrated papers about your play. I began to deliver your message as gently as I could, but I give you my word I was quite as upset as she was. She said, "It is so good of him to have asked you to come. You at least will not think me foolish in loving him as I do." And then she went on, "I have been expecting it for some time. It seemed too good to be true. Ask him to let me keep his letters." Oh, my God! I can't tell you any more about it now. I am so afraid for you, my dear René; I am so afraid that her grief may bring you ill luck.' CHAPTER XIII AT HOME