Sometimes, arguing in another way, I thought I might be mistaken, and that, after all, Madame de Pënâfiel was not in love with any one else. Then my old suspicions returned, and I wondered why I should ever have dismissed them. This portrait was only one of the accessories of the comedy I accused her of acting. Then, as I had but a poor and mean opinion of myself, which was not improved by the realisation of my latest conduct, it was, I believed, impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel should have any sympathy for me, so I tried to explain her apparent confidence by assigning her the meanest motives. This aroused my anger more than ever, and I applauded my insolence. In the midst of this uncertainty and anxiety this restless and agonising fever, I received the following note from Madame de Pënâfiel: "I am waiting for you. Come--you must--come immediately. M." It was nine o'clock, I started off instantly almost wild with joy. She had sent for me. I might still hope. CHAPTER XXIII MARGUERITE On entering the room, I was overcome with astonishment at finding Madame de Pënâfiel in almost the same attitude as when I left her. Her face was deadly pale, fearful to see; it was like a marble mask. This sickly paleness that had so suddenly changed her appearance, this expression of grief and resignation, touched me so deeply that all my reasonings and all my miserable suspicions vanished in an instant; it seemed as though I loved her for the first time with the most confiding and sincere love. I had no thought, even of asking her forgiveness for all that was hateful in my behaviour towards her. I had no thoughts to waste on the miserable past. By I know not what magic, all I thought of now was how to console her for some dreadful grief of which I knew nothing. I was about to throw myself at her knees, when she said, in such an altered voice that I scarcely recognised it, although she attempted to give it an accent of firmness: "I have sent for you, because I wished to see you for the last time, I wished to ask you the meaning of the strange words you said to me this morning,--that is, if you can explain them to yourself; I wished to tell you--" Here her pale lips contracted tremulously, with that involuntary movement one feels when with tearful eyes an attempt is made to prevent sobbing. "I wished--" said Madame de Pënâfiel in a faint voice. Then as she could say no more, as she was weeping, she hid her head in her hands, and I only heard these words pronounced in a stifled voice, "Ah, poor unhappy woman that I am!" "Oh, pardon--pardon, Marguerite!" I exclaimed, falling at her feet; "but do you not know how I love you--how I love you!" "You love me?" "Wildly, madly!" "He loves me! He dares to say that he loves me!" she said, with indignation. "This morning the secret of my soul was twenty times on my lips; but when I saw how unhappy you were--when I listened to your confession--" "Well!"