I admit that, in spite of Marguerite's joy and gratitude, I was horribly anxious when, at half-past eleven, I quitted the Hôtel de Pënâfiel. At midnight, my anxiety was all over. Poor Candid! He had just expired, I told George, by way of explanation, that I had laid a wager for three hundred louis that Candid could go to ---- and back by night in an hour. II APRIL, 18--. I met Marguerite in the Champs Élysées. She spoke of horses, and said to me: "Why do you not make Candid run oftener? They say he is so fast, so handsome, and that you are so fond of him,--oh, so fond, that I am almost jealous," she added, laughing. At this moment M. de Cernay, who, like myself, was on horseback, rode up to the side of Madame de Pënâfiel's carriage. He bowed to her, and said to me: "Is this true that I hear? Is Candid dead?" Marguerite looked at me with amazement. "He is dead," said I to M. de Cernay. "That is what I was told, but it does not surprise me,--to travel more than seven leagues at night, in an hour and four minutes! No matter how full-blooded a horse was, it would be hard for him to stand such a trial as that, and when he was not in condition! And your wager was for three hundred louis, I believe?" "Yes, three hundred louis." "Well, between us, you have done a foolish thing, for I have seen you refuse more than that for him, and very properly, too, for you would never get such a horse for five hundred louis. I tell you this because he is dead now," he added, with great simplicity. "A horse's reputation, then, seems to be like that of a great man," I said, laughing, "jealousy prevents him from being appreciated while he is alive." Marguerite's expressive look almost repaid me for the loss of Candid. III APRIL, 18--. What a bewildering day! It has been so filled with happy hours that I fondly listen to their distant echoes in my heart. It has been a radiantly beautiful day. As we had agreed upon yesterday, I met Marguerite in the Bois; her face, which is still rather pale, seemed to bloom afresh in the sunlight. She was on foot, and before joining her I followed her at some distance in the Alley of the Acacias. Nothing could be more elegant than her walk, or than her figure, whose suppleness and grace was only half hidden by the shawl that was wrapped around her. I also watched for some time her little feet, as, at each step, they raised the flowing edge of her dress. I joined her, and she blushed deeply when she saw me. I am more than ever convinced of the value of this symptom. As soon as it ceases, as soon as the sight of the beloved one no longer causes the blood to rush from the heart to the face, real love, ardent and young, has disappeared; a weak and chilly affection has come in its place; indifference and forgetfulness are not far off. I gave her my arm. As she scarcely touched it, I begged her to lean on it more.