As I returned home, thinking of this unknown man, who had held me so long under the irresistible spell of his talent, my jealousy, my hateful irritation, gave way to a sort of sadness, which was calmer, but harder to bear. For the first time in my life, I was ashamed of my own idleness, as I compared the pure and elevated emotions, the noble resources, that the man I detested, this Frank, must find in his art, to the aimless life I was dragging along in such obscurity, without even having enough vulgar common sense to enjoy the sensual delights that were offered me. I could not, however, hide from myself the fact that regret and envy were the sole motives of such reflections. Had Hélène married a man who was rich, idle, and well born, in the same social position as myself, I should never have had such thoughts; therefore, I was enraged when I reflected that fame would put an enormous and insurmountable distance between this Frank and myself. Sooner or later, he would be able to bestow on Hélène, not only the fortune that I could have given her, but the distinction of a great name, a name to be illustrious for ever, perhaps one of those glorious names that thrills with pride the woman who bears it! Oh, how frightful all this seemed to me! For me there was no consolation, no possible hope. I found consolation, however, in this thought, which came to me through dragging to the surface every shameful and mean thought that was buried deep in my envious soul. I hoped that Frank, in spite of his talent and his poesy, would prove to be of a vulgar and repulsive appearance. Besides, he could never have received that refined education, which results in elegance in the smallest details of daily life, a charm which Hélène, who was a woman of such distinction, knew so well how to appreciate. Remembering, with a childish maliciousness, how few of the men of talent or genius I had met had an education and charm of manner on a level with the splendours of their mind, I had hopes that Frank would not be among the number of these privileged few. Shall I dare to tell it? It was with the greatest conceivable impatience that I waited for night to come, so that again I might take my station before the shutters of Hélène's house, and find out if I had been mistaken on the subject of Frank. Nothing could be wilder or more ridiculous than this kind of espionage. And, besides, why should I wish to continue in the fatal round? Why open a wound which was already so sore? I know not, but my curiosity was insurmountable. I could not go too soon before Hélène's house, for fear of attracting the attention of people who might pass by. It was, therefore, ten o'clock at night when I reached that lonely boulevard. The light was shining clearly from the little holes in the shutters. I crept quietly up to the house. The little salon was lighted up; but at first I did not see Hélène.