From this point of view, all that was noble and generous in my conduct seemed to me shamefully ridiculous. I was oppressed by these reflections when this letter from Catherine was handed to me: "A sad, unhappy petitioner asks you to be kind and indulgent towards her; she wants you to pardon all that she has suffered to-day; she hopes to be alone this evening, and will expect you. Come; she is, moreover, resolved that Europe shall no longer be your rival." In my state of mind, this letter so tenderly imploring, this simple allusion to my reproaches, seemed to me so humbly offensive, so coldly insulting, that I was on the point of writing to Madame de Fersen that I would never again see her. But I changed my mind. I wrote to her that I would call on her that evening. I waited for the hour with frightful anxiety. I had laid my plan. At ten o'clock I went to Madame de Fersen's, expecting to find her alone. A thousand confused thoughts were rushing through my mind. Anger, hate, love, a remorseful anticipation of the wrong I was about to commit, a vague instinct of the injustice of my suspicions, all combined to put me in a feverish exasperated condition, the consequences of which I could not foresee. Contrary to my expectations, Catherine had several persons with her. This new proof of what I called her falsehood incensed me; for a moment I was on the point of turning back and abandoning my purpose, but an irresistible force drove me, and I entered. The sight of people, and the control which I had always possessed over myself, at once changed my violent anger into a polished, cold, and biting irony. This scene is still present to me. Catherine, seated near the fireplace, was chatting with a friend. My first look was doubtless very terrible, for Madame de Fersen, bewildered, suddenly turned pale. The conversation continued; I shared in it with the greatest calmness, even asserting my superiority, for I was gay, almost brilliant. For those who were unacquainted with the circumstances, there was nothing extraordinary; it was a pleasant evening of friendly conversation, like a thousand other evenings; but between Catherine and me, a mute, mysterious, tragic scene was being enacted. Our way of understanding each other by half words, of seeking and divining the value of an inflection of the voice, of a gesture, or a smile, enabled me now to make Catherine undergo the reaction of my odious thoughts. At my entrance, Catherine was amazed. She endeavoured, however, to recover herself, and, to show me that she had received people against her will, she graciously thanked M. de ---- for having forced an entrance to acquaint her with the result of the vote which had been taken at a very late hour. "Without that," continued Catherine, "I would have been deprived of the pleasure of seeing several of my friends, who took advantage of the breach you made to invade my solitude."