'Forgive me! Forgive me!' cried the poet, now perfectly convinced by the natural manner of his mistress. 'It is true. Some one has poisoned my mind. It was Colette! How justified you were in your distrust of Claude Larcher!' 'I did not allow him to pay me attentions,' said Suzanne; 'men never forgive that.' 'The wretch!' cried the poet angrily, and then, as if to rid himself of his grief by telling it, he went on: 'He knew that I loved you. How? Because I hesitated and got confused the only time I ever mentioned your name to him. He knows me so well! He guessed my secret and told his mistress all about it--and a lot of other lies. I can't repeat them to you.' 'Tell me, René, tell me,' said Suzanne, wearing at that moment the noble look of resignation that is seen on the faces of those who go to the scaffold innocent. 'Did they say that I had had lovers before you?' 'Would that it were only that!' exclaimed René. 'What then, _mon Dieu?_' she cried. 'What does it matter to me what they said, but that you, René, should believe it! Come, confess, so that you may have nothing on your mind. I have at least the right to demand that.' 'True,' replied the poet, and looking as shamefaced as though he were the guilty one, he stammered rather than pronounced the following words: 'Colette told me she heard from Claude that you were . . . No--I can't say it--well, that Desforges . . .' 'Still Desforges,' said Suzanne, interrupting him with a sweet but ironical smile; 'it is too comical.' She did not want René to formulate the charge that she could now guess. It would have wounded her dignity to descend to such depths. 'You were told that Desforges had been my lover--that he was still so, no doubt. But that is not slander--it is too ridiculous to be that. Poor old friend--he who knew me when I was as high as that!--he and my father were always together. He has seen me grow up, and loves me as if I were his own child. And it is this man whom---- No, René, swear to me that you didn't believe it. Have I deserved that you should think so badly of me?' CHAPTER XVII PROOFS In that strange mental disease called jealousy the intervals between the attacks are periods of delight. For some days or for some hours the feelings of love regain their divine sweetness, like a return to strength in convalescence. Suzanne had so fully convinced René of the absurdity of his suspicions that he did not wish to be behind her in generosity, and refused to avail himself of the permission to call in the Rue Murillo for which he had so earnestly entreated. Two or three phrases uttered in the right manner and with the right expression will always overcome the deepest distrust of a devoted lover, provided he has not had ocular proofs of treason--and even then? But here the elements of which this first suspicion was composed were so fragile!