'There's room here,' said Emilie, coming to the poor girl's aid, and giving the young man a seat next to herself. Rosalie firmly refused to play the _rôle_ marked out for her, although she well knew what a terrible scene awaited her at home. And yet it would have been so natural if spite had inspired her with that petty mode of revenge. But women with truly delicate feeling, who know what real love is, are strangers to such mean spite. To inspire a fickle lover with jealousy would horrify them simply because it would mean flirting with another, and such a proceeding is beneath them. Such scrupulous loyalty in spite of all is a touching proof of love, and one which ensures a woman a place in a man's regrets for ever. For ever! But as far as regards the present hour and the immediate result, these loyal hearts get left far behind, and the flirts win. When the years have fled, and the lover, grown old, shall institute comparisons, he will understand the unique position held by her who would not cause him pain--even to win him back. Meanwhile he runs after the jades who make him drink the bitter cup of that degrading but intoxicating passion, jealousy. It is only fair to René to say that, in sacrificing Rosalie for Suzanne, he believed that he was acting in the interests of true love. When, next morning, his sister praised the girl's noble behaviour, he was quite sincere too in his reply, smacking as it did, though, of naïve self-conceit. 'What a pity that such fine feeling should be wasted!' 'Yes,' repeated Emilie with a sigh, 'what a pity!' Had René had a thought for aught else than his love, the tone in which his sister had uttered these words would no doubt have revealed to him the change that her opinions had undergone with regard to Madame Moraines. His love, however, entirely absorbed him. His days were now parcelled out into two kinds--those on which he was to meet Suzanne and those which he was to spend without seeing her. The latter, which were by far the more numerous, were passed in the following manner. A great part of the morning he spent in bed, dreaming, for he was already beginning to feel a diminution of vital energy. Then he bestowed much time upon his toilet, lavishing such attention on details as would convince a woman of experience that a young man was beloved. His toilet finished, he wrote to his Madonna. She had imposed upon him the sweet task of sending her an account of all his thoughts day by day. As for herself, he had not a line of her writing. She had said, 'I am so watched, and never alone!' And he pitied her as he devoted himself to compiling the detailed diary that she had demanded.