"I see, M. de Pommerive, that you are not much changed; you are as ever the most amiable of men." "But you,--what are you doing? Still a statesman! A diplomat? Ah, by the bye, talking of diplomats, do you still go to that idiot of a Russian prince, that bad substitute for Potier and Brunet? I never set my foot now inside his door, or rather inside his wife's door, for happily for us he has taken himself away." "And for what reason is the Princesse de Fersen deprived of the honour of seeing you, M. de Pommerive?" "Why? Because I generally do like every one else; and, excepting diplomats and a few strangers, nobody in society sets a foot inside the princess's door." "And why is this?" I inquired, almost mechanically, of M. de Pommerive. "Forsooth! It is no secret, everybody knows it. The beautiful Muscovite is just simply a spy in high life." CHAPTER XXVII THE LAST EVENING One more effort, and this cruel task will be at an end. In vain I call upon my memory; I cannot remember what I said to Pommerive, and believe I made no reply. I only remember that I felt neither indignant nor angry, as I would have been had this man uttered a calumny or an insult; on the contrary, I was utterly overwhelmed in the presence of this terrible accusation! It suddenly illumined the past with a sinister light, it abruptly aroused those implacable suspicions, of which I at once felt the sharp sting. My grief was such that my brain was frenzied. Mechanically I returned home, finding my way by instinct. By degrees, I regained the thread of my ideas. I had already suffered so much from similar causes that I endeavoured to struggle with all my might against this new suspicion. I hoped to sift truth from falsehood, by submitting the past to the horrible interpretation given to Madame de Fersen's life. Armed with this infamous accusation, cold and calm, like a man about to stake his life and honour on a chance, I set myself to this work of hateful analysis. This time, also, I cleared my thoughts, by writing them down, and I find these notes. They contrast cruelly with the preceding radiant pages, with those days of sunlight written formerly at the Grove. PARIS, 13th December, 18--. Let us examine the facts. Madame de Fersen is accused of being a spy. What credit does her conduct give to these infamous suspicions? I meet Catherine at Khios. After several days of intercourse, I attempt a declaration, which she severely repulses; then I surround her with the most respectful attentions, I give her counsels the most delicate and disinterested. If I do not utter the word love, everything in my tender and eager attentions reveals this sentiment. She remains cold, and offers me her friendship.