However, I read Marguerite's letter with the greatest fondness; it is tender and sweet, and full of melancholy; she has spent a long, quiet evening thinking only of me. In the postscript she reminds me that to-morrow at three o'clock we are to meet at Mlle. Lenormand's to have our fortunes told. Now it is at three o'clock that I have promised Madame de V---- to go and see her drawings. What is to be done? Certainly, I do not mean to compare the profound and real affection I have for Marguerite with the intense but ephemeral fancy I have taken to Madame de V----, who is as great a flirt as she is seductive and pretty. I am perfectly sure of Marguerite's love, it is a sincere and lasting affection; the passing fancy that I feel for, Madame de V---- could in no way interfere with such a tender and serious intimacy. When a woman is known to be as changeable and inconstant as Madame de V----, a lost opportunity is lost for ever. Hazard is her god. I certainly will go to see her to-morrow. I can easily find an excuse for putting off our visit to Mlle. Lenormand until day after to-morrow. What excuse shall I give? Business with a notary? No, that would be too childish a pretext. What am I to say? I have decided at last, but by way of compensation I shall write Marguerite a most passionate love-letter. I have just read over the letter I mean to send Madame de Pënâfiel. It is very well written, full of feeling, of tenderness and passion, and it is unfeigned and entirely truthful. I feel every word in it is true. How strange it is that at this moment, when I have fully made up my mind to deceive her, my love is greater and more sincere than it ever was before! There is no reason why I should deceive myself about this. I can almost hear my own thoughts. This is the real truth, I love Marguerite more than I have ever loved her. Formerly I might have hesitated at some sacrifice she imposed on me, now I would gladly give up anything she might ask of me, and yet, I repeat, I am planning how to be false to her! Does such an idea cause me any shame, remorse, or regret? No. Would I hesitate an instant if I thought that Marguerite would discover my infidelity, and be distressed by it? No. In my infatuation for Madame de V----, is there any noble feeling and real affection? No; it is an ardent desire which I know will be as quickly extinguished as it was kindled. And yet, see what a strange thing it is, I say it again, I love Marguerite better than ever. Why should this love be stronger than before? Is it an illusion, a deceitful phantom called up by the consciousness of my deceit? Is it not an excuse that I am trying to find for myself! Am I only pretending that I care for her so much? No, no, I search my thoughts, and it seems that I assuredly love her more than ever. What a singular contradiction in my soul! What a perverse nature! Can it be that my love for Marguerite will become greater and greater, according to the grief I feel I shall cause her?