It was therefore with absolute good faith that the poet said to Suzanne, who was herself quite delighted with this unexpected result, 'No, I shall not come to your house. It was foolish of me to desire any change in our relations. We are so happy as we are.' 'Yes, until some wretch libels me again,' she replied. 'Promise me that you will always tell me.' 'I swear I will, love,' said he. 'But I know you now, and I am more sure of myself.' He said so, and he thought so. Suzanne thought so too, and gave herself up to the delights of her paradise regained, though fully aware that she would have a second battle to fight when Claude returned. But could Larcher say more than he had already said? Besides, René would tell her of his return, and if the first meeting of the two men did not result in a definite rupture it would be time to act. She would make her lover choose between breaking entirely with Claude or with herself, and about his choice she had no doubt whatever. In spite of his protests, the poet seemed to be less sure of himself, for his heart beat fast when, on his return home from the Bibliothèque one evening about a week after the scene with Suzanne, his sister said to him, 'Claude Larcher is back.' 'And has he dared to call here?' cried René. Emilie was visibly embarrassed and said, 'He asked me when he could see you?' 'You should have answered "Never,"' replied the poet. 'René!' exclaimed Emilie, 'how could I say that to an old friend who has been so kind and devoted to you? I think I had better tell you----' she added; 'I asked him what had taken place between you. He seemed so surprised--so painfully surprised--that I will swear he has never done you any harm. There is some misunderstanding. I told him to come to-morrow morning, and that he would be sure to find you in.' 'Why don't you mind your own business?' cried René angrily; 'did I ask you to meddle in my affairs?' 'How unkind you are!' said Emilie, deeply hurt by her brother's words, and almost in tears. 'All right, don't cry,' replied the poet, somewhat ashamed of his roughness; 'perhaps it is better that I should see him. I owe him that. But after that, I never want to hear his name again. You understand--never!' In spite of his apparent firmness, René did not sleep much that night, but lay awake thinking of the approaching meeting. Not that he had much doubt about the issue, but, try as he would to increase his resentment against his old friend, he could not get as far as hating him. He had grown extremely fond of this peculiar individual who, when not intentionally disagreeable, commanded affection by his sincere though frivolous nature, by his originality, by those very faults which only harmed himself, and above all by a kind of innate, indestructible, and invincible generosity.